When I told my friends I was moving to Finland for three months “to chase winter lights,”
they assumed I meant Christmas decorations at the mall. Then I sent them a photo of neon-green
auroras exploding over a frozen lake at –25°C and suddenly everyone wanted to visit.
For one long, frozen season I lived in Finland’s north, where the sun takes frequent holidays,
the snow squeaks under your boots, and the sky behaves like it just discovered special effects.
Between polar nights, pastel twilights, and the famous northern lights of Lapland,
those three months gave me some of the most magical scenes I’ve ever photographed.
This is the story behind those “beautiful winter lights of Finland” how they look,
how they feel, and what it’s really like to chase them night after night with too many
camera batteries and not enough toes.
Why Finnish Winter Light Is So Different
Finland sits high enough on the globe that winter is less a season and more a full-on
mood. In Lapland, the northern region of the country, the sun can stay below the horizon
for weeks during what Finns call kaamos, the polar night.
But “night” is a bit misleading. It’s not pitch-black all the time. Instead, the snow acts
like a giant reflector, bouncing every hint of light back into the air.
For a few hours, usually around midday, the horizon glows in gradients of lilac, peach,
and electric blue. That “blue twilight” is typical of northern Finland in midwinter and
makes the landscape look like it’s permanently filtered.
Add in a scattering of cabin windows, a faint moon, and occasionally the aurora, and
suddenly you understand why so many photographers happily freeze for their craft.
The Aurora Season Is Basically a Personality Trait Here
The northern lights season in Finland stretches from late August to early April, with
the best chances between about September and March when the nights are longest and darkest.
In Lapland, auroras are visible on roughly every other clear night. That means if the
weather cooperates, just walking to the grocery store can turn into a cosmic light show.
During my stay, I got into the habit of constantly checking the sky. It’s a bit like
living with a very dramatic roommate calm one moment, and suddenly, without warning,
they’re dancing green across the entire ceiling.
Three Months at the Edge of the Arctic Circle
I based myself in a small town in Lapland, the kind of place where reindeer sometimes
wander through parking lots and everyone owns more winter gear than regular clothes.
My three-month stay roughly broke down into three very different chapters of light.
Month 1: Arrival in the Blue Hour
I arrived just as the polar night was deepening. The sun no longer climbed above the
horizon; it just flirted with it, sending a soft halo of color for a couple of hours
around noon. The rest of the time, the world lived in shades of navy, steel gray, and
starlight.
Photographing during this time felt like shooting on another planet. Street lamps carved
amber tunnels through the darkness. The snowbanks glowed faintly blue. Cars left long
trails of warm light on icy roads, and the sky hovered in permanent twilight, as if
someone had forgotten to change the settings from “cinematic.”
Month 2: Deep Freeze and Hyperactive Skies
January hit like a cold front from another dimension. Temperatures dropped as low as
–30°C (–22°F), which I learned is the point at which your eyelashes try to freeze together
every time you blink. But this is also when the aurora really started to show off.
On the clearest nights, green arcs stretched across the sky like someone had drawn a
highlighter stroke from one horizon to the other. Sometimes the lights pulsed and shifted
to pinks and purples, rippling like curtains in a storm. Other nights they just hovered
quietly above the forest, reflecting off the snow like soft neon.
I’d set up my tripod on a frozen lake, listen to the ice crack softly beneath me, and
watch as the aurora slid across a sky so full of stars it felt almost crowded. The silence
was so complete that even the sound of my camera shutter felt loud.
Month 3: The Return of the Sun (and the Pastel Show)
By late February and early March, the days grew noticeably longer. The sun finally made
a proper comeback, creeping above the horizon like it was shy about the whole thing.
The reward: hours of soft sunlight spilling over the forests and fells, bouncing off every
snowflake.
This is when the landscape turned into one long golden hour. I’d hike up low hills to
capture sunlight hitting frosted treetops, while the sky glowed in cotton candy gradients.
Even on days without auroras, the “ordinary” winter light was so gorgeous that you almost
forgot your face was numb.
