Paddling diary

 Sääminginsalo Circuit 2025

A Journey Around the Waters of Sääminginsalo

Preface

Every journey begins long before the first paddle stroke. This story began with an idea—simple, persistent, and quietly growing. Over the years, the Sääminginsalo circuit existed first as a dream, then as a plan, and finally as a commitment sealed with determination, curiosity, and the shared excitement of adventure.

This diary is more than a record of kilometers travelled. It is a reflection of weathered shores, unpredictable winds, small victories, quiet pauses, and the countless moments of awe that only nature can offer. It captures both the challenges and joys of eight days spent moving through water, guided by the rhythm of the lake and the companionship of a trusted paddling partner.

May these pages serve not only as a memory of a remarkable journey but also as an invitation—to slow down, to explore, and to rediscover the freedom of open water and open horizons.

Day 1

At last, the long‑awaited departure day arrived. Everything except the cold food had been packed into the car the night before. When I picked up Asta at 10 a.m., her cats received their farewell scratches, and the final bags were tossed into the trunk. Then we were on our way.

At the Koululahti washing pier, we unloaded the kayaks and what felt like a mountain of gear. For a moment we doubted that all of it would ever fit—two people, two kayaks, eight days, and enough equipment to survive almost anything. But slowly, piece by piece, the puzzle came together. By 11:20 the kayaks were finally packed. They felt unbelievably heavy—so heavy that I wondered whether they would even float. But they floated, and they felt steady.

With a push off the shore, the Sääminginsalo circuit began: 185 kilometers of water, weather, and whatever nature decided to throw at us.

The first stretch greeted us with strong winds and confused, choppy waves. We paddled into them stubbornly until Matari, where the wind eased for a moment—only to pick up again shortly after. Our first break came after roughly 15 kilometers, on the rocky shore of Marjosaari. We sat on warm stones, sipping tea and eating chocolate while a long timber raft drifted quietly across Haukivesi.

Back on the water, the waves returned—sometimes from the side, sometimes head‑on, sometimes straight into our laps. There were sections where we found shelter behind islands, but mostly it was an honest battle with open water. Taking photos was nearly impossible; our hands were needed on the paddles, steadying the fully loaded kayaks with every unpredictable swell.

At a shallow passage between Laattaansaari and Lamposaari, Asta had to step out of her kayak and wade. Soon after, we reached Pöllänsaari, where instead of stopping at the official campfire site, we squeezed our way through a dried‑up channel between Pöllänsaari and Seurasaari. We rested on a beautiful sandbar, and I caught sight of a beaver slipping through the water. Rye bread and real salami tasted unbelievably good.

The final 13‑kilometre push toward our first planned camp was exhausting. The wind hadn't died, and the waves kept testing our balance. Two kilometers before Louhisaari, fatigue settled into our shoulders and backs; by the time we finally landed, we had paddled 37.35 kilometers in relentless wind.

Camp went up slowly but steadily. Dinner—mashed potatoes and grilled sausages—felt like a feast. We sat on the rocks with hot cocoa and chocolate, watching the sun drop behind the islands, wrapped in our warm layers that were already earning their place.

When we finally crawled into the tent, rain began to fall. A soft, steady reminder that the journey had truly begun.

Day 2

The rain began sometime in the night, a steady whisper against the tent that grew louder toward morning. When we finally opened our eyes, the world outside was washed in shades of grey, the kind of soft, relentless drizzle that feels woven into the fabric of Finnish summer.

Neither of us was in a hurry to leave the warmth of our sleeping bags. Yesterday's long battle with the wind had left our muscles heavy, pleasantly sore in a way that reminded us we had earned every kilometer. But eventually the smell of coffee and the promise of hot porridge coaxed us out.

As we packed the camp, the rain increased. The air was cool enough to bite through damp layers, but not cold—just raw, the kind of weather that makes you grateful for good gear. By the time we slid the kayaks back into the water, the drizzle had turned into a firm, wind‑driven rain.

The forecast had warned us about rain, yes—but not about this wind. The gusts reached well beyond what we had expected. Mid‑lake, the wind pressed against our paddles with sudden force, shoving water sideways across the decks.

