Snow crunches underfoot. The steps are heavy and create a rhythmic, pulsating sound. The light from the headlamps casts a cone on the ice and makes the snow glisten. Snowflakes dance through the light. The sledge draws lines in the white.

Petri and his friend Antti walk out onto the ice and settle down on the frozen water, a little further from the shore. Petri begins to drill a hole in the ice with the ice auger. His breath — small clouds in the air. The drill slowly digs its way into the white ice. One hole, two holes, three holes in a row. Antti grabs the long ice saw and pushes it into one of the holes, its teeth biting into the thick layer of ice. Their sound echoes across the ice and is carried away by the wind. After sawing a square into the ice, Antti attaches a rope to the hole in the middle. Four hands grab the rope and pull together. They heave the thick block of ice onto the ice surface and pause briefly. Their breath freezes in the air, collects in their beards, and turns them into white threads.

Antti moves 20 steps away and drills another hole. Then he comes back. Petri lets a small wooden sledge on a long cord into the water.

Antti walks bent over the ice, listens — a soft scratching sound breaks through the thick layer of ice and reaches the surface. ‘Yes, here it is.’ Petri pulls on the line. Antti takes another step. Petri pulls again, and releases. The line glides silently through his fingers. Antti takes another step, listens. Petri pulls again. A soft scratching — ‘Yes.’ Antti gives a signal. At the far hole, he reaches into the water. His fingers search for the sledge. He bends a little deeper, then his hand reaches it. Petri starts to attach the net to the cord. Silently, his fingers tie the strings together. The layer of water on his skin freezes in the air. The skin is hot red.

His stories; but brought to life by my imagination, while sitting here in Petri’s home — for the moment, I can only listen to Petri’s tales of ice fishing, and imagine a situation he has experienced countless times before, but which may no longer be a future prospect.

‘When I think that maybe in 20 years, there are not such conditions, then the whole culture is disappearing.’ He clears his throat. ‘It's really sad.’ We sit at Petri's kitchen table. He picks up his coffee cup and drinks; the heater breathes warm air down my neck. ‘The season has been getting shorter and shorter ... As you see, the seawater is like + 5 degrees Celsius, it's not even close to freezing.’

The last few weeks have been too mild for a layer of ice to form. There is hardly any snow. It's early December and the temperatures are hovering between -2 and 3 degrees Celsius.

‘The other option is to put some nets from the boat, but you don't get a similar amount of fish from there because they are smaller nets ... There is no point to fish from the boat if the temperature is more than +8 degrees Celsius, because otherwise there is too much microalgae.’ Also, ‘The taste of fish is better when there is no microalgae ... So fish is good only in cold water,’ he explains. ‘Couple of years ago there was a winter when winter did not come, so there was just no ice, so we couldn't do it. It was the first time ever, so we lost one season totally and, of course, we were disappointed.’ Now, he has also bought fishing equipment to fish from the shore, which is actually more of a summer activity. As it is too warm today, we are going fishing from the shore too. We drive a little further south and walk from the parking lot towards Pampskatan.

Leaves rustle under our feet. A thin layer of powdery snow covers the soft ground. A light wind whispers through the trees. We settle down on the rocks on the shore. Petri takes off his backpack and pulls out a box with various lures. He chooses a large lure with a firm body and soft tail fin. Its body shimmers silver, its tail fin and eyes glow red. Petri attaches it to the fishing line and looks around. He positions himself on a rocky outcrop on the shore. His hand releases the safety catch on the fishing line. He holds the line with one finger. He gathers momentum and casts the line as he releases his finger and lets go of the fishing line. A bright sound cuts through the air. About seven metres further on, the lure dives into the water and disappears in a small wave. Petri secures the fishing rod and begins to reel in the line. The spindle on the rod rotates silently, the line pulls a small wave in front of it. Silence. Then a stop. Petri pulls on the rod, which bends towards the water. He tightens his grip on the rod and pulls again. He pulls, pulls hard. The rod gives way, and the bait jumps out of the water. Algae clings to the barb and dangles in the air. Petri reaches for the bait, his fingers cleaning the barb. The algae falls to the ground.

At his feet, gentle waves slosh rhythmically against the rock. Water pushes itself up and flows gently back down again. Waves dance, rise, pirouette in small rocky bays, bow, and disappear again. He casts the fishing rod again.

At the age of 55, Petri is by far the youngest person in his area to practice ice fishing with nets. It's not just the cold winters that are becoming rarer. Young people's interest in ice fishing is also waning. ‘Maybe then there are no people who know how to do it. Well, you can read it from books, but I can tell you that it takes a couple of years to learn every small trick which is needed for this. Every knot and how to do it ... You really have to know every detail. When the know-how is disappearing then it's gone, I think.’

Single snowflakes fall silently from the sky. A light wind whispers in the treetops and composes a melodic murmur. Silence.

We are in the west of the headland, in the lee of the wind blowing from the south-east. The place seems quiet and peaceful, but the landscape tells other stories. Trees lean towards the north-west and tell of icy winds and mighty storms that they have yielded to and yet defied. Next to Petri's feet is a small patch of ice. Drops form under the thin layer of ice, collect and run — like a small river — under the surface, pushing air in front of them and dripping onto the rocks at the tip of the ice surface. The ice is melting.