Historical background

The First IPY of 1882–1883 was conceived as a response to the growing recognition that the polar regions held the key to understanding global geophysical processes. Building on earlier initiatives in geomagnetism and meteorology, the IPY aimed to replace sporadic and uncoordinated observations with systematic, simultaneous measurements across a network of stations. The programme was endorsed at the International Meteorological Congress and an International Polar Conference in 1879 and coordinated by an international committee chaired by Georg von Neumayer. Eleven nations ultimately participated, establishing twelve primary stations in the Arctic and two in the sub-Antarctic, supplemented by numerous auxiliary sites (for example, Barr, Reference Barr2008; Tammiksaar, Sukhova, & Lüdecke, Reference Tammiksaar, Sukhova, Lüdecke, Barr and Lüdecke2010).

The scientific objectives of the IPY were ambitious (see Barr, Reference Barr2008, Appendix). Observers were instructed to record meteorological variables – temperature, pressure, humidity, wind direction, and speed – alongside magnetic declination, inclination, and intensity, at hourly intervals throughout the year. Special “term days” required even more intensive observations, with readings taken every five minutes for twenty-four hours. These protocols demanded not only precision instruments but also a disciplined routine that tested the endurance of personnel stationed in remote and often inhospitable environments.

Finland’s involvement in this enterprise was both a scientific and a political achievement. As an autonomous Grand Duchy within the Russian Empire, Finland lacked the resources to mount an Arctic expedition comparable to those of Germany or Austria-Hungary. Instead, Finnish scientists proposed a station within the country’s northernmost region, Lapland, which lay within the auroral zone and thus offered unique opportunities for studying geomagnetic and optical phenomena. The proposal, championed by Selim Lemström – professor of physics at the University of Helsinki – and supported by the Finnish Society of Sciences and Letters, received imperial approval in May 1882. Funding was secured through a state allocation enabling the construction of a fully equipped magnetic and meteorological observatory at Sodankylä, with a subsidiary station at Kultala on the Ivalo River (Simojoki, Reference Simojoki1978, pp. 71–74; Fig. 1). In the early 1880s, Sodankylä was a sparsely populated parish village in northern Finland, characterised by its riverine landscape, scattered homesteads, and dense coniferous forests. The built environment consisted primarily of modest wooden dwellings, a stone church completed in 1859, and the parsonage estate at Toivoniemi, which served as a local centre of authority and hospitality.

The Finnish station was part of a broader Scandinavian contribution to the IPY, which included Norwegian and Swedish stations at Bossekop and Spitsbergen. Yet the Sodankylä station was distinctive in several respects. Situated far from maritime supply routes, it required an arduous overland journey of more than 200 kilometres, followed by the installation of scientific instruments to specialised facilities in a sparsely populated region. Moreover, Lemström’s programme extended beyond the standard IPY instructions to include experimental investigations into the electrical nature of the aurora borealis – a subject that had fascinated him since his earlier expeditions in the 1870s. These experiments, involving large-scale “outstreaming apparatus” erected on nearby fells both in Sodankylä and at Kultala, attracted international attention and positioned the Finnish station at the forefront of auroral research.

Despite these achievements, the lived experience of the Sodankylä expedition has remained largely absent from international narratives of the IPY. While the scientific results were extensively reported in technical journals (Lemström & Biese, Reference Lemström and Biese1886; Reference Lemström and Biese1887; Reference Lemström and Biese1898) and thematic publications (Lemström, Reference Lemström1886; Lemström Reference Lemström1899), the detailed accounts of daily life – published in Finnish and Swedish in 1885 – failed to circulate beyond the Nordic scholarly community. The following sections draw on this neglected source to reconstruct the material, social, and intellectual world of the Finnish polar station during the years 1882–1884.

Sources and methodology

The primary sources for this study are the Finnish and Swedish editions of “On the Finnish Research Expedition to Sodankylä and Kultala in 1882–1884, with Sketches from Lapland”. Compiled by members of the Finnish IPY expedition, the book combines technical reports with narrative accounts of travel, station construction and set-up, observational routines, and everyday life in Lapland. It also includes reflections on interactions with local communities, logistical challenges, and the social dynamics of a small scientific team wintering in an unfamiliar environment. The text is supplemented by photographs taken by the expedition photographer, engineer Karl Granit. He primarily captured landscapes, research activities, and scenes of northern life; the new dry plate technology was not yet as adequate – as it was originally planned to – for photographing aurorae. The collection also includes what are likely the oldest surviving photographs of Sámi people taken in Finland.