At one point, Asta's kayak scraped hard against submerged rocks—her first time ever bumping into stones like that. The waves pushed her toward the shallows, but she kept calm, adjusting, backing away, finding balance again. I remember thinking how grateful I was for sturdy plastic kayaks. On a trip like this, they were not just equipment—they were lifelines.

Reaching the Haponlahti canal felt like stepping briefly into shelter. We found a tiny islet just beyond the channel and stopped for tea and chocolate, steaming cups warming our hands while rain drummed against our hoods. The waves beyond the islet told us everything we needed to know: continuing would be dangerous.

So we made a decision. Safety over schedule.

The nearest island—Korppi—became our refuge. Paddling against the wind to reach it required stubborn focus; each stroke felt like a small victory. The rocky shore was slippery, but landing went smoothly. We hauled our bags up the slope, working quickly before the weather could worsen.

Once the tent was up and the dry clothes were on, the world immediately felt gentler. Rain hammered the flysheet, wind rattled the branches overhead, but inside the tent it was warm, calm, almost cozy.

Hours passed like that—listening to the storm, wrapped in sleeping bags, dozing, talking only occasionally. Outside, the world stayed grey and restless. Inside, everything felt suspended.

Around 19:30, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain eased. Clouds thinned, the wind calmed, and the temperature settled at a brisk twelve degrees. When we stepped out of the tent, the world looked scrubbed clean.

Dinner tasted better simply because we hadn't moved in hours: mashed potatoes and pyttipannu eaten on damp rocks under a sky just beginning to clear. And to celebrate surviving the day, we made nettle pancakes with strawberry sauce—warm, sweet, a small morale boost.

We brushed our teeth on the northern cliffs of the island, where the sunset finally broke through in streaks of orange. Damp, tired, but warm in our sleeping bags, we fell asleep to the quiet drip of water from the trees.

Only 10 kilometer's paddled—but sometimes those are the days you remember longest.

Day 3

The saying goes, "What you leave behind, you will eventually meet again." And on the morning of Day 3, that felt truer than ever. The storm of the previous day had forced us to cut the route short, leaving us five kilometers behind schedule. Neither of us said it aloud—but we both knew we would try to catch up.

We woke at 7:00 to a transformed world. The heavy, restless greys of yesterday had been replaced by calm air and a sky washed clean. The island felt quiet, almost relieved. Breakfast—porridge, blueberry soup, and coffee—tasted like fuel for a fresh start.

Once the tent was packed and the kayaks loaded, we slipped into the water with an unspoken agreement: today, no pushing, no forcing—just "liplatellaan," as we say. Paddle lightly. Let the day unfold.

The first stretch took us along narrow, rocky channels where the cliffs rose close and the water mirrored them perfectly. The wind was gentle, the lakes calm, and for the first time on this journey we found ourselves taking photos without worrying about losing balance.

Our first stop came at Vörstinsaari—ten kilometer's in, two hours of steady, effortless paddling. We snacked on salami and seed crispbread, washing it down with hot tea. Then onward.

The landscape opened as we passed Enonkoski, following the long, winding waterway toward Hanhivirta. The distant ferry looked deceptively closely—only when we kept paddling and paddling did, we realize how far away it actually was. Another ten‑kilometer stretch, another two hours.

At the ferry landing, we stood up, stretched our stiff legs, aired our backs, and ate. The day was warming, and the rhythm of movement and rest felt perfect

Then came the long afternoon push toward Savonranta: fifteen kilometers of steady water, rolling hills around us, and only the occasional boat cutting across the silence. By the time we reached the harbor, our arms were pleasantly heavy. We refilled our water, wandered into the small harbor café for pastries, coffee, and ice cream—sweaty, smelly, tired, but welcomed, nonetheless

The warmth and sugar revived us just enough to continue. Back in the kayaks, we aimed toward Pistalanharju, the place we had originally planned to reach yesterday. Another route change was needed: the water level was low, too shallow for the narrow passages we had wanted to take. So, we went the long way.

At first Paasvesi lay still—protected by the islands—but once we reached open water, the lake revealed its true nature. Waves rose from every direction, crossing and colliding in unpredictable patterns. The wind strengthened, pushing the kayaks sideways, lifting the bows before slapping them down again.

We adjusted our plan, turning into the waves first, taking them head‑on. Only after we had fought our way upwind did we allow ourselves to angle toward Pistalanharju, riding the waves rather than resisting them.

