Europe’s wildest pilgrimage route: a trek through the mountains of north-west Sweden

Fortunately, our priest, Mogens Amstrup Jacobsen, seemed entirely at home in this rugged setting. With a reassuring smile, he unzipped his black rain jacket, a familiar piece of outdoor gear, to reveal the crisp white of his dog collar. He was, quite literally, a man of the Gore-Tex as much as a man of the cloth, bridging the divide between the sacred and the profoundly wild. As the service commenced, the biting Arctic wind, an ever-present companion on our journey, found its way through the ancient cracks in the dry stone walls, insulated only by humble reindeer hair. Inside, candles flickered in their brass sconces, their tiny flames dancing a defiant jig against the encroaching chill, casting long, wavering shadows across the weathered faces of the pilgrims.

This extraordinary gathering was the culmination of a demanding 37-mile (60km) trek along the Präststigen, or “Priest’s Trail,” an ancient route originating in Kvikkjokk. This isn’t just a hike; it’s a living piece of history, a pilgrimage that could confidently lay claim to being Europe’s wildest and undoubtedly one of its most breathtaking. The trail meticulously traces the arduous path that priests, for centuries, would undertake to reach this remote chapel, built in 1788, to conduct a solitary summer service. Today, on the last weekend of July, this tradition endures, drawing a unique blend of intrepid hikers and resolute pilgrims seeking both spiritual solace and an unparalleled wilderness experience. The journey itself becomes an integral part of the devotion, a physical manifestation of faith and perseverance.

Alkavare chapel itself is nestled on the western fringes of Sweden’s Sarek National Park, a region often hailed as the "last great wilderness" of Western Europe. Sarek is a realm of superlatives, home to many of Sweden’s highest mountains, including Sarektjåkkå, and its deepest, most dramatic valleys. Unlike many other national parks, Sarek stands apart for its deliberate lack of infrastructure. There are no designated campsites, no tourist huts offering warmth and provisions, and only a few fleeting sections where it intersects with the more famous Kungsleden trail. To venture into Sarek is to embrace true wild camping, to carry a heavy backpack laden with everything necessary for survival, and to possess an unwavering sense of adventure. It was famously described in 1926 by Dag Hammarskjöld, the future Secretary-General of the United Nations, as vår sista stora vildmark – "our last great wilderness," a sentiment that resonates deeply with its untamed character. Hammarskjöld, a passionate mountaineer and advocate for nature, understood the profound solitude and challenge Sarek offered, valuing it as a sanctuary for both body and mind.

However, the notion of "wilderness" in Sarek, as pristine and untouched as it appears, is a complex one. Christian Heimrot from Laponia Adventures, a local guiding operator with deep roots in the region, offered a crucial corrective to this romanticized view. “I hate it when people use the term ‘wilderness’,” he told me, his voice firm yet gentle, as I joined him on a research expedition for a new Präststigen group trip set to launch next year. “This is a living landscape, people have lived, worked and shaped this land for thousands of years.” His words highlight a fundamental truth often overlooked by external observers: what appears to be an untouched natural expanse is, in fact, a deeply intertwined cultural landscape. This rich dual heritage was formally recognized in 1996 when Sarek National Park, as a vital component of the wider Laponia region, was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site for both its outstanding natural beauty and its profound cultural significance.

Central to this cultural narrative are the Sami, Europe’s only Indigenous population. Their history and way of life are interwoven into these landscapes as intricately and beautifully as the threads of pewter in their traditional handicrafts, such as tenntrådsbroderi (pewter thread embroidery). The Sami word for the Laponia area is Sápmi, the very same word they use to refer to themselves, underscoring an indelible, almost spiritual, link between the people and their environment. Sarek, in particular, lies at the heart of the Sami’s traditional reindeer herding grounds, a practice that has sustained their culture for millennia. While modern advancements mean they might now utilize motorcycles and snowmobiles to follow and herd their reindeer across the vast expanses, their profound knowledge of, and deep kinship with, this rugged landscape remains undimmed. They navigate by instinct and ancestral wisdom, reading the land in ways outsiders can only begin to comprehend.

