when the weather finally breaks

Words & photos by Max Emanuelson

It had been a heavy autumn. Really heavy.

The spring before had been full of skiing, and through the summer I’d been running a lot in the mountains. Then the rain started in August. Weeks of grey, rain pounding sideways, no sun. You don’t really notice it at first, but after months of it, it starts to wear you down.

Then suddenly there was this weekend. I don’t remember if it was late November or early December, but I remember waking up and realising that tomorrow was going to be clear. Properly clear.

A person running along a snowy lakeshore with snow-covered mountains in the background under a partly cloudy sky.

I

I’d recently heard someone mention Justatind as a nice run, and I thought, why not. It’s around 700 metres or so. 

With winter settling in, this was likely the last chance to run it until late spring. I invited my friend Andreas Køhn to come along. At dusk in the parking lot, we joked that we would probably regret it if we didn’t bring a camera. So we grabbed a simple setup, a fixed 35mm lens on a camera. We put it in Køhn’s running vest. It would have to do.

Normally when I photograph, there’s a plan. A mission. I know what I’m there to shoot. This wasn’t like that. This was spontaneous. There wasn’t enough snow to ski, but it was too beautiful to stay home. So we ran. Sometimes we ran, sometimes we walked. And because I’d brought the camera, we stopped. I’d find a spot and ask Andreas to run through it again. No rush. No pressure. We left when it was dark and came back when it was dark. The light window was short, but it was enough.

A person hiking on a snow-covered mountain ridge with a view of distant snow-capped mountains, water, and a partly cloudy sky during sunrise or sunset.
Person dressed in green outdoor gear hiking or climbing on snowy mountain terrain during sunrise or sunset.
A person running in the snow wearing black Patagonia pants, a green jacket, black gloves, and white shoes, with snow and rocks on the ground at sunset.

II

The loop ended up being about 16 kilometres with close to 900 metres of elevation.

Large sections were covered in snow, sometimes up to the calves, sometimes above the knees. Up high it was minus ten degrees, with wind pushing close to ten metres per second. Proper winter conditions.

At one point we even discussed skipping the summit. It was brutally cold near the top, and I’m not someone who needs to stand on every peak. But that day was different. I knew the light would be incredible, and the view toward Henningsvær is something I never get tired of. After such a long period without sun, I really wanted to see it, and I wanted to photograph it. That pushed us a bit further than we might otherwise have gone.

That cold is what stays with you. You can feel it in the images. It’s not something I’ve exaggerated. That’s just how it was. The light, the wind, the snow crystals catching the sun. Everything was stripped back and honest.

A man wearing a green and black jacket, black gloves, and a white cap is climbing a snowy and rocky mountain in the early morning or late afternoon, with the sun shining behind the peaks.
A man hiking in snow-covered mountainous landscape at sunrise or sunset.
A smiling man wearing a jacket with a hood and a white cap, outdoor during sunrise or sunset.

III

I’d lived in Lofoten for about three and a half years at that point, so you start to understand how rare those weather windows are.

When they appear, it’s time to go. You use them. You don’t overthink it.

Andreas came mostly for the training, I think, but also just to finally be out in the mountains in good conditions again. When it’s been raining constantly for months, it does something to your head. That day meant a lot to both of us.

Visually, cold is interesting too. Clear weather often means colder conditions, and you can see it. Wind, blowing snow, sharp light. It creates something playful and hard at the same time. When I look at these images, I’m also reminded of how vast Lofoten really is. It’s difficult to grasp the scale unless you live there. Even after years, I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface.

Andreas Køhn running on a windy mountain in Lofoten during sunset with a distant mountain range on the horizon and a partly cloudy sky.

IV

I’m used to the cold. A lot of my work is winter surfing, standing still for hours in minus temperatures with heavy wind.

Compared to that, running is almost kind. I’ve always preferred cold over heat. In the cold, you have choices. You can move, add layers, adapt. In extreme heat, there’s nowhere to go. I think if you stay relaxed, keep moving, don’t panic when you feel the cold coming on, you can handle much more than you think.

Justatind itself is a classic route. In winter it’s a beautiful ski tour. In that in-between season, too much snow to hike comfortably and not enough to ski, the mountains are incredibly quiet. Hardly anyone is out there. That’s something special.

Those small windows between seasons, when conditions don’t really belong to anything, are often when things feel most alive.

That day was exactly that. A short break in a long, dark season. Enough light to remind you why you stay. Enough cold to feel it in your body. Enough space to let the images breathe.

Person dressed in outdoor gear standing on snow-covered mountain peak during sunset, with a view of the ocean and distant islands.
Scenic view of snow-capped mountains and islands during sunset with pink and purple clouds in the sky.
Person dressed in black running on snow-covered rocky terrain at sunset with mountains in the background.

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