The volume is structured into thematic chapters authored by different participants (Table 1). This multiplicity of voices provides a nuanced perspective on the expedition, though it also requires careful attention to authorship and context. While the tone is often descriptive, occasionally patriotic, and certainly academic, the accounts contain detailed information on observational practices, instrumentation, and experimental procedures, making them indispensable for reconstructing the lived experience of the station.

Table 1.

The contents of the popular treatise on the Finnish expedition of the first IPY

The volume that offers a comprehensive account of Finland’s participation in the First IPY opens with an introduction framing the expedition as part of a global scientific enterprise aimed at systematic observations of meteorology, magnetism, and auroral phenomena (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885a; Reference Lemström1885b). The section emphasises the ideal of international cooperation and situates the Finnish effort within the broader context of nineteenth-century geophysics.

The following chapter traces the origins of the project, detailing the proposal for a Finnish station, the negotiations for funding, and the logistical challenges of transporting instruments and supplies to remote Lapland (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885c; Reference Lemström1885d). The narrative then shifts to the arduous journey north, describing sea and river travel from Helsinki to Sodankylä, the difficulties posed by low water levels, and the expedition’s first impressions of the region and its inhabitants.

The subsequent chapter focuses on the fine-tuning of the Sodankylä observatory and its specialised spaces for meteorological and magnetic work (Biese, Reference Biese1885a; Reference Biese1885b). The section highlights the technical and environmental obstacles the team faced, from rebuilding poorly constructed instrument piers to coping with stove failures during severe frost. The text then turns to the scientific programme itself, explaining the rigorous schedule of hourly observations, the strain of “term day” intensives, and the strict adherence to Göttingen mean time for synchronisation with other IPY stations. One of the most distinctive parts of this section concerns Selim Lemström’s auroral experiments. It describes spectroscopic studies, parallax measurements, and the dramatic discharge experiments conducted on nearby fells, where arrays of copper wires were erected to test theories of atmospheric electricity. The narrative conveys both the ambition and the physical hardship of these campaigns.

Interwoven with technical detail are vivid and often intimate portrayals of daily life during the expedition (Heinrichs, Reference Heinrichs1885a; Reference Heinrichs1885b; Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a; Reference Petrelius1885b). The accounts describe housing arrangements, meals, and the rhythms of weekly customs such as sauna evenings, festive gatherings, and letter-writing sessions, which provided structure and relief from the isolation of scientific work. These routines helped foster camaraderie among the expedition members and offered moments of levity in an otherwise demanding environment.

The texts also explore interactions with local residents, who occasionally joined in social events. While some were curious about the scientific instruments brought to Sodankylä, others were more reserved, shaped by the strong religious atmosphere of the region. Their religious worldview influenced local attitudes toward the expedition, particularly its social activities, which were sometimes viewed with suspicion or disapproval. Nevertheless, the expedition members found allies and friends among the more open-minded locals, and these relationships added a valuable human dimension to the scientific endeavour.

Later chapters expand the geographical horizon by describing an excursion to the auxiliary observatory at Kultala in Ivalo during the Christmas of 1882 (Granit, Reference Granit1885a; Reference Granit1885b) and some general observations on the living conditions there (Roosa, Reference Roos1885a; Reference Roos1885b). The following chapter focuses on hunting trips, an essential part of local pastime (Dahlström, Reference Dahlström1885a; Reference Dahlström1885b). All these sections offer glimpses of expedition members’ social life as well as ethnographic observations of Lapland’s economy, including reindeer herding and religious life, while simultaneously reflecting on the expedition’s dependence on local knowledge and labour.

After a brief description of the photographs taken during the expedition (Granit, Reference Granit1885c; Reference Granit1885d), the book concludes with a breakdown of the expedition finances and a summary laying out the scientific achievements of the Sodankylä station affirming the significance of Finland’s contribution to the IPY (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885e; Reference Lemström1885f) and with an expression of gratitude to those who supported the venture.