The Many Faces of Winter Light in Finland
“Beautiful winter lights” in Finland aren’t just the northern lights. They’re a whole
collection of moods. Here are a few of my favorites.
1. Dancing Auroras Over Frozen Lakes
Classic, iconic, never gets old. Standing on a frozen lake with the aurora swirling over
your head is like standing inside a screensaver except you can’t feel your toes and your
nose is running. Still worth it.
The best shows often came after a long wait in the cold. Just when I’d start considering
life choices, the sky would erupt: first a faint arc, then spirals, then columns that shot
upward like green spotlights. On the brightest nights, the snow itself seemed to glow.
2. Blue Hour Forests
During polar night, the forest looks like it’s been dipped in ink. Around midday, a deep
blue light filters through the trees, turning every snow-laden branch into sculpture.
It’s quiet, muffled, and strangely calming like walking inside an old film photograph.
I loved shooting long exposures here. The slow shutter softened the snow and rendered
any tiny movement a drifting snowflake, a bit of wind into soft, painterly streaks.
3. Village Lights and Cabin Windows
Not all the magic comes from the sky. Human light plays a big role too. Little wooden
houses with warm orange windows, strings of fairy lights draped along eaves, and tiny
lanterns lining snowy paths it’s all incredibly photogenic.
One of my favorite images is of a lone log cabin, its windows glowing red-gold, sitting
under a huge curtain of green aurora. It looks staged, like a movie set, but that’s just
how Lapland casually looks on a Tuesday night.
4. Moonlit Snowfields
On full-moon nights, the snow reflected so much light that I could walk around without
a headlamp. The moon cast long shadows of trees across the landscape, and the snow sparkled
like someone had dumped glitter everywhere.
For photography, this was a gift. Long exposures under moonlight created dreamy, soft
images where the landscape almost glowed from within. If a faint aurora joined the party,
the result was subtle but surreal.
How I Photographed the Winter Lights (Without Freezing Solid)
Capturing winter lights in Finland is part art, part science, and part “how many layers
can I wear and still bend my knees.” Here’s how I survived and got the shots.
Gear and Camera Settings
- Tripod: Absolutely essential. Long exposures plus shaky hands from the cold are not a great combo.
- Wide-angle lens: To fit as much sky (and aurora drama) into the frame as possible.
- Manual mode: For auroras, I usually started around f/2.8, ISO 1600–3200, and a shutter speed of 10–20 seconds, adjusting based on how bright and fast the lights moved.
- Extra batteries: Cold temperatures drain them quickly, so I kept spares warm in an inner pocket.
Practical Survival Tips
Dress like you’re preparing to stand still in a freezer for hours because you are.
Thermal base layers, wool socks, insulated boots, a windproof outer shell, and serious
gloves are all non-negotiable. Hand warmers? Lifesavers.
I also learned to scout locations during daylight. It’s much easier to find that perfect
composition a cabin, a lone tree, a bridge over a frozen river when you can see the
ground. Then, at night, all I had to do was show up, set up, and hope the sky decided
to cooperate.
Small Moments You Don’t See in the Photos
The final images look serene, but what you don’t see are all the chaotic, human moments
around them.
- The time my tripod slowly sank into a snowdrift mid-exposure and gifted me an abstract “aurora smear” photo.
- Husky teams rushing past in the distance, their breath puffing into the frosty air like tiny clouds.
- Locals cycling in reflective gear at –20°C as if this were the most normal thing in the world (because, for them, it is).
- Thermoses of coffee shared in silence while everyone stared up at the same patch of glowing sky.
These unglamorous bits the numb fingers, the laughter, the gear mishaps are part of
what make the final, polished photos feel alive to me.
Respecting the North While Chasing the Lights
Lapland’s landscapes are stunning but fragile. In recent years, tourism here has exploded,
with new glass igloos, cabins, and Arctic resorts popping up to meet the demand from
aurora hunters and winter holidaymakers.
That brings jobs and opportunities, but it also puts pressure on local ecosystems and the
Indigenous Sámi communities whose lives and reindeer herding traditions are deeply tied
to the land.
