Elias Haverinen

Every morning I step outside and breathe in the scent of pine, frozen soil, and lake mist. That scent is home. I live in Lukkarila, a quiet place in eastern Finland that many people couldn’t even find on a map. There are maybe two dozen houses scattered between the trees, and in winter, it feels like the world ends here. I’m 35 now, and I’ve lived here all my life except for one strange week three months ago.

I’m a forester by trade. During the day, I walk the forests, marking trees, checking wildlife paths, listening to the wind. Sometimes there’s another forester with me, but often I’m alone. I like it that way. I know these woods like some people know the inside of their cars—every bend of the trail, every birdsong.

That week in New York, visiting my younger brother, felt like being dropped into a washing machine. So much noise. So many people talking, honking, yelling. I couldn’t hear myself think. The air tasted like metal. He kept saying I should go out more, meet people, “live a little.” I just smiled. The second I landed back in Finland, I knew I’d never leave again.

Yesterday was one of those days that remind me how lucky I am. I tracked a moose deep into the forest and managed to bring it down. A clean shot. I thanked it, as I always do, and spent the next hours dressing and cutting the meat. Far too much for me alone, so I loaded up the snowmobile and drove to the nearest town to sell some. People there know me—the quiet man from the woods with good meat.

I don’t speak much. Sometimes I don’t say a word for two or three days. But I never feel lonely. The trees speak. The lake speaks. The animals speak in their own way. And at night, when the fire cracks and the stars hang low over the pines, I feel completely, utterly at peace.