…it has nevertheless been a true source of satisfaction that the journey reached its intended goal. For not only were the observations conducted in a manner that ensures reliable results, but science also gained a new field of inquiry, and one of nature’s most enigmatic phenomena was explained through experimental means. (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885e, p. 170; Reference Lemström1885f, p. 153)

In addition, this article draws on secondary literature on the history of the First IPY, particularly studies addressing its organisational framework, scientific objectives, and international significance. These works provide the comparative context necessary to situate the Finnish station within the broader IPY network. Where relevant, reports concerning Professor Lemström’s experiments are consulted to clarify the reception of Finnish auroral research in the international scientific community. Domestic archival sources, including society minutes and Lemström’s own written justifications for the 1883 funding decision, are also used to illuminate the dynamics behind the station’s continuation. Newspaper articles and written opinions, especially the arduous public correspondence between Professor Lemström and Provost Samuel Porthan (Fig. 2), the original host of the expedition, on the pages of Hufvudstadsbladet – Finland’s most circulated newspaper written in Swedish – have also been used.

Methodologically, the analysis proceeds in three steps. First, the narrative sections of the 1885 volume are examined to extract information on daily routines, social practices, and environmental conditions. Second, these findings are cross-referenced with technical descriptions of observational protocols to assess the interplay between scientific work and material constraints. Finally, the article considers the historiographical trajectory of the Finnish IPY contribution, exploring why these accounts remained marginal in global narratives and what this omission reveals about the linguistic and cultural dynamics of scientific memory. This neglect is also linked to the fact that Finnish scholarship on the subject has focused almost exclusively on the station’s operations, instruments, and observational data (for example, Nevanlinna, Reference Nevanlinna1999; Reference Nevanlinna2017, pp. 117–165), while the study or description of its social and environmental context has perhaps been regarded as of secondary importance.

Arrival and building a working world

The expedition’s “everyday” began well before the first scientific instrument was levelled. After a sea passage to Kemi via Oulu and other towns along the coast of the Bothnian Gulf, the team ascended the Kemijoki River by boat in late July–early August 1882, negotiating sandbars, low water, and constant haggling with boatmen; they reached Sodankylä on 5 August in the evening, with the last leg hampered by delays in securing vessels and by administrative lethargy in the border district (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885c, pp. 31–34; Reference Lemström1885d, pp. 27–29). The immediate priority was turning the four log cabins built under the supervision of Provost Samuel Porthan into a scientific workplace (Fig. 3). Externally the buildings looked “handsome,” but inside, nearly all pillars destined for scientific instruments had to be rebuilt because – from the expedition members’ point of view – the provost had misread drawings and set flimsy brick piers on loosely filled pits instead of solid foundations. Moreover, when hard frosts set in (c. −30°C) in late November 1882, defective brick stoves failed, forcing the team to dismantle carefully aligned instruments and rebuild two heating systems mid‑winter – an arduous interruption that the observers considered an existential threat to the station’s data continuity (Lemström, Reference Lemström1885c, pp. 34–35; Reference Lemström1885d, pp. 29–31).

Figure 3.

Researchers in front of the Sodankylä polar station. Public domain photo by Karl Granit, 1882–1883.

The core observatory comprised four specialised log cabins intentionally free of iron: a “meteorological” room, a Lamont room and a Wild room for magnetic variation instruments, and an “absolute” room for declination, inclination, and intensity determinations. The meteorological room doubled as shelter from cold, blizzards, summer heat, and mosquitoes; it housed barometers, hygrometers, thermometers in an attached louvred screen, and readouts for the roof‑mounted wind vane and anemometer that could be viewed indoors. It also accommodated an electrometer setup, two galvanometers for earth currents, a chronograph connected by line to a small astronomical hut, and the long‑focus sighting tubes used to read magnetic scales at a distance (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 50–51; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 42–43).

The Lamont and Wild rooms were named after two leading figures in 19th-century geophysics: Scottish-German astronomer Johann von Lamont (1805–1879), director of the Munich Observatory and designer of widely used magnetic instruments, and Heinrich Wild (1833–1902), a Swiss meteorologist and instrument maker, who also served as director of the Central Observatory in St. Petersburg (1868–1895) and was among the key advocates for organising the First IPY. These names reflected the station’s alignment with international standards and its aspiration to situate Finnish research within the global scientific community.

