New Year's Eve in the Arctic Circle: An Adventure Above the Fireworks in Narvik, Norway

There's something deliciously absurd about dragging two oversized suitcases up an icy Norwegian mountain at 10 pm on a winter's night, questioning every life choice that led to this precise moment. Yet there we were, Stephanie and I, slipping and sliding our way toward a cabin we couldn't yet see, powered by nothing but champagne-fueled optimism and the stubborn belief that this would all be worth it. Spoiler alert: it absolutely was.

Most people celebrate New Year's Eve in predictable ways. A party in the city. A gathering with friends. Perhaps a nice dinner and some champagne at midnight. We decided to do it 300 kilometers inside the Arctic Circle, perched on the edge of a mountain, watching fireworks explode below us while the Aurora Borealis danced overhead. Because why not make things interesting?

The Journey Begins (With 90% Planning and 10% Hope)

I have a confession to make: I'm an obsessive planner. I research train routes with the intensity of someone planning a military operation. I book accommodations months in advance. I create detailed spreadsheets of travel times and connections. I account for approximately 90% of everything that could possibly matter on a trip.

And then I completely forget about the remaining 10%.

In this case, that 10% was transportation from the bus stop to our mountain-perched cabin. A small detail, really. Who needs to think about the final few kilometers when you've already planned an 18-hour overnight train journey from Sweden?

The seed of this particular adventure was planted by YouTuber DownieLive, whose videos of Scandinavian train journeys had us mesmerized. The overnight train from Sweden to Narvik via Boden looked like the perfect combination of adventure and transportation—our two favorite things rolled into one cozy, moving experience. We're the kind of travelers who believe that getting there should be just as memorable as being there, and this train journey promised to deliver.

We shared the journey with friends who were heading to a different corner of Norway, which made the first leg even more special. The train itself was everything we hoped for: tight sleeping cabins with small bunk beds that made you feel like you were in a proper European rail adventure, not just traveling but experiencing something. The cafe served simple food that tasted infinitely better because you were eating it while gliding through frozen Swedish and Norwegian landscapes.

At night, tucked into my narrow bunk with the gentle rocking of the train, I felt perfectly cocooned. It's one of those travel moments that confirms you're doing exactly what you should be doing—even if "exactly what you should be doing" involves sleeping in a space roughly the size of a coffin. I slept incredibly well.

The 10% Strikes Again

Arriving in Narvik around 10 pm after eighteen hours of train travel, we were simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated. The kind of tired where everything seems slightly surreal, but you're too excited to care. We transferred to a bus for the final stretch, loaded down with suitcases that contained enough gear to travel for an entire year. (Why travel light when you can travel prepared for every possible weather scenario?)

That's when the bus driver delivered the news: he'd be dropping us in town, and taxi or Uber services were essentially non-existent at this hour. We looked at each other. We looked at our suitcases. We looked at the mountain where our cabin allegedly existed. The math wasn't encouraging.

But here's the thing about travel: sometimes you get lucky. I'd spent the bus ride chatting with the driver, and whether it was charm, pity, or just Norwegian kindness, he offered to take us up the mountain as far as his bus could safely go. This act of generosity—this small kindness from a stranger—would make all the difference.

He navigated the increasingly icy road as far as his large bus could manage, which turned out to be within a couple hundred meters of our destination. Close enough to see the lights of civilization, far enough that we'd have to earn it.

The Final Ascent (Or: How We Learned to Love Dragging Suitcases)

Standing on that frozen mountain road, our breath visible in the Arctic air, we faced our Everest: an extremely icy, quite steep hill with our overladen suitcases. The bus driver turned around because his vehicle could no longer safely navigate forward. We, apparently, had no such good sense.

Thankfully, months of traveling through cold European destinations meant we were properly dressed for this particular brand of adventure. We'd also developed the kind of relationship where you can look at your partner mid-crisis and just start laughing. Because really, what else are you going to do?

We stepped carefully onto the ice, then began the delicate dance of dragging heavy suitcases uphill while trying not to fall flat on our faces. It was intimidating, yes. Slightly terrifying, absolutely. But we were so close to our destination that the absurdity of the situation just made us laugh harder. Every careful step forward felt like a small victory. Every time a suitcase slid backward, we'd steady it and keep going. This was happening. We were making it happen.