It took focus—deep, quiet focus. Paddle, brace, breathe. A moment of balance on every crest, a moment of darkness in every trough. No words, just teamwork and intuition.

There are no photos from that stretch. Some moments aren't meant to be captured—only lived.

But after nine long kilometers, the islands finally rose ahead of us. The waves settled, the wind softened, and at 21:00 we reached Pistalanharju.

Fifty kilometers. Our longest paddling day so far.

We pitched camp in the golden light of late evening. Dinner felt like a reward: smoked reindeer pasta, warm bread, and smoky fish in tomato. Cocoa and chocolate for dessert. For the first time in days, we allowed ourselves to plan for rest.

Tomorrow will be easy. Only twenty kilometers.

Wrapped in sleeping bags, the fatigue was deep—but so was the satisfaction. Day 3 had been long, yes, but it had given us everything: calm, challenge, rhythm, beauty. And most of all, the feeling of moving forward again.

Day 4

We woke up early, much earlier than either of us intended. Despite the exhaustion of the previous day's 50‑kilometre push, our bodies were still tuned to the rhythm of sunrise. At 5:30 we blinked awake inside the tent, looked at each other, and promptly decided to go back to sleep. When we finally rose again at half past eight, the world felt unhurried, gentle, and welcoming.

Breakfast was slow, comfortable, and richly deserved: reindeer man's smoked reindeer soup warmed on the stove, thick slices of rye bread with real butter, and smoky cheese melting in the cool morning air. After days of battling wind and waves, it felt luxurious to simply linger—to wander along the shore, stretch our legs, and breathe without thinking about distance.

When the time came to pack up, we did it calmly. For the first time, the day's plan felt light: only twenty kilometers, a leisurely afternoon, and no storms chasing us from behind.

We pushed off from Pistalanharju at 13:45. About half an hour earlier, a bright yellow kayak had passed us—a paddler we later recognized from social media. Funny how small the paddling community can feel, even out here.

By this fourth day, we had crossed the 100‑kilometre mark of our journey. A quiet milestone, but one that settled warmly in our thoughts.

Raikuu channel was as striking as ever. Massive stone walls rose on both sides, shaped long ago by soldiers and time. Lilies floated on the surface—large, small, pale, bright—dotting the water like scattered lanterns. I flew the drone briefly, capturing the slow, gentle curves of the canal. This place always felt like a secret worth rediscovering.

We stopped at Lintusalmi for a snack break and sent a message to Maija from the Varustepankki: we were on our way. "Turn on the sauna," we wrote. And she did.

From the road bank, we looked out toward Puruvesi. It seemed calm from a distance—glassy, almost inviting. But as soon as we left the protection of the islands, the truth revealed itself. The waves here were sharper, closer together, the kind that slapped rather than rolled. We adjusted our course, taking the waves first head‑on before turning toward Maija's cabin.

She and her son were already waiting on the rocky shore as we approached. Cameras out, smiles wide. Their welcome felt like stepping into warmth.

And then—the sauna.

A real wood‑heated sauna, hot and fragrant, the kind that melts fatigue straight from your shoulders. We stayed there a long time, letting the warmth soak in, letting our bodies remember what comfort felt like.

Dinner came next: not rushed, not improvised, just good food shared in good company. For the first time on the trip, we didn't need to pitch the tent; we slept in the guest cottage, soft beds and still air.

Later, we carried mugs of hot cocoa to the rocks by the lake and watched the evening settle around us. No sound but the faint ripple of water and the whisper of wind.

It's strange how simple things—heat, food, quiet—can feel so profound after days on the water.

By ten o'clock, we were in our sleeping bags, drifting quickly into the sweetest kind of tiredness.

Day 5

Morning came softly, with sunlight spilling through the guesthouse window—though truth be told, it wasn't the sun that woke us, but Asta's phone alarm that had accidentally been left on. After days of tent mornings, the quiet room felt almost unreal.

Outside, Puruvesi shimmered under a bright sky, but the wind had already begun its restless wandering across the water. Over breakfast—porridge, coffee, and a slow start—we discussed the day. The wind would decide our schedule. No rush.