In them, the team installed parallel instrument chains so that one system could serve as a check on the other and ensure continuity if a device failed. The absolute room included a theodolite and inclinometer on separate piers, a north window for sighting to a distant mark, and a roof light. Outside, a levelled observation platform north of the buildings held a theodolite for auroral triangulation and a sturdy bench for spectroscope work. Two buried platinum ground plates – one to the north and one to the east – were connected to similarly buried plates at the station by insulated wires running roughly 5 km in each direction; these ground circuits fed the galvanometers tracking earth currents and could be repurposed as telephone lines to synchronise auroral height measurements between separated observers (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 51–53; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 43–45).

Temporal regimes and observational routines

Time discipline constituted the backbone of daily life (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 53–56; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 45–48). Observers followed the Göttingen mean time standard, aimed to enable strict simultaneity with other IPY stations. The regular programme required hourly observations around the clock of meteorological variables and magnetic elements; on “term days” – the 1st and 15th of each month – they added 5‑minute readings for 24 hours, with an intensified 20‑second series during a designated hour.

Even outside term days, the cumulative cadence was formidable: a typical 24‑hour cycle yielded 743 readings, while a term day generated 4175 individual observations across meteorology, magnetism, electrometry, earth currents, and auroral registers. As the initial 6‑hour shift system (midnight/noon and 6 o’clock turnovers) proved impractical, because it forced double night duty, the team adopted a new rotation: a 9‑hour night shift (21:00–06:00), followed by 6‑hour morning and day shifts, and a 3‑hour evening shift. Six observers worked in two squads alternating half‑weeks; within a shift, each person rotated through stations every two hours (meteorology → earth currents → magnetism). On term days, three observers worked almost continuously for 6‑hour blocks to maintain the 5‑minute cadence. Night work was the hardest – auroral observations, lamp‑lit instrument checks outdoors, and meticulous timing amplified fatigue – yet the routine normalised the extraordinary. During long night watches, when aurora failed to appear, observers improvised ways to fight fatigue:

Material conditions permeated practice. Winter imposed a choreography of layered clothing, lamp management, frost protection for optics, and careful movement between rooms to avoid perturbing magnetic setups. The meteorological room’s dual role as shelter and control room mattered: it concentrated timekeeping, wind‑readouts, electrometer and galvanometer displays, and communications, minimising exposure while maximising coordination. When stove failures forced instrument teardown in deep frost, the team re‑established levels, zeros, and sight lines and inserted cross‑checks between the Lamont and Wild systems to verify continuity. Such episodes highlight how data quality emerged from maintenance labour, not merely from reading scales (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 54–56; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 46–49).

The station’s connectivity combined international standards with local improvisation – ground circuits doubled as local telephone lines for auroral parallax campaigns, and a chronograph linked to the astronomical hut supported timekeeping and position checks. The team relied on local expertise for heavy outdoor work – digging trenches, setting posts, hauling materials – with Sodankylä men such as Matti Kaapela and Olli Pokkala regularly assisting. Earlier frictions with boatmen and district officials during the approach voyage gave way on site – with one important exception to be discussed in detail below – to durable working relationships essential for routine and emergency tasks.

Within the hourly grind, auroral campaigns punctuated life. Spectroscopic monitoring often revealed the characteristic green line even when no aurora was visible to the naked eye, sometimes only in specific azimuths – suggesting localised atmospheric discharge over nearby fells. The team pursued auroral parallax with paired theodolites on separated baselines synchronised by telephone. These episodes demanded long, exposed shifts in high wind and rime, continuous instrument checks, and iterative repairs – folded into the same labour calendar that governed the hour‑by‑hour routines back at the station (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 57–61; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 48–51).

Everyday functions were dependent on role specialisation aligned to instruments and competence. The meteorological suite, electrometer, and earth‑current circuits had named custodians; the absolute magnetic determinations were conducted first by Lemström and then by Biese; astronomical timing and chronometric reductions fell to Petrelius. Yet the narrative emphasises collective responsibility: observers routinely covered one another’s stations, performed minor repairs, and fabricated ad‑hoc fittings when materials ran short. This fluidity sustained the schedule through illness, weather disruptions, and the acute winter stove crisis (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 55–56; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 47–48).

