Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head.

I’ve always been somewhat scared of the cold and discomfort of winter, so it felt out of the ordinary for me to travel to one of the world’s colder places, Swedish Lapland, on a press trip with a few other women writers—in December, no less. Already on our adventure, we had ridden a dog sled through snowy woods, toured the region’s famous Icehotel, and slept in a traditional Sami lavvu, shivering between canvas tent walls and under reindeer pelt bedding. Suffice to say, I was already thoroughly chilly when we arrived in the town of Harads, just south of the Arctic Circle, to stay at Arctic Bath. The floating hotel atop the Lule River shot to near-instant Instagram fame even before it actually opened in 2020, quickly earning a spot alongside the area’s other viral remote architectural lodgings. (All the more remarkable given its location in an area where cell reception is scant.)

Architects Bertil Harström (of the nearby Treehotel, equally beloved on the internet) and Johan Kauppi conceived of the idea for the structure built around a kallbad (ice bath), taking inspiration for its logjam-like design from the old practice of transporting felled trees by river (once common on the Lule when logging was Harads’s main industry). Beyond its circular main building, which floats on the river during summer and freezes into its surface in winter, the hotel comprises six floating bungalows and six larger, glass-fronted land cabins elevated on stilts overlooking the river (devised by Swedish designer AnnKathrin Lundqvist).

Arctic Bath’s unique design and remote location obviously play a role in its online intrigue. Depending on who you talk to, so does its built-in ice bath (particularly since the Nordic ritual of cold-water plunging captured the imagination of the global wellness community). Being what I’d call cold plunge–curious, I knew I would not allow myself to leave without plunging into the Lule, no matter how much I feared the frigid.

Friday

5:30 p.m.: It’s only early evening when we arrive, but it may as well be midnight. On our drive here, I spotted a moose between snow-covered trees along the highway, but that was during the few brief hours where there’s a smidge of twilightesque winter daylight. Now, darkness covers the sky like a heavy wool blanket. My body has yet to adjust to the perpetual darkness, which makes balancing the timestamps of a day challenging. Part of what makes Arctic time so confounding is the overpowering silence. Pulling up to the property, the stillness is such that it could be two in the morning. This is literal quiet luxury.

The quietude surprises me; given Arctic Bath’s Instagram fame, I was expecting a crowded entrance and a buzzy lobby. I pull my bag through a snowy path and into the main building. There’s no fussy lounge filled with influencers, just an open space washed with pine walls and reindeer hides strewn over midcentury furniture. There’s a small check-in area, a bar and restaurant, and a gift shop for things like traditional Lovikka mittens. It feels like a warm embrace in contrast to the frigid night landscape. Through the frosty windows, it’s impossible to tell that there’s a river beneath our feet.

6 p.m.: After checking in, I drag my bag (why, I wonder, did I bring a suitcase with wheels to an Arctic landscape?) to my floating bungalow, which is a short walk away. Both the land and river cabins, in contrast to the main structure, are angular: slanted roofs on the river bungalows make them look like they’re tilting. I walk up a narrow wooden bridge to the cabin’s entrance. In summer, I could jump over the platform railings directly into the river. Yet now, in winter, it’s nothing more than a path slightly elevated above the icy mass. There’s a kick-sled waiting for me should I choose it as my main transportation around the property.

Inside the cabin is a study in Scandinavian minimalism. The light wood walls mostly lack decoration—the view out the windows is the real art after all—and furniture is kept to a minimum. Bedside lamps that resemble the hotel’s logjam design complement earth-toned bedding, reindeer pelt included. A small pellet burner stands at the ready in the corner, prepared to add extra warmth on particularly cold nights. The bathroom is stocked with c/o Gerd products, a Swedish Lapland brand that bases their natural products on local produce like lingonberry, cloudberry, and blueberry. Having discovered the brand two weeks earlier on a Viking expedition ship in Antarctica and saving my dry skin with its 24/7 Skin Balm, I’m thrilled to find the line here, in its natural habitat. I grab a robe, my bathing suit, and c/o Gerd’s sauna scrub, then make my way back through the snow to the reason I’ve come here: the sauna and cold plunge.

6:30 p.m.: I can’t deny feeling nervous about plunging into an Arctic river at night during winter. I tell myself it would be crazy not to. But I know if I don’t try it, I’ll regret it. After all, who knows when, or if, I’ll ever make my way back here.

The spa area at the far end of the main building has a series of saunas with picture windows that overlook the frozen landscape. The simple cedar rooms with tiered benches offer a womb-like comfort, but it’s only a few minutes before the heat gets to me. I move outside feeling ready to plunge, but as soon as the winter air hits my exposed skin, I chicken out and take comfort in the hot tub which, because of the subfreezing air, feels lukewarm. I think about calling it quits after one more sit in the sauna, but a voice in my head tells me to try. When two of the women I’m traveling with agree to plunge, I know there’s no way to go but in.

The idea behind the practice of cold plunging is that you submerge yourself in icy water for a mere matter of seconds, and even though it’s a micro amount of time it’s enough to shock your system, a metaphorical slap for your whole body. This is thought to promote myriad health benefits, from lowering anxiety to dampening inflammation. In Scandinavia, cold-water swimming has been part of the culture for centuries. There’s even evidence that the ancient Romans, Greeks, and Egyptians took cold baths for therapeutic reasons.

Strengthened by my resolve to participate in the ritual and potentially reap its benefits, I lower myself into the circular cold pool cut directly through the deck into the Lule. I climb quickly down an iced-over ladder and submerge myself up to my shoulders. I let go of the handrails and tread water. It’s so cold it’s hard to breathe. I can’t think about anything else besides getting out. True devotees will stay in for longer stretches, but a few seconds is enough for me.

The magic happens as soon as I’m out of the water, when I’m standing in my dripping-wet bathing suit in the bitter winter air. My whole body begins to tingle. I feel the exhaustion and victory of a just-finished marathon runner, yet also the calm, refreshed wave of waking up from a 12-hour sleep. I wonder if my body has tricked me into finding reward in this crazy activity. I think about plunging again, but decide one shock to my system is enough for this below-freezing night.

7:30 p.m.: Feeling brave from the thrill of the cold plunge, I walk back to my room in my wet bathing suit and robe, which, after about thirty seconds, literally freeze. Back in my cabin, I throw myself in a hot shower. Then, I get dressed for dinner, wide awake from my plunge, limbs still tingling.

It’s lightly snowing when I walk back to the main building. The restaurant is a long, narrow space that could be an upscale Ikea cafeteria—no pretension here. A collection of light wood tables are dressed with the same lamps from the bungalow that evoke the building’s log pile look. We sit at a long table with a view into the kitchen where our Arctic char, beetroot, and reindeer steak dishes are prepared. At a nearby table, a group of British guests who’ve just arrived admire their newly purchased Lovikka mittens. I’m no longer cold, but still feel wide awake, senses heightened. An afterglow from the ice bath and our Arctic wine and food pairings, perhaps.

After dinner, I walk back to my bungalow, feeling shocked that I made it to the Arctic Bath hotel and actually took a dip in the ice bath I’d seen so many times online. Back in my room, warm and sheltered from the landscape, I plunge into something a little more comfortable: sleep.

Top photo courtesy Arctic Bath

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