The overwhelming gratitude we felt for that bus driver's kindness pushed us forward. We were inspired and excited, even as we were physically struggling. This is what we'd signed up for, really—adventure with a capital A. The kind of story you know you'll be telling for years.

The Reward (After One More Small Challenge)

We finally reached the cabin, triumphant and slightly out of breath. Then we discovered the electronic lock was frozen solid. Of course it was. The universe clearly felt we hadn't quite earned our reward yet.

We stood there in the Arctic cold, entering the correct code repeatedly while the mechanism stubbornly refused to cooperate. Eventually, we had to wait for someone to arrive and let us in. It was the perfect capstone to our "adventure" in getting there—one final hurdle before we could collapse into comfort.

But when that door finally opened, everything transformed.

The cabin was extraordinary. Ultra-modern with a "tiny house" aesthetic where every detail had been carefully considered and immaculately executed. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered completely uninterrupted views of Narvik spread below us—the lights of the small city twinkling in the extended darkness. The cabin was perfectly heated, a welcome cocoon of warmth after our frozen arrival. A large, comfortable bed promised the kind of sleep we desperately needed. Every design choice, every fixture, every element spoke to someone who understood exactly what visitors to this remote location would want and need.

We'd positioned ourselves here deliberately, seeking isolation above this incredibly remote city. We wanted to be far from crowds, far from the typical New Year's chaos. We wanted something different.

Dancing Lights and Arctic Nights

Narvik in late December exists in a peculiar twilight. The sun makes only brief, teasing appearances, creating a sense of endless night that's both incredible and slightly disorienting. It's a darkness that makes you recalibrate your understanding of time and light.

We settled into a rhythm of pure indulgence: fantastic champagne, French and Italian wines, cheese and crackers, and delicious food we'd prepared ourselves. Two days and two nights of simple pleasures in an extraordinary location.

The auroras blessed us both evenings. The first night offered a glimpse—the Aurora Borealis making a subtle appearance, beautiful but modest. Coming from Tasmania where we've occasionally witnessed auroras ourselves, we weren't disappointed, just patient.

The second night—the night before New Year's Eve—the sky decided to put on a show.

The auroras danced. They truly danced. Ribbons of green and purple light undulated across the Arctic sky in one of the most remarkable displays we'd ever witnessed. We stood at those enormous windows, warm inside while the light show unfolded outside, and just watched in awe. It was one of the farthest north either of us had ever traveled, deep in the Arctic Circle, and nature was celebrating our arrival in the most spectacular way possible.

In all our aurora experiences—including one display in Tasmania that might have just edged this one out—this ranks among the very best. The video and photos we captured hardly do it justice, but they serve as reminders of that perfect night when the sky came alive.

A New Year's Eve Like No Other

On New Year's Eve itself, Narvik held a large fireworks ceremony. But instead of being down in the city, looking up at the explosions of color like everyone else, we were positioned high above it all.

From our mountain perch, we looked down at the fireworks. They burst below us while aurora activity continued in the sky above. We stood there with our champagne, watching Narvik celebrate, feeling removed from it all yet completely connected to something special. It was surreal and perfect and exactly the kind of unique experience we'd hoped for when we first watched those YouTube videos and started planning this journey.

Why You Should Do This Too

Here's what I've learned from years of seeking out unusual travel experiences: the getting there really is half the adventure. The overnight train that rocks you to sleep. The kind bus driver who goes out of his way to help. The icy hill you have to climb. The frozen lock you have to wait for. These aren't obstacles to the "real" experience—they are the experience.

Yes, I'll probably always forget about that last 10% of planning. And yes, it will probably always work out in the end, often in ways better than I could have planned. That bus driver's kindness meant more than a scheduled taxi ever would have. The struggle up the mountain made the warmth of the cabin even sweeter.

If you're considering how to spend a future New Year's Eve, let me suggest this: go somewhere that requires some effort. Somewhere that takes you out of your comfort zone and into a completely different world. Take an overnight train that makes you feel like you're in a movie. Find a cabin on the edge of the world. Watch the sky dance with light while fireworks explode below you.

The Arctic Circle isn't going anywhere. The train still runs. The cabins still perch on those mountains. And trust me, dragging your suitcases through the ice makes for a much better story than catching a taxi ever would.

Just maybe, unlike me, remember to plan that last 10%.

(But honestly, where's the fun in that?)