Auroral experiments

While the Sodankylä station adhered to the standardised IPY programme of meteorological and magnetic observations, its most distinctive contribution lay in experimental research on the aurora borealis (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, pp. 57–71; Reference Biese1885b, pp. 48–62). These investigations, conceived and directed by Selim Lemström both at Sodankylä and at Kultala station in Ivalo, sought to test the hypothesis that auroral light was an electrical discharge phenomenon occurring in the upper atmosphere – a view that had gained traction in the wake of laboratory experiments with rarefied gases and high-voltage sparks.

Routine auroral monitoring was integrated into the station’s daily schedule. Observers employed a direct-vision spectroscope to record the characteristic green emission line at 557.7 nm – though its origin remained elusive and contested (Amery, Reference Amery2024, pp. 5, 26–27) – often visible even when the aurora was too faint for the naked eye. This practice underscored the instrumental mediation of perception: the aurora could “exist” spectroscopically before it appeared visually. In addition, the team conducted occasional but systematic parallax measurements to estimate auroral heights. These required simultaneous observations from two points several kilometres apart, synchronised by telephone – a striking example of how new communication technologies were mobilised for geophysical research in the field. It is worth mentioning in this context that Finland’s first telephone line had been installed in Helsinki only in late 1877, and the country’s first telephone exchange had begun operating in the capital in 1882.

The most ambitious air‑to‑ground discharge experiments took place on Oratunturi and Pietarintunturi, where the team erected a large outstreaming apparatus (“virtailukone”): an array of sharp copper wires mounted on poles and connected by an insulated line to a galvanometer and ground plate immersed in a spring nearby. The apparatus covered an area of roughly 900 m² and was designed to facilitate electrical exchange between the atmosphere and the Earth. Observers reported that when in operation, the summit was enveloped in a pale, flickering glow, and galvanometer readings indicated a positive current flowing from air to ground. On one occasion, a luminous ray approximately 400 feet high was seen above the installation (Fig. 4) – a phenomenon that Lemström interpreted as experimental confirmation of his theory.

Figure 4.

An auroral experiment on the Kommattivaara Hill on 12 November 1883. Courtesy of Finnish heritage agency: Ref: HK19501007:575.

Chores, leisure, and local encounters

Life at the Sodankylä station was not confined to the precision of instruments and the rigour of hourly observations. The team faced a constant stream of practical chores essential for survival and station upkeep. Logistical operations were especially physically demanding and required coordination with local expertise. For example, reindeer transport was indispensable for moving heavy instruments across frozen terrain to Kultala in December 1883 – a vivid reminder that the scientific enterprise depended on indigenous technologies and skills. As Roos (Reference Roos1885a, p. 137; Reference Roos1885b, p. 123) notes in his account:

Despite the relentless schedule of observations, the expedition members carved out spaces for leisure and sociability. Evenings often featured reading, letter writing, and music, while more organised entertainments took the form of social evenings (“iltamat”) with recitations and songs.

The Finnish polar expedition indeed made several attempts to establish social contact with the local population during its stay in Sodankylä. Early efforts included hosting a coffee gathering at the station for local gentry and their families, but this initiative largely failed: while some farmers attended, most of the local elite stayed away. The expedition members attributed this to the influence of strict Laestadian religious attitudes, which regarded such gatherings as worldly and inappropriate. This experience convinced the scientists that meaningful interaction with the local upper class would be difficult, if not impossible (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, pp. 83–84; Reference Petrelius1885b, pp. 72–73).

Undeterred, the expedition shifted its focus toward the rural population and especially the youth. A notable success was an evening event at the Anneberg house (Fig. 5), where villagers were invited to dance and socialise. The hall was decorated for the occasion, and a local orchestra of fiddlers and accordion players provided music. Although the evening began stiffly, conversation soon flowed over coffee, and dancing followed – despite occasional chaos when musicians competed to outplay one another. The event ended on a cheerful note, leaving the scientists optimistic about future gatherings and cultural exchange (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, pp. 85–86; Reference Petrelius1885b, pp. 74–75):

Figure 5.

