VinterloggbokWinter Logbook

The winter of 2026 has been the coldest since 2010. You can feel it. The ice still covers the water well into March, even though the snow has disappeared.

He writes a little about the days on the skerry. A cross between a diary and a logbook, the most private things left out. No great ambition beyond remembering. The greatest, and perhaps most intriguing thing, is probably Norrskär itself.

Monday 9 March. The third winter. He leaves Rindö far too early, stops at the Coop for fruit, and flies with the same pilot as the year before. Norrskär appeared, as it always does — beautiful, open, almost eternal. The helicopter is set down on the jetty with perhaps a metre to spare on either side. In his house the electricity is dead — until a lamp comes on, silently. Then the Wamsler. The snow is gone, but the ice lies heavy and black all the way toward Svartlöga. The skates are still on Rindö.

The next morning the restlessness arrives at once. The island has waited six months. The birch — my birch — holds him. On the eastern side, slippery rocks, the hurry resets. Norrskär radiates calm. Nature asks: why?

Thursday 12 March. The same circuit, the same paths, the same rocks. Restlessness and boredom rarely belong to the place. They belong to him. The ice remains, black and heavy, as if it intends to stay.

“Everything is done with a Canon EOS, an iPhone and a DJI drone.”

In 2025 he wrote very little while he was on Norrskär. The time felt too short — Monday 17 February to Friday 21 February. Too short to find any calm. Colder than 2024, more snow, new ice. So the year is mostly a reconstruction from photographs and films, a year later.

“2025 skrev jag mycket lite när jag var på Norrskär. Tiden känndes för kort.”

In 2024 the hovercraft ran from Åsätra all the way out. Gälnan was frozen solid, and so was the bay by the jetty, with only thin streaks of open water where the wind comes in from Svartlöga. In 2025 there was too little ice for the hovercraft and too much for a taxi boat. He wrote to Arlanda Helicopter AB: can you land at Hallonstenarna, the outermost north-eastern island, Norrskär?

The reply opened “Hej Niklas!” It was possible to land on the jetty. The hangar, the home field, is in Åkersberga.

Day 1. A graphite-grey helicopter, pilots Petter and Kristian, a metre to spare, crystal clear, and a north-easter that ices through everything. Minus eight. Old porcelain fuses. At last a yellow lamp — the most beautiful he had seen — and the Wamsler, which catches at once. Norrskär is grumpy first. Then warm.

“Norrskär is such a place. My place on earth.”

The first winter, after about forty years of visits. Always wanted, never gone to the trouble. On 28 February at 13:00 a hovercraft drops him on the jetty. Zero degrees outside, minus one inside. Dark.

“Du är aldrig så ensam som du tror” skrev Lundell för nästan 40 år sedan. I samma tidsperiod kom jag till Norrskär för första gången.

On Gälnan the ice lies thick. Toward Svartlögafjärden it opens up. Plenty of seabirds, eiders. The same day is also written in Dutch on the original page: “Je bent nooit zo alleen als je denkt.”

Day 3, a winter swim. A second in the water, an electric jolt. Wim Hof, and Winter Swimming by Suzanna Sorberg. It does not prepare you.

Monday 18 March, the journey home on a brilliant day. The way out was simple: hovercraft from Åsättra to Norrskär, direct. Coming back, Andreas picks him up. Husarö, Swea Sandö, Ingmarsö, Edö Ö, and two SwishAir hovercraft toward Åsättra. Filmed with his phone. The magic is not fully captured. It still helps the memory.

Alcatraz. Hell’s Island. Paradise Island. Norrskär has many names. For me, Norrskär is none of these. Or, Norrskär is all of these. Everything I make it out to be.

My place on earth.