As visitors and photographers, we can help by staying on marked paths, supporting
locally owned businesses, respecting reindeer and wildlife, and choosing tour operators
with sustainable practices. Beautiful winter lights are even better when you know you’re
not helping to dim them for future generations.
Bonus: 3-Month Winter Lights Diary – Extra Stories From the North
Because three months in Finland gave me more stories than I could fit into one neat
narrative, here are a few extra moments that still glow in my memory even warmer than
my thickest mittens.
The Night the Sky Refused to Go to Sleep
One night in late January, the aurora forecast looked promising, so I trudged out to the
lake around 9 p.m. The sky started with a faint arc, and I thought, “Okay, this will be
a quiet one.” I took a few photos. Then the green band brightened, split into two, and
suddenly the entire sky exploded into pillars and waves.
For the next three hours, the aurora danced nonstop. At one point, I just lay down on
the snow and stared straight up because there was simply too much happening in every
direction. I almost forgot to take pictures which, for a photographer, is saying a lot.
Around midnight, a group of other aurora chasers joined me on the ice. We didn’t say
much; we just occasionally yelled things like “Did you see that?!” and “Is this even real?”
It felt like being in a tiny, ecstatic audience for the most exclusive show on Earth.
A Day Without Sunrise That Still Felt Bright
During the heart of polar night, I decided to take a long walk through the forest, even
though the sun wasn’t going to show up at all. The forecast promised clear skies, so I
strapped spikes on my boots (icy paths are sneaky) and headed out.
For hours, the world glowed in deep shades of blue. The snow reflected what little light
there was, the moon hung low in the sky, and small clusters of birch trees stood like
white ghosts. It should have felt gloomy, but instead it was strangely peaceful as if
the whole landscape had agreed to lower its voice.
I took mostly minimalist shots that day: a single tree against a huge expanse of snow,
tiny cabin lights in the distance, animal tracks zigzagging across an open field. When I
look at those images now, they remind me that “light” isn’t only about brightness. It’s
also about contrast, shape, and the way a place makes you feel.
The First Sunrise After the Long Dark
The first proper sunrise after weeks of polar night was almost emotional. People in town
talked about it like a holiday. I hiked up a nearby hill well before it happened,
bundled up with my camera and a thermos of coffee.
At first, the horizon just turned a little less blue. Then, slowly, a thin line of orange
appeared, spreading wider and brighter. When the sun finally peeked above the trees for
a few minutes, everyone around me cheered quietly, like we were greeting an old friend
who’d been gone a bit too long.
I shot frame after frame of sunlight catching on frosted branches and the small town
below. The light wasn’t strong or high in the sky, but it felt incredibly precious.
After weeks of darkness, those few minutes of direct sunlight felt like a gift to my
mood, my photos, and my vitamin D levels.
Why I’d Go Back in a Heartbeat (Even With All the Freezing)
When my three months finally ended, my camera roll was full, my fingers were slightly
traumatized, and my winter gear smelled like a mix of campfire and cold air. But if
someone handed me a ticket back to Lapland tomorrow, I’d start packing before they
finished the sentence.
The beautiful winter lights of Finland aren’t just something you see; they’re something
you live inside. They shape your schedule, your sleep, your conversations, and your sense
of time. You learn to read the sky, to appreciate subtle changes in color, and to fall a
little bit in love with a place where darkness and light take turns putting on a show.
And somewhere out there, above some frozen lake, the aurora is probably starting its next
performance. Trust me it’s worth braving the cold for a front-row seat.
Conclusion
My three-month stay in Finland turned into a masterclass in how light can transform a
landscape from auroras blazing above quiet forests to blue-tinted midday twilights and
warm cabin windows glowing against the snow. The photos I captured are just one way of
keeping those moments alive, but the real magic was in being there: waiting, watching,
and occasionally yelling at the sky in delighted disbelief.
If you’ve ever dreamed of seeing the northern lights or experiencing a true Arctic winter,
Finland is one of the best places on Earth to do it. Just come prepared to be cold,
amazed, slightly sleep-deprived, and permanently spoiled for normal night skies.