Anneberg house in winter with some members of the expedition. Public domain photo by Karl Granit, 1882–1883.

Later, the expedition organised a series of popular science lectures in Anneberg’s main room, with the support of its well-read host, a parish official and itinerant teacher. These talks covered natural science topics, often illustrated with experiments, as well as religious, social, and historical themes. Attendance was generally high, and the audience followed the presentations with keen interest. However, the lectures also provoked resistance from conservative circles, who viewed them as subversive to local traditions (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, pp. 97–98; Reference Petrelius1885b, p. 86). Despite such opposition, these initiatives reveal the expedition’s sustained efforts to bridge cultural divides and promote education in a remote northern community.

Mail and newspapers also provided welcome relief from the monotony of daily life. Alongside eagerly awaited letters from family and friends, the expedition received a variety of newspapers – two generously supplied free of charge by the editorial offices of Helsingfors Dagblad and Kaiku, whose support was deeply appreciated. In total, the group had access to around ten domestic and two foreign newspapers, as well as five international scientific journals, allowing them to stay informed about developments in the wider world. Although mail delivery to Sodankylä initially took several weeks, a new postal station with direct and faster connection to Rovaniemi was established to serve the needs of the polar expedition (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, pp. 82–83; Reference Petrelius1885b, pp. 71–72).

In all, initial expectations of total isolation had proved unfounded. The expedition members had imagined (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, p. 74; Reference Petrelius1885b, p. 64) a “miserable Lapp village” of “sooty huts and small, dirty, squint-eyed inhabitants,” but reality overturned these stereotypes: “We were thoroughly mistaken, as we saw at once when approaching the parish village. Of Lapps there was no sign; our three boatmen looked no more like Lapps than we did, with their pleasant faces and strong limbs.” Local men such as Pokka Olli and Hannu Karppinen became indispensable collaborators, assisting with hauling, construction, and reindeer transport. Social interaction extended beyond work: villagers visited the station, marvelling at its instruments. The telephone and the telephone line connecting the polar station to the Anneberg house, where some observers were lodging, were a particular source of wonder:

Housing and (in)hospitality

Upon arrival in Sodankylä, the expedition members were accommodated in several households (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, pp. 78–79; Reference Petrelius1885b, p. 68), reflecting both the limited infrastructure of the parish and the social networks that underpinned the station’s establishment. Professor Selim Lemström, the expedition leader, lodged in the home of forest inspector Moberg – a long-standing acquaintance from Lemström’s earlier Lapland journey in 1871. Ernst Biese and Alfred Petrelius, who bore primary responsibility for the station’s operations, were housed in the parsonage, where they occupied a spacious hall – also used as the expedition’s administrative office – and an adjoining room furnished with simple furniture. Other members, including Blom, Dahlström, Granit, and Sundman, were quartered across the River Kitinen in the Anneberg house (Fig. 5). This arrangement required daily crossings for meals and meetings, adding a small but regular rhythm to the expedition’s social geography.

Yet, while the relationship between the expedition members and their local host or proxy, Provost Samuel Porthan, had begun in an atmosphere of apparent cordiality, it ended in acrimony. For the Polar Year of 1882–1883, the parsonage provided essential support: meals, office space, and lodging for some participants. However, the parsonage did not turn out to be a social hub that would have mitigated some of the strains resulting from the arduous work due to the dispute between Professor Lemström and Provost Porthan. This animosity arose from the construction of log cabins for the Finnish Polar Expedition in Sodankylä. Lemström accused Porthan of mismanagement, unnecessary expenses, and poor workmanship, citing inflated costs and structural flaws such as cracked ovens and misplaced pillars. He suggested that Porthan’s lack of experience had caused financial losses to the expedition and even demanded a repayment of 1800 Finnish marks (c. 10,000 euros in today’s value). Lemström also criticised deviations from the original plans and implied dishonesty in material usage.

