The FHM Challenge: Race to the Arctic
Don’t just watch Bond on the box, plan an action adventure of your own. Two FHM writers go 007 in Lapland – but who wins?
Though the term Lapland describes the snowy region that encompasses the northernmost parts of Sweden, Finland and Norway, commercial tourism has deemed Santa Claus Village in Rovaniemi as the point of Santa’s Grotto. Which is why every Christmas, over 500,000 tourists flock there, kids in tow, desperate to get a glimpse of Santa. But there is another version, often mentioned in mythical Christmas literature but rarely visited due to its inhospitable, Arctic conditions. That landmark is Erkheikki, located 63 miles north of the Arctic Circle. It’s a point on the grid that few tourists or animals visit for fear of meeting their own ends. This is where we want FHM's two writers to head to this month. They can take all the snow wear they like – but once they land at Lulea airport, they must become at one with nature to reach their destination. No internal flights, no hitchhiking. They’re to go it alone. Let the challenge begin…
The contestants
Matt Hambly
Title: FHM Style Writer
Strengths: Relentlessly charming
Flaws: Vanity could prove his undoing
Likely play: Will smoulder his way to victory, paying the Arctic locals to help project him to the finishing line
Rob McGarr
Title: FHM New Boy
Strengths: Would walk to the edge of the Earth to impress the Editor
Flaws: Naive optimism that could result in him freezing to death
Likely play: Winning over those who can aid his path to victory with engaging self-belief
The rules
- Both writers will be flown to an airport on the outskirts of Sweden.
- Once there, they’ll have 12 hours to make it to Santa’s Grotto.
- Each contestant has £1,000 to beg, borrow or steal Arctic modes of transport.
- The last mile to Santa’s Grotto must be made on foot.
- Inability to reach Erkheikki aka the non-commercial point known as Santa’s Grotto will result in failure.
- FHM's decision is final.
1 Preparation is everything
Matt:
I’m desperately clinging to the back of a rickety wooden sled being dragged at pace by four muscular husky dogs through the forest of Sarkimukka, a tiny village outside Kangos, Sweden. And I’m going far too quickly than I’m happy with: a snow-lacerating 20 miles per hour. The scenery, though beautiful, whips past my eyes. I’m 23 miles beyond the starting line, the Arctic Circle, and, boy, don’t I know it. I’ve been told temperatures drop as low as -40°C. If I get much colder, I’ll be waving goodbye to my extremities forever.
Two days ago I was in a warm London office being told by the FHM UK Editor that it would be me racing new boy Rob across Lapland to the holy grail of Christmas, Santa and his Grotto.
My delusions of a festive jaunt littered with friendly elves, mulled wine and mince pies however were quickly decimated. We’ve headed to the real Lapland. The Bear Grylls, sleep-in-a-polar-bear, roll-yourself-in-snow-to-keep-warm, Lapland. Miles of icy wilderness, two minutes to live if you fall through the ice, type stuff.
Armies of tourists visit Santa Claus Village in Rovaniemi, Finland, every year. By contrast, less than a hundred visitors make it as far as Santa’s isolated lodge in Erkheikki each winter, which is where we’re headed.
That said, this is my chance to put one over on the new office pretty boy and rising star, Rob. A man who swanned into the FHM office and immediately absorbed adulation and adoration in equal measure. I’ve gone from golden boy to unloved reject. In short, I’ve been pitched against my newfound nemesis in a race across some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth.
Rob:
This is perfect. An Arctic challenge across perilously treacherous terrain in sub-zero North Pole temperatures. I can’t see fashion prima donna Matt Hambly faring too well on this one. There’ll be no room for debate in this challenge.
That’s not to say I’m expecting this to be easy. It’s “Two metrosexuals lost in Lapland” as one colleague put it. I’m much happier sunning myself topless around Essex in a convertible than I am facing extreme conditions. When the weather drops below 10°C back home, I’m the first to don the woolly gloves for Sunday League.
Anxiously seeking reassurance, I’d contacted people who have experienced (and, crucially, survived) the most extreme climates on earth. Richard Dunwoody isn’t the first man that springs to mind when you think of polar explorers, but, in 2008, the pint-sized jockey completed a 48-day, 680-mile trek to the South Pole, to raise money for Sparks, Spinal Research and Racing Welfare.
“It was my greatest achievement and certainly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” wasn’t exactly music to my ears. He’d suffered altitude sickness and snow blindness, his fellow successful explorer nearly fell to his death down a crevasse, and the third member of their party had to withdraw after suffering exhaustion. Piece of cake, then.
Moreover, as I stand at the border of the Arctic Circle, an overwhelming sense of trepidation sweeps across the bleak Arctic sky. What has the Editor hurled Matt and I into? People actually die here. I check that the GPS satellite walkie talkies we’re carrying work while watching Matt trying to strap his impractical snowboard boots into what looks like two oversized squash rackets. He’ll be fine, I tell myself. Besides, I’ve got to look after number one.