We washed the dishes, packed lightly, and decided to stretch our legs before making any decisions. The walk to the Rauvanniemi summer kiosk, "Milli," was exactly what we needed. The tiny kiosk had all the charm of a village living room—one of those places where strangers become neighbours for a moment. We rang the bell; Milli opened happily. Soon others wandered in, each greeting the next with warmth. We enjoyed buns, coffee and ice cream, chatting with locals and drifting into the easy rhythm of small‑town summer.

On our walk back, we stopped often—photographing flowers, insects, anything that caught our eye. After the hard days behind us, the simple act of walking felt grounding.

Back at Maija's cabin, I cooked mashed potatoes and meatball sauce for lunch while Asta organized gear. The question lingered in the air: stay another night, or push on? In the sauna, surrounded by steam , the decision came naturally—we would continue today.

The wind began to ease. The evening looked promising.

We packed the kayaks, shared grilled sausages at the firepit, thanked Maija and her son for their kindness, and waved goodbye from the water. Soon the cabin was behind us, shrinking into the shoreline.

The lake greeted us gently. The wind continued to fall away as the sun began its slow descent. The world softened into warm gold. A lone loon swam nearby, unbothered by our presence. We drifted for a moment, taking photos, letting the light soak into us.

We paddled until the last colours of sunset brushed the surface of the lake. When the glow finally faded, we began searching for a place to land. After thirteen beautiful kilometres, we found Huhtisaari—a small island waiting like a quiet invitation.

The camp went up quickly. We ate a simple evening snack on the rocks, savoring the cooling air.

The forecast had spoken of a tropical night, but the truth was far from it. Wrapped in warm layers inside our sleeping bags, we planned the next day's route and updated social media. Tomorrow was expected to be hot and breezy—a demanding combination.

But those were tomorrow's concerns.

For now, under a sky slowly deepening into blue, the island felt like the perfect place to rest.

Day 6

We woke to the sound of crows—a full "crow consert," loud enough to make sure no one slept in. The air was already warm, the kind of early heat that hints at a blazing day ahead. Breakfast came together slowly: fried eggs, seed crispbread, coffee. Even in the shade, we could feel the sun gathering its strength.

By the time we packed the camp and pushed off from Huhtisaari, the lake lay still and clear. Puruvesi—always famous for its clarity—looked almost unreal. As we paddled, we could see straight down through the water, as if floating over glass. It felt like moving through drinking water.

The first part of the route was calm, quiet, almost meditative. But soon the landscape reminded us that even peaceful days have surprises. At a shallow channel, the water grew so low we had to get out and pull the kayaks across a narrow sandy ridge. The sun beat down on our backs; sweat mixed with sunscreen.

Behind us, Hytermä faded into the distance—those steep, pine‑covered islands, full of history and solitude. Somewhere out there, at a moment of distraction, my sunglasses slipped from the deck and disappeared into the depths. No point in diving after them; Puruvesi may be clear, but it is still a deep and hungry lake. A moment of pure annoyance—and then nothing to do but keep going.

We found a perfect break spot at Tölkkäänniemi's natural harbor. Cold, homemade redcurrant juice tasted like a miracle. Seed crispbread with salami vanished quickly. Asta found beautiful swan feathers on the shore and tucked them carefully away.

The day grew fiercely hot. No breeze, no shade, just the two of us moving slowly through shimmering air. We poured lake water over our arms, faces, and heads, repeatedly. Our skin flushed red; even the paddle shafts felt warm to the touch.

The route led us into a narrow, rocky passage with an old stone bridge overhead—a pocket of cool shade we were grateful for. We lingered there for a moment before pushing on toward Harjunportti.

When we arrived, the small harbour felt like an oasis. We bought ice cream, sparkling water, and after‑sun lotion—absolute necessities by then. Sitting by the water, watching a chaotic parade of boats ignoring every possible rule, we laughed at the absurdity of it. Heat does funny things to people.

One thing we forgot: filling the water canisters. Heat had softened our brains.

Still, we pushed onward toward Sumpunlahti. When we arrived, the bay was crowded—dogs, people, loud voices, and swarms of horseflies. Not exactly the peaceful evening we wanted.

So, we continued.

The map showed several sandy points nearby, and the decision paid off. We reached Keronsärkkä at sunset, and it felt like discovering a hidden paradise. A long sandy ridge, smooth rock shelves, quiet water glowing gold.

