This year feels different in my country, Utopia. There’s a new energy in the air — a sense that things might shift quietly, bringing fresh chances and new beginnings. I’m not really into politics, but even I can feel the subtle changes around me. People seem hopeful, waiting to see what the future holds.
Summer this year is unusual — dark and changeable, with sudden showers and long, cool evenings. It’s the kind of summer that invites you to slow down, to chill in the garden with a good book or just enjoy the soft hum of nature around you. I’ve been spending time with my girls, exploring nearby regional places, soaking up the simple, lovely moments that make life so rich. The pace is slow, relaxed, and peaceful — a perfect balance to the quiet anticipation of what’s coming next.
This month, I’m taking a break from races, focusing instead on long-distance training. Maybe October will bring a season full of joy and racing, with new energy and challenges to embrace. And quietly, there’s something new on the horizon for me — a little secret that makes this time feel even more special.
During the week, life is all about juggling work, responsibilities, and the daily grind. Most people use those five days to recharge for the weekend or keep the usual routine going—rarely do they look forward to working out in the middle of it all. But for me, the work doesn’t stop just because it’s Tuesday. The training starts quietly in the background: a run after a long shift, hill sprints before dinner, or strength workouts squeezed into a tired evening. It’s all part of getting ready for the weekend—the real reward.
I see more people doing it now—fitting in weekday training to make their weekends count. Trail races, long hikes, cycling trips… it’s becoming more common to prepare, not just react. Still, I think many folks keep their effort packed into the weekend only. That’s fine—it’s their rhythm. But for me, the joy comes from the full cycle: weekday prep fueling weekend freedom.
This rhythm isn’t new to me, either. Since I was young, weekends were always filled with something memorable. My parents made sure of it. Whether it was a forest walk, a small peak, or a day outside with a backpack and a snack, we never just sat around. I carried that habit on—sometimes going solo, sometimes with friends or college buddies—and now, getting to share that with my own family is honestly one of the coolest parts. Seeing the next generation enjoy the trails, the climbs, the effort and reward—that’s what keeps me going.
By Friday night, I’m not thinking about rest—I’m thinking about the plan. I check the weather, lay out my gear, and decide if it’s a solo mission, a group adventure, or a family hike. I’ve done the work during the week. My legs are ready, my lungs are trained, and my spirit’s itching for the outdoors.
The weekend becomes more than just a break. It’s a tradition, a personal challenge, and a way to reconnect—with nature, with myself, and with those around me. And yeah, by Sunday evening, I might be walking funny and craving a mountain-sized meal, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Being a weekend warrior isn’t about being the fastest or the fittest. It’s about showing up, staying ready, and finding joy in every step—even the uphill ones. Especially the uphill ones.
Taking advantage of the warm weather and that unstoppable urge to stretch my legs after weeks behind a screen, I headed—entirely not by accident—to the local lake for a small running race. The occasion? The first truly hot day of June. The result? A good dose of endorphins, a sweaty back, and a quiet hope that summer has finally arrived.
The route? Pretty nice. Not too long, but not exactly a walk in the park either. A bit of forest, a bit of sunshine, the lake right there beside you. Just right. The sun was doing its best to make up for a chilly May—it was hot, no kidding.
Later that evening came Midsummer Night—Kupala Night, if you prefer the Slavic version. One of those holidays everyone kind of knows about but isn’t quite sure what it’s really about. Back in the day, people threw herbs into fires. Now it’s mostly throwing up stories on Instagram. Still, there was something in the air—bonfire smoke, laughter, a few friends floating flower wreaths on the water, though no one was really counting on a fairy-tale prince showing up.
Fun fact? This used to be a bigger deal than Christmas in some parts of the Slavic world. Fire, water, sun, love—pretty solid combo.
All in all: one active day, a bit of running, a touch of tradition, lots of sunshine, and a quiet smile before bed. A proper kick-off to summer. Enjoy!