And I’m already worried. I haven’t seen a vehicle for hours and I’ve got miles of rough terrain to traverse in a day. I haven’t eaten since our flight to Lulea, some six hours ago, and my stomach rumbles with hunger as I take a shaky inaugural stride on my cross-country skis. “We needed 8,000 calories a day and I still managed to lose three stone,” I recall Dunwoody telling me, as three frozen Snickers in my pocket seem to shrink between my gloved fingers. “You’ll find something to eat; there’s McDonald’s everywhere these days,” we had been assured. Looking around, I fear there’s more chance of me becoming bear-food than chancing upon a Happy Meal. It’s 8am which means I’ve got, at best, seven hours of daylight before night falls. If I’m going to be eaten by a bear, the least I want is the dignity of seeing it coming, I think. I bid Matt farewell: “See you at Santa’s… should you finally get there.”
Matt: Half an hour after leaving Rob, I realise that I should have done my research. There’s no way I can snowshoe the whole way to Santa. It’s slow, exhausting, and I’ve broken one of them, meaning it slaps against the sole of my foot like a seal’s flipper. I make my way towards the nearest village – a generous term for two dilapidated log cabins surrounded by forest – where a local Sami man, Johan, who converses strictly through the medium of ‘finger pointing’, allows me to commandeer a small team of huskies for £900 (Rs 63,000), leaving me with only £100 (Rs 7,000) of my money in case of emergency. I’m being ripped off, no question, but Johan’s huskies are my only option.
Through his bushy beard, Johan tells me it’s their first run of the season, and they’re eager to get going.
I’m also informed that to control the huskies should we be headed in a perilous direction, I must slam both feet together and down on the metal step in my sled.
Easier said than done, I soon learn. Though the dog-manoeuvring in itself isn’t that tricky – if you’re shorter, your low centre of gravity helps with balance – the halting-the-huskies part proves virtually impossible because I’m so light. This could work in one of two ways: me zipping to Santa’s Grotto ahead of Rob at light speed – or my being driven at high speed over a mountaintop. I brace myself and prepare for both.
2 Survival of the fittest
Rob: I’m now struggling. Big time. After 20 minutes’ skiing through the snow my quads feel like I’ve been squat-pressing a double-decker bus. My hands, long since devoid of any feeling, are frozen to the poles. Will I ever be able to let go of these, or will I spend the rest of my days as Edward Ski Pole Hands?
As I dream of home comforts, I’m shamed by my lack of resolve. Real explorers, such as Ranulph Fiennes, travel 20-miles a day for months on end. I’ve been going for less than half an hour and, when I turn round, can still see my starting point, probably less than 500 yards back. At 6’2” and 13 stone, I feel smaller than I ever have in my life. Worse is the sense of loneliness I’m experiencing. Yes, there are locals a few miles nearby but the land is so forbidding that the deathly silence becomes haunting. What if a thick mist swept across the land all of a sudden? My mobile phone has no reception and if Matt turns off his GPS so that I can’t track his progress, who’ll know that I’ve become stranded?
As feared, a white mist sets in.
I recall that scene in Touching The Void, the stranded mountain climbing documentary where one of them becomes haunted by a Boney M song, Brown Girl In The Ring, going round and round in his head. Just remembering this makes that exact thing happen. I’m now terrified, frustrated and, as my sugar levels dip, extremely maudlin. What’s the point of anything? I want to win the Editor’s Challenge, but more importantly, I want to survive.
Two hours of trudging later, however, and my spirits lift considerably. Amongst a vast horizon of snow-covered trees, I spot a village and after finally snowshoeing my way to its centre, I stumble upon a snowmobile hire shop. Get. In.
With renewed vigour, I shuffle my way to what I hope will be my chariot of victory. Through a mixture of broken English and gesticulation, local huntsman Stefan tells me he’s willing to lend me his bicycle-styled skidoo in exchange for my full £1,000 cash, leaving me broke in the wilderness. He warns me to take it easy – this 1400cc, two-stroke diesel-fed beast does 0-60mph in five seconds and carries on to a reindeer-endangering 140mph. Hardly listening, I swing a leg over the seat, grab the handlebars, squeeze hard on the accelerator and thrash the arse off it.
After a couple of hours, I stop to give my aching forearms a rest and check my GPS for Matt’s location. He’s only made it a few miles. I’m so far ahead I think I could crawl the rest of the way and still be on Santa’s lap before Matt’s anywhere near. Though my now completely contrasting optimism to a few hours earlier does make me wonder whether I’m bipolar.
Matt: Christ. A glance at the GPS tells me Rob’s miles ahead. Perhaps the dogs weren’t the best way to go. That said, I am cruising through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Unwilling to admit defeat, I decide to take a shortcut across some tree-covered hills that I hope that my admittedly uncontrollable dogs can negotiate. I also know that, this being November, the lakes and marshes Rob will need to cross won’t be fully frozen and ready to take the weight of FHM’s premier Jack Tweed lookalike on a hefty skidoo. What will I tell your parents if you fall in, Rob? “So sorry for your loss but he died doing what he loved best – wearing an All Saints T-shirt.”