So, perhaps not a "wilderness" in the sense of being entirely devoid of human influence, but certainly wild. The journey to even reach the starting point of the Präststigen was an adventure in itself. My expedition began by crossing the Arctic Circle on the long road north from Luleå, a geographical milestone marking a distinct shift in climate and landscape. I then met with Christian at his warehouse in Jokkmokk – a town famous for its vibrant Sami winter markets each February, a cultural spectacle drawing visitors from around the globe – where we meticulously loaded our rucksacks with provisions for the challenging six-night trip. From Jokkmokk, we journeyed another hour farther west to the small town of Kvikkjokk, a traditional gateway to the mountains. From there, the actual trailhead was a short, exhilarating boat ride across the pristine Sakkat lake, cutting through waters that reflected the immense sky above.

The initial section of the Präststigen immediately asserted its demanding character, climbing steeply through a dense birch woodland. The path coiled in tight switchbacks, testing our calves and lungs from the outset. Beneathfoot, the forest floor was a treasure trove, littered with wild blueberries and the elusive, amber-hued cloudberries, offering sweet, tart rewards for our efforts. Eventually, the treeline receded, and we emerged onto a high ridge, greeted by our first truly expansive view of Sarek. The vista was breathtaking: an endless expanse of peaks and valleys, a vast, undulating tapestry of rock and snow. Away to the north, the cloud-covered summit of Bårddetjåhkkå loomed majestically. It was on this very mountain, in 1911, that Swedish geologist Axel Hamberg established an observatory, a solitary outpost dedicated to conducting pioneering meteorological and glacial studies, a testament to the scientific allure of this remote region. His work provided invaluable insights into the Arctic climate and the dynamics of its glaciers, even then showing signs of change.

That night, we eased into the unique rhythms of wild camping, a primal connection to the land. Water for cooking and drinking was collected from a gin-clear lake, its icy purity a direct gift from the mountains. A hearty supper of reindeer stew, prepared over a crackling fire, provided much-needed warmth and sustenance, its rich flavours a reminder of the Sami’s enduring connection to the land’s bounty. Despite the physical exertion, sleep came soundly, aided by an eye mask to block out the perpetual twilight of the midnight sun, a surreal phenomenon of the Arctic summer. The next day, we delved deeper into Sarek, traversing the Vállevágge valley. The skies overhead were a brilliant, almost impossibly deep blue, mirroring the hues of the Swedish flag. The profound silence of the landscape was broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind, a gentle caress across the vast, open spaces.

We navigated our way using Hans Fowelin’s guidebook, "Priest’s Path," a comprehensive, though currently Swedish-only, resource. The trail itself, in keeping with Sarek’s wild ethos, was largely unmarked. Fowelin had painstakingly plotted a path of cairns, small stacks of stones, to guide hikers. While some were solidly built, unmistakable square towers, many were little more than one rock precariously propped against another, mere whispers of waymarkers in a sprawling landscape of scree and moraine. Following them required keen observation and an almost intuitive understanding of the terrain. The hardy flora of the Arctic tundra offered its own beauty: alongside familiar buttercups and heather, we discovered the vibrant, bright blue blossoms of mountain gentian, clusters of red ptarmigan berries, and the otherworldly looking wild angelica, a tall, robust plant known for its medicinal properties and as a vital source of vitamin C for the Sami people. Sarek’s botanical richness had also captivated the renowned botanist Carl Linnaeus during his epic expedition through northern Sweden in 1732, so much so that the first part of the Priest’s trail is sometimes affectionately referred to as Linnaeus’s trail, honouring his scientific legacy.