We swam, cooling the heat from our skin. I flew the drone, catching the wide sweep of evening light across the bay. It felt like the whole day had been leading toward this one perfect place.

Dinner was simple but wonderful: crispbread with smoky vendace in tomato, hot cocoa, and whatever snacks we still had. We watched the sun dissolve into the horizon and let the silence settle.

Our skin burned, our muscles tired, but our spirits were high. Wrapped in sleeping bags, we updated social media one more time, then drifted into sleep, the smell of warm pine drifting through the tent.

Day 7

We woke on Keronsärkkä to a slow, heavy heat. Even before unzipping the tent, we could tell the day was going to be a scorcher. When we finally stepped outside, the air already shimmered with warmth, and the sky stretched cloudlessly above us.

Breakfast came with an unexpected realization: our water was nearly gone. Neither of us had remembered to fill the canisters at Harjunportti. A small oversight, born from the kind of heat that melts thoughts.

So, I turned to Punkaharju's legendary local Facebook group. Within minutes, several people replied. And soon after, my old acquaintance Janne called and promised to bring us as much water as we needed. A reminder that kindness is never far away, even in the middle of a vast lake system.

We broke camp and headed toward Sumpunlahti, where we had agreed to meet. But even before we landed, a small boat approached—someone else, also ready to offer help. We thanked them warmly, but our meeting was already arranged.

At Sumpunlahti, we filled every bottle and canister to the brim. Cold, clear water felt like treasure.

The heat grew stronger as the day went on. By noon, the temperature reached thirty degrees. Lake water became our lifeline—we splashed it over ourselves constantly. Our clothes clung to us, drying almost instantly as the sun baked everything around us.

We paddled twelve kilometers before taking the first real break. We waded into the water, letting the coolness soak the heat from our skin. We ate snacks, drank sports drinks, and agreed: today would require many such stops.

We moved on in short segments, resting often. Heat can be as demanding as wind.

As we entered the Sauvasaaret area, the mood shifted. The islands rose around us in quiet beauty—narrow passages, pale sand, untouched ridges. The landscape felt almost hidden, a secret even many locals might not know. We paddled slowly, letting the silence settle.

Our original plan was to continue farther, toward the northern tip of Kongo Island. But the day had been long, and the heat had carved deep lines of fatigue. So, we adjusted, choosing the small Mustasaari on the island's southern side.

It was the right decision.

Mustasaari greeted us with peace. The water was clear, the beach soft, the evening light warm. We pitched the tent and made a simple meal. Our skin burned from the day—the bright red patches a testament to the sun's insistence.

We noticed something funny: both our fingertips were pale while everything else was tanned. "Melojansormet," we joked—paddler's fingers.

The sunset that night was spectacular. Shades of orange, red, and deep purple spilled across the sky. We sat on the rocks, taking photos until the last light dissolved.

Inside the tent, the heat lingered, turning the space into a warm cocoon. But we were too tired to mind. We lay down, updated our route plan, and let sleep take us.

Day 7 had been hot, slow, and demanding—but also filled with generosity, beauty, and quiet moments we will remember for a long time.

Day 8

Morning arrived slowly on Mustasaari. The air was already warm when we unzipped the tent at nine—Asta wincing slightly as the sun brushed her sunburnt skin. It had been a tropical night, warm and thick, and the inside of the tent felt more like a sauna than a shelter. But a morning swim washed away the heaviness. The water was cool, clear, and impossibly refreshing.

Breakfast was simple and perfect: fried eggs, seed crispbread, and coffee. By the time we packed the tent, the sun had climbed higher, promising another hot day. Today, though, was special—it was the final stretch to Savonlinna

We pushed off at one in the afternoon, heading just two kilometer's to the southern head of Kongo Island where the old defensive line caves hid in the steep shoreline. We didn't enter them this time—we had visited the previous autumn—but we hovered near the cliffs while I flew the drone, capturing the rugged beauty from above. Cold drinks and a short break kept our energy steady.

We continued toward Mitinhiekka, a sandy paradise on Pesolansaari. The heat intensified, and we chose our route carefully, hugging whichever side of each island offered more shade or less glare. At Mitinhiekka we slipped into the water again, sinking into the coolness. We ate snacks, drank plenty, and reapplied sunscreen with the kind of discipline only sunburn can teach.