3 The final frontier
Rob: With joyful exuberance afforded to me by my gargantuan lead, I plough on. I’m at one with ‘Angelina’ (the name I’ve christened my skidoo to fend off loneliness). Man and motorised beast. Together as one. Though now back in the vast open and no longer flanked on either side by (admittedly beautiful) snow-dappled pine trees, I do start cacking it again: my petrol tank reads a quarter full on the skidoo’s dashboard, but it’s not like there’s a BP garage out here on every corner. Consequently, the moment I hit the next village, I pull over, get directions to a makeshift garage and fill up. I then decide to smell the roses, and enjoy this rare opportunity to be in the Arctic. I go for a coffee and strike up a chat with the locals. I’m miles ahead anyway.
Matt: A few hours ago, Rob’s lead was ginormous, but he seems to have stopped. Maybe my heavily panting huskies might help me beat him after all. I look at the huskies, pat their heads, and reflect on what a unique world these huskies are part of. In the rush to get to the end of the race, I’ve forgotten that I’m doing something right now that very few people will ever get to experience. I’m filled with pride. Win or lose, I’ve travelled more than 50 miles… by dog. I want to cuddle each and every one of them then eat a massive Christmas roast. But I do have to get to the finishing line, too. I decide to turn my GPS off. I’ll catch up with Rob on the sly.
Rob: Four hours later I climb back aboard Ange. With Santa’s Grotto located a mere two miles from my current location, I’m convinced I’ve got this in the bag.
Matt: I don’t think so, Rob. I too am now just over a mile away from our final destination. I make the huskies stop, a knack I’m finally mastering, then decide to pelt it on foot. I’m unfit, yes, but I reckon I can jog the final mile of snow in about 25 minutes, providing I jog at a light pace. And then something extremely naff and entirely unbelievable happens. I hear Rob’s skidoo shushing across wet ice. He’s behind me. We’ve travelled 63 miles across (sometimes but not always) inhospitable terrain and somehow, God knows how, we’ve ended up less than a mile apart, with him now sprinting towards me. We look at each other. This is it. I’ve got it. I’m going to win. I look back. Rob has fallen. I keep jogging for a bit, my skin prickling with sweat under my thermals, and then I just slow to a halt. This isn’t right. Something in my heart sinks. I can’t just leave him down like that. I recall the time as a boy I saw my dad fall down in the snow while walking me home from school, and the crushing sadness I felt. I turn around, walk towards Rob, and help him up. With gratitude, he nods at me, then we stride to the finish line together, taking in the view and our stunning surroundings. No wonder Santa only leaves home once a year.
The verdict: both win!
Congratulations! Against all the odds, you not only made it to one of the planet’s most unfriendly and unlikely of destinations, you also managed to become allies in the process. A thoroughly good effort, more so given the way you used your wits to win over the local snow people to get to the end in one piece. Well done.
Now you do the adventure…
1 Fly economy from Delhi and Mumbai to Stockholm, in Sweden from Rs 13,000. And then onwards to Lulea Airport.
2 Drive three hours north to the stripped-down town of Kangos, where your trip across Lapland towards Santa’s home begins.
3 Wisely take the luxury option and hook up with snow holiday experts Arctic Wild Adventures (Articwild-adventures.net; prices start at £699 (Rs 50,000) for three days, including accommodation and food), then snowmobile further north along the frozen river across snow-capped hills to the isolated village of Sarkimukka.
4 Collect your quadruple-husky-laden sled then dash to the Pajala hamlet. Finally snowshoe and toboggan to Erkheikki – the mythical point of Santa’s Grotto.
Three alternative Arctic adventures…
Helicopter ski the Chugach Range in Alaska
From a base camp on an isolated glacier, you’ll ski down mountains on virgin snow. £2,100 (Rs 1.5 lacs) for a luxurious 12-day trip.
Play ice golf in Greenland
The World Ice Golf Championships are held every March, in temperatures as cold as minus 25°C. Thin one off the first tee and your fingers will know about it.
Kite across Iceland
Across a vast and freezing landscape, sit in a one-man baggy while flapping a large kite 80-feet above you and let the Arctic gale blast you across the snow.
Don’t forget the Bond gear…
Armani ski-wear jacket
Waterproof, stylish, surprisingly light… but warm enough to stop you from freezing on the slopes as it’s double-lined, thus trapping more air inside.
GPS walkie talkie
Waterproof £230 unit combining a two-way FRS/GMRS radio with a GPS navigator, enabling contact at a range of up to 14 miles. R.I.P. cup-and-string.
Skidoo
This 9ft-long, £9K monster can hit 140mph. It’s been suggested that it can traverse open water if going fast enough so you try it! We’ll be just here, right behind you…
Lapland travel facts
- Swedish Lapland, where the FHM Challenge takes place, lies 300km north of the Arctic circle.
- There are more reindeer than people in Lapland.
- Lapland experiences 73 days of continuous sunlight from May through to August.
- The coldest temperature on record this century was -51.5°C in 1999.
- Water in Lapland freezes from early November, at which point the Sami, the region’s indigenous people, use the rivers as safe alternatives to roads.
From the January 2011 issue of FHM India.
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