There are mornings
just before
sun has conquered the mist
when hoarfrost still
can stick to the twigs.
When the sound
of your skis
is the only answer
to night’s remaining silence,
when nothing has been said
on where
or when
we will sleep tonight,
we still know
it will be further on.
On our pilgrimage
every day is different,
yet very much the same
in our quest
meter by meter
planting the poles
striving north.
As most of you know by now we completed a long journey on skis through the Swedish mountains and now having been home for almost a week I can start to reflect on the trek.
We travelled in total 1314 km (816 miles) in 54 days including 8 days where we rested (or where weather locked) . We slept 15 nights in tent without ever being cold. There are plenty of things to share, but when you break it down it was really just moving forward one day at the time.
I link up this poem to Open Link at dVerse today which is hosted by Lisa.
April 23, 2026
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Amazing! I hope we hear more about this fantastic journey!
I will share glimpses
I’m the endurance it took was well matched by the rewards of this pilgrimage, Björn. They will be treasured for the future, and in future poems like this one which show the world and our part in it in a different light and hue.
It took some browsing to really remember those early days of the quest… we still had to so many days left by then
You were both so brave to complete such a long journey, Björn, and I admire your determination and resilience. It must have been cold but worth it, especially for the scenery, and the shared experience. The opening stanza sets the scene beautifully, and I love the sibilance to create the sound of skis in the second one.
Those days in early Mach where so different from the sunny ones we had late in april.
Bjorn, a beauty of a poem. Put this one in the special folder. The image is ethereal.
Consider my mind officially boggled to regard you and your life partner so vividly demonstrating what you can accomplish by putting one foot in front of the other ❤
Yes… and maybe it is what it means to be a pilgrim
Pilgrims take on many forms:
I can hear the skis. I’ve lived in the mountains of Virginia for 40 years and have only seen hoarfrost once. Never in Massachusettes. I have some lineage in Sweden. Wishing I could go on Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates.
Wow, now that’s a hell of journey, or pilgrimage Bjorn, and those last lines of the poem fit so well the one foot in front of the other, one day at a time pacing.