After a long shift at work—the kind that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made—I figured it was exactly the right moment to go hiking. Most people would have collapsed onto their couch and entered full „weekend mode,” but not me. No, I decided to summon whatever tiny reserves of energy were left and head into the fjord region for a hike. Because, clearly, when you’ve just worked yourself to the bone, what you need is to scale a mountain.
I got to the second-most popular hill, feeling more like a sentient bag of potatoes than a seasoned hiker, but I pushed on. The weather was perfect—sunny, cool breeze, not a cloud in sight—and to my delight, there was no one around. Not a single soul. It was just me, the mountain, and probably a few judgmental marmots, eyeing me from the rocks. I thought to myself, Well, if I’m already out here, might as well do the whole thing. What’s three peaks, right?
So, with a sense of reckless abandon and not nearly enough snacks, I decided to tackle the next one. And then the next. By the time I hit the third peak, I felt like I had become one with the mountain… or at least one with my own exhaustion. My legs were questioning my life choices, but my spirit was soaring. I’d made it to all three peaks before noon, and the view was absolutely worth it—stunning fjords, snow-capped mountains in the distance, and a deep sense of satisfaction… mixed with the realization that I might need an entire pizza to recover.
What really struck me was how peaceful it was. It was Friday, and I was completely alone in nature. No crowds, no noise—just me and the pure joy of conquering the mountains, even if it was one step at a time. It brought back memories of my younger days, when I’d spend entire weekends out there—hiking up peak after peak with nothing but a backpack and the kind of youthful energy that now seems like a distant myth. Back then, I didn’t even know what fatigue was (or maybe I just ignored it like a true adventurer).
But here I was again, pushing myself to the limit and remembering the freedom of those old trips. Sure, my legs felt like jelly and my water bottle had given up on me by the end, but it was totally worth it. I may be older, wiser, and slightly more tired, but some things never change. It was the kind of trip that reminds you: Sometimes, the best weekends are the ones where you get lost in the mountains—and find a little piece of yourself along the way.
I am in the Norwegian mountains, and it feels like another world. The air is sharp and fresh, the landscape vast and wild — rocky valleys, icy streams, high ridges, and skies so open they seem to go on forever. But it’s not just the nature that makes this place feel different. It’s the way everything here is shaped around freedom, trust, and simplicity.
The trails are marked, but not in a rigid or overly organized way. You follow red „T” symbols painted on stones or wooden posts — markers placed by the Norwegian Trekking Association, or DNT. They show the general direction, but not every detail. Often, I find myself choosing my own way over rocks, around snow patches, or across soft, mossy ground. There is no one right path. Just a direction. That’s what I love most — I’m not on a man-made trail; I’m part of the terrain, reading it, responding to it, one decision at a time.
Navigation here is unlike anywhere else I’ve hiked. There are no fences, no gates, and almost no signs beyond the red T’s. I carry a map and compass and actually use them. GPS might work, or it might not — especially when the clouds drop low and I step into some quiet, hidden valley. The weather changes fast. One moment I’m in sun, the next I’m walking through fog or light rain. It’s unpredictable, but never scary — just a reminder that I’m in real nature, and I have to stay alert and humble.
Along the way, I come across cabins — called “hytter” — placed in some of the most stunning and remote places I’ve ever seen. Some are staffed, with warm meals and friendly hosts. Others are self-service: I use my DNT key to unlock the door, and inside I find food, warmth, and shelter. They’re simple and quiet, and always feel like a reward after a long day’s hike. Sitting by the fire, drying my socks, looking out at a still lake or snow-covered slope — it feels like magic.
This whole system — the trails, the cabins, the maps — is run by the DNT. But they don’t try to control your journey. They offer tools, not rules. You’re trusted to take care of yourself, to clean the cabins after you use them, to be safe and respectful. It’s a balance between freedom and responsibility. That idea is at the heart of something Norwegians call friluftsliv — a deep love for outdoor life, and a way of living simply and close to nature.
Every day in the mountains is different. A new ridge, a new stream to cross, a new silent place where I stop just to breathe. I’m not rushing, not chasing a goal. I’m here to be here. The red T’s help me along, but in the end, it’s my own path I’m walking.
And honestly, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Bonum Cursum 