On our fourth day of hiking, a sight of profound beauty unfolded before us: Alkavare chapel, appearing like a mirage on a bluff above the stunning glacial blue waters of Alggajavvre lake. It was a moment of quiet awe, the small, sturdy structure framed by towering peaks and deep, dramatic valleys. The sheer beauty of the scene ignited a wide grin on my wind-burnt face, a joy that even the bracing challenge of wading across rivers – a common, often icy, feature of hiking in Sarek – could not diminish. These shin-high forays into glacial meltwater were a constant reminder of the raw, untamed power of nature here. After successfully rowing across the Miellátno river, utilizing one of the sturdy wooden boats thoughtfully left on each bank by the park rangers for hikers’ use, we climbed the final ascent to the chapel late on Saturday evening, where Priest Jacobsen greeted us with a beaming, welcoming smile.

Over mugs of hot tea, shared in the humble warmth of the chapel, Jacobsen recounted his journey. He and his family had been flown in by helicopter to Alkavare on Friday morning, a necessary logistical concession to the chapel’s extreme remoteness. This was his inaugural service here, a challenging assignment that few other priests in the diocese were willing to undertake. “It is physical, hard work and the days are long,” he explained, acknowledging the unique demands of his temporary posting. Indeed, his duties extended far beyond spiritual guidance; earlier that day, he had been observed re-taring the chapel’s roof, ensuring its resilience against the harsh elements. He also recounted the tale of one of the vital rowing boats, which had come loose and floated away down the river, only to be miraculously retrieved and returned, swinging beneath the belly of a helicopter, a surreal sight in this ancient landscape.

Sunday mass began promptly at 11 am the following morning. Our small, resilient band of pilgrims numbered just eleven in total, including the priest – a stark contrast to the bustling congregations of urban churches. The altar, simple and unadorned, featured a plain wooden cross and cloths on loan from the church in Jokkmokk. These textiles, vibrant in the distinctive "poster paint" palette of traditional Sami clothing, served as a poignant reminder of the chapel’s complex history. While ostensibly built for the Sami in 1788, it was not an act of pure benevolence. Rather, it was a tool in the broader, often brutal, campaign of forced Christianisation and the systematic eradication of their ancient shamanistic beliefs that characterized the 18th century. The chapel, therefore, stands as a symbol of both spiritual sanctuary and historical imposition, a place where different cultural narratives intersect.

After the service, we gathered outside in the crisp Arctic air for coffee and pastries, sharing stories and reflections before preparing for our hike home. Christian, ever the enthusiast for the region’s unique features, was keen that we took a detour via Sweden’s point of inaccessibility, or otillgänglighetspunkten. This geographical marker, located just over the border from Sarek in the vast expanse of Padjelanta National Park, signifies the country’s most remote spot – approximately 31 miles (50km) from any road or town. It is often cited, with good reason, as Western Europe’s remotest point. Curiously, it is marked not by a grand cairn or a towering monument, but simply by a humble circle of quartz stones and a trio of weathered reindeer antlers, a subtle acknowledgment of its profound solitude. Standing there, it felt no more or less remote than much of the previous week’s hiking, a testament to the pervasive wildness of the entire region.

Reflecting on the journey, I was struck by the realization that what truly made Sarek and the Präststigen so profoundly special wasn’t merely the scenery, as undeniably beautiful as it was. It was the indelible human connection to this landscape: the enduring spirit of the Sami, whose ancient wisdom permeates every valley and peak; the scientific curiosity of pioneers like Hamberg and Linnaeus, who sought to understand its natural wonders; and the shared camaraderie of our small, motley congregation, briefly united by the challenging trail and the remote chapel. This route, rich in history, culture, and natural splendour, is undeniably deserving of more visitors who are willing to embrace its unique demands. As Christian observed, with a knowing grin that perfectly captured the essence of our journey, “I told you, it isn’t a wilderness.” It is, instead, a vibrant, living landscape, shaped by both nature and human stories, waiting to be experienced.

The unforgettable trip was expertly provided by Laponia Adventures, which will lead a guided, small-group trip along the Priest’s Path to Alkavare in July 2027, offering a unique opportunity for others to undertake this extraordinary pilgrimage. They also provide essential equipment rental and invaluable advice for independent hikers planning their own expeditions into this remarkable corner of Sweden. For more detailed information on Sarek National Park and the wider Northern Sweden region, visit arcticsweden.com.