Paul-Anton Loss

Paul-Anton Loss hadn't spoken to a single human being in nearly twelve days. He was nineteen years old, alone in the heart of the Swedish mountains, and his backpack felt heavier with every step. But his feet kept moving forward. There was no alternative: Ritsem was a week away in one direction, Kvikkjokk a week in the other. "Even if things are bad, there's no way out," as he put it. "You have to put on your shoes. You have to walk the path. You have to keep going."

It was the summer of 2018, and Paul-Anton was hiking Gröna Bandet: the long trail running the entire length of the Swedish mountain range. Three months in the wilderness. He was the youngest person to set out on that journey that year, barely of legal age, with a newly purchased Hilleberg tent and far too many Snickers bars as his only food plan. But he was there, and that was all that mattered.

The backstory of why he was standing there, alone in Sarek, reached all the way back to his childhood on the outskirts of Berlin. He grew up with the forest as his nearest neighbor. He could name plants, birds, and insects before he could barely walk. His parents enrolled him in a forest preschool; he spent three years outdoors, winter and summer, nearly all day long. It shaped him deeply.

But what truly changed everything happened when he was sixteen. He was diagnosed with Crohn's disease and ended up in the hospital, seriously ill after a mishandled treatment. "I nearly watched myself die," he said. "So I thought, why not start doing what I love." That was the starting gun. First Kungsleden: four weeks, 400 kilometers, eighteen years old. There he met an older hiker named Michael who recommended Gröna Bandet as the next step. Six months later, the planning began. A week after graduating, he set off.

Those three months on Gröna Bandet taught him things no classroom ever could. He understood how little a person actually needs to be happy. "Happiness for me doesn't come from buying something nice," he said. "Happiness comes when I'm just out there." He learned to analyze risks (real risks, not exam results) and to handle the days when everything felt hopeless by reminding himself that he'd already made it through hard days before. "Maybe this day is bad, but in a way, this day will be in the past. And there will be a better day."

And then, at Ritsem, after twelve silent days in Sarek, he met Paolo. It was Paolo's birthday (his 23rd or 24th), and they sat by Akkajaure under the northern lights with a couple of bottles of whisky, talking. That evening laid the foundation for a friendship that would follow Paul-Anton for years to come.

Today, at twenty-five, Paul-Anton lives by the philosophy that Gröna Bandet cemented in him. He guides groups as a field biologist, combining his passion for nature with his knowledge of species and ecosystems. He owns so little that everything fits in three bags. His Hilleberg tent has carried him through over 800 nights. His advice to anyone dreaming of doing something similar is stripped-down and straight:

Buy the best gear you can afford; buy cheap and you'll buy twice. Have a plan, but don't plan every detail; nature doesn't care about your schedule. Keep your living costs low so you need less money for freedom. Don't try to force self-discovery; it comes on its own as a byproduct of moving through the landscape.

And above all: "The hardest part is deciding. If you decide and come to the conclusion that this is super important to you, you'll find a way."

Paul-Anton found his. It started in a forest outside Berlin, passed through a hospital room, over Kungsleden, and onward along the entire Gröna Bandet. Now it points toward Mongolia and Greenland. But it never would have begun if he hadn't one day decided to take that first step and then just kept walking.