Originally we had meant to stop at the Laukansaari summer café, but discovering it was closed on weekdays nudged our plans gently eastward. So we aimed for Iso‑Kankainen instead.

The kilometer's moved gently beneath us. The scenery grew wilder—bare rock, leaning pines, deep clear pools. The rugged beauty of Saimaa. On Iso‑Kankainen we found five other kayakers. We swapped stories, compared routes, shared the quiet understanding of people who travel by paddle.

Another swim, another round of snacks, and then we turned toward the final leg.

The heat was still intense, but the excitement of nearing Savonlinna carried us forward. The familiar silhouettes of Uuraansaari and Käärmesaari appeared ahead. We purposely detoured to Nuottaluoto—one more small sanctuary before returning to the world. I flew the drone again, capturing the final shots of this journey.

Then came the sounds of civilization: cars, voices, distant engines. Strange after eight days of wind, water, and birdsong.

For a moment, we both felt the same quiet wish: *Could we just turn around and keep going?* Eight days of nature had softened everything inside us.

But the shoreline drew nearer. We paddled past the market square, where Paavo was waiting to greet us, camera in hand. He filmed us from the bridge near Hotel Casino as we glided toward the finish.

At exactly ten in the evening, we reached Koululahti—the same place the journey had begun. We landed the kayaks, stretched our stiff legs, and talked with Paavo for a while before loading the gear into the car.

Thirty‑five kilometres on the final day. Two hundred thirty kilometer's in total.

We were exhausted. We were sunburnt. And we were unbelievably happy.

A perfect ending to a journey we will carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Day After

The next morning unfolded differently. No soft splash of water against the tent, no gentle breeze stirring the trees—only the muffled hum of city life pressing through the window. After eight days surrounded by nature, the sounds felt almost foreign.

Ari slept long and deeply, as if the movement of the past week had finally caught up with him. Asta, on the other hand, woke at six to the noise of traffic and heat radiating through the walls. It was strange: in the wilderness, the smallest rustle of wind had felt calming, but here in town, familiar sounds seemed louder, sharper.

What surprised us most was how good our bodies felt. We had expected stiffness, soreness, maybe even limping. But there was none of that—just a quiet, satisfied fatigue. Muscles that had worked hard, but not suffered .

We talked about the journey, the kilometer's, the weather, the choices we made, the places we discovered. And then, almost immediately:

"Would we do it again?"

Yes. Absolutely yes.

But next time, we agreed, we'd plan for more days. The Sääminginsalo circuit held so many hidden bays, islands, channels, viewpoints—too many to simply pass by. We wanted to explore more, stay longer, wander, drift, linger.

Reflecting on the journey, a few truths became clear:

• Good food matters. It lifts the spirit, gives strength, and makes even the hardest days feel lighter.

• Clean water is worth carrying. Lakes are beautiful—but not always safe to drink.

• Dry bags, carefully labelled, save time and sanity.

• Weather teaches humility. Plans must bend, never the other way around.

• Warm layers are essential—even in July.

• And above all: a good paddling partner is everything.

Our kayaks had carried us without complaint. Our gear had held up. And our teamwork—tested by wind, heat, rain, and long days—had only grown stronger.

Later that day, we unpacked, washed equipment, restocked supplies, and began sketching ideas for future adventures. The trip had ended, yes—but the feeling of it lingered in our muscles, in our senses, in our thoughts.

And as we uploaded the last photos and videos, we felt grateful. So many people had followed our journey, cheered for us, and waited for updates.

This wasn't just a paddling trip.

It became a story we now get to tell.

Afterword

Adventures have a way of lingering long after they end. Even as the kayaks were lifted from the water and the last gear was carried indoors, something stayed with us—something quieter and deeper than the miles we had paddled.

This journey taught us respect for the elements, gratitude for warm meals and warm company, and appreciation for the resilience found in both nature and us. It reinforced the value of preparation, flexibility, and the small rituals that make travel meaningful—morning porridge, shoreline coffee, shared silence.

More than anything, it reminded us that the best journeys are shared. The laughter, the problem‑solving, the quiet nods of understanding—these shaped the experience as much as the landscape did.

As this chapter closes, a new one begins. Maps will be spread out again. Routes will be drawn. And somewhere, another shoreline is waiting.

This was not just a trip.

It was the beginning.