Porthan firmly rejected these accusations, arguing that the work was done under extraordinary conditions, during the spring thaw, and without any contractual liability on his part. He claimed that changes in design and material restrictions came from Lemström himself, including the ban on iron-containing stone, which forced the use of inferior bricks. Porthan emphasised that his accounts were transparent and that many alleged “unnecessary works” were essential for durability. He portrayed Lemström as quarrelsome and disrespectful, contrasting this with his own patience, and concluded that the real cause of the problems lay in Lemström’s constant alterations and unrealistic expectations.

In late 1884, the dispute spilled into the public sphere in newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet as – sparked by Professor Lemström’s critical reply (n:o 129A) to an anonymous report (n:o 127B) concerning his behaviour as the expedition leader in Sodankylä – Porthan launched a series of six polemical opinion pieces (n:os 164, 166, 213B, 215B, 223B & 272B), responding among the other things to Lemström’s sharp criticism of construction defects. Lemström, joined by Biese and Petrelius, countered in kind (n:os 220, 277), turning what had begun as a technical disagreement into a heated exchange of personal and professional reproaches. The rhetoric and the tone in these writings suggest a conflict that exceeded mere contractual obligations. At stake were questions of responsibility, reputation, and authority: who controlled the narrative of the station’s success, and who bore the blame for its shortcomings?

Once the scientific programme concluded, even the presence of the station’s material remains on parsonage land became a source of tension. In his financial report to the Finnish Society of Sciences, Lemström (Reference Lemström1887, p. XX) noted that while he had been forced to sell the observatory buildings on auction below cost, Porthan also demanded the removal of their stone and gravel foundations, arguing that the structures stood “within the parsonage’s field, close to a strip of arable land.” This insistence was framed as a practical necessity for restoring the land to cultivation, but for Porthan, the station’s dismantling may have represented a necessary symbolic act of closure – an attempt to reclaim parsonage land and restore social order by erasing the physical imprint of a metropolitan project that had disrupted local routines.

Afterlife and rediscovery

While the expedition was evidently a success from the point of scientific data production, the mythologisation of its achievements began in the public front almost immediately with the release of “On the Finnish Research Expedition to Sodankylä and Kultala in 1882–1884, with Sketches from Lapland”. A similar aura of mythologisation is also evidently present in the drawing of the Sodankylä polar station that was published on the pages of the 1894 book “Finland in the Nineteenth Century: by Finnish Authors, Illustrated by Finnish Artists” (Fig. 6; Mechelin, Reference Mechelin1894, p. 198) – a richly illustrated cultural and political portrait aimed to make Finland known as a state in its own right for an international audience and edited by Senator Leo Mechelin – Professor Lemström’s brother-in-law.

Figure 6.

Louis Sparre’s illustration of the Sodankylä polar station was deliberately tweaked to evoke a more Arctic atmosphere. Public domain: Mechelin, Reference Mechelin1894, p. 198.

Based on a photograph taken by Karl Granit in August 1882 (Fig. 1), the drawing was deliberately altered by artist Louis Sparre to evoke a more Arctic atmosphere. While the original photo shows bare ground and no snow, the drawing adds snow-covered roofs, a snowy landscape, and smoke rising from a chimney – all visual cues that reinforce the harshness and remoteness typically associated with polar exploration. This artistic enhancement aligned the image with public expectations of what a polar research station should look like, especially for audiences unfamiliar with actual conditions in Lapland. By emphasising cold and isolation, the drawing transforms a mundane scene into a symbolic representation of scientific heroism in the Arctic.

From today’s perspective, this drawing, as well as the written accounts described above, are veiled in a sympathetic, almost Kalevala-like spirit as “masculine feats accomplished in the wilderness” (Pihlaja, Reference Pihlaja, Ilmolahti and Selin2017, pp. 29–30). This rhetorical tone of triumph and conquest has endured in the case of the Finnish polar expedition with little critical scrutiny to this day. A telling example can be found in Lemström’s biography in which Seppinen (Reference Seppinen2006, pp. 80–81) asserts:

The erasure of the German mechanic Luther, who initially assisted the expedition in Sodankylä, is a prime example of how such “hallmarks of Finnishness” were achieved. His contribution to the success of the expedition was not only virtually omitted from contemporary accounts but also from later descriptions of the Sodankylä polar station. The written treatise mentions plainly that “… room was, in the early days, also used as a workshop by the machinist who had accompanied the expedition” (Biese, Reference Biese1885a, p. 51; Reference Biese1885b, p. 43). Luther is mentioned by name only in Lemström’s financial report (Reference Lemström1887, p. XXII), which notes that the costs of his journey to Sodankylä, as well as his accommodation, were covered by expedition funds. Similarly, Luther’s name is absent from later reference works listing the members of the Finnish Polar Expedition (see Nevanlinna & Holmberg, Reference Nevanlinna and Holmberg2013, pp. 91–92; Nevanlinna, Reference Nevanlinna2017, pp. 32–33), while others, such as Hjalmar Biese and Ivar Eurén, who also worked at the station only briefly, are mentioned by name.

Similarly overlooked is Professor Lemström’s wife Alma, who joined his husband at Sodankylä and Kultala together with their daughter Sigrid for 3.5 months in the winter of 1883–1884. Alma’s presence brought a sense of domesticity to an otherwise austere environment, but her role extended beyond household duties. It is noted that she actively participated in the observational programme, assisting with meteorological and magnetic readings (Biese,Reference Biese1885a, p. 71; Reference Biese1885b, p. 62; Lemström, Reference Lemström1887, p. XXVI; see also Pihlaja, Reference Pihlaja, Ilmolahti and Selin2017, pp. 27–29). This contribution underscores the often-overlooked involvement of women in nineteenth-century scientific fieldwork, particularly in remote settings where the boundaries between professional and domestic spheres were porous. Alma’s engagement exemplifies how family networks could become integral to sustaining the routines of scientific expeditions in extreme environments.

The activities and scientific observations of the polar expedition in Sodankylä have been described and analysed on several occasions afterwards (for example, Nevanlinna, Reference Nevanlinna2017; Reference Nevanlinna2021, pp. 96–102; Simojoki, Reference Simojoki1978, pp. 51–58; Seppinen, Reference Seppinen2006, pp. 70–96), and brief biographies of its participants have been published (Nevanlinna & Holmberg Reference Nevanlinna and Holmberg2013, pp. 91–92; Nevanlinna Reference Nevanlinna2017, pp. 32–33). Given the substantial financial investment – it was, in fact, the most expensive scientific research project in 19th-century Finland (Nevanlinna, Reference Nevanlinna2021, pp. 14, 99) – national assessments of its legacy have often rested on the notion that the Sodankylä expedition of 1882–1884 “placed Finnish science on the world map” (for example, Seppinen, Reference Seppinen2006, pp. 73–77).

In international evaluations of the First Polar Year’s achievements, however, the Finnish expedition receives little attention beyond the delayed publication of its magnetic observations (see Elzinga, Reference Elzinga, Barr and Lüdecke2010, 120). The importance of the two-year magnetic dataset has been justified with the claim that “Polar Year observations are still being studied in part today” (Nevanlinna & Holmberg, Reference Nevanlinna and Holmberg2013, p. 92), yet in practice, nearly all such studies have been conducted by scholars making that assertion. But in one sense, statements concerning the importance of the project are very true: not only were Professor Lemström’s auroral experiments widely reported in the scientific press of the time (for example, Capron, Reference Capron1883; Saporta, Reference Saporta1884) but they also attracted the attention of European scientific circles, where critics such as Sophus Tromholt, who visited the Sodankylä polar station in person in early April 1883 (Tromholt, Reference Tromholt1885, pp. 166–175, see also Moss & Stauning, Reference Moss and Stauning2012, pp. 64–65), doubted whether they were truly aurorae (Amery, Reference Amery2024, pp. 27–30).

Although later research would indeed reject aspects of Lemström’s interpretation, his work anticipated key themes in auroral physics (for example, Amery, Reference Amery2024): the role of atmospheric electricity, the importance of high-altitude discharges, and the experimental reproduction of natural phenomena. These experiments also occupied a transitional position between the observational empiricism of the mid-nineteenth century and the laboratory-based plasma physics of the early twentieth century. The fells of Lapland became open-air laboratories where instruments, wires, and human bodies were enlisted to reproduce the aurora to scale in its natural environment, illustrating the permeability of boundaries between “field” and “laboratory” (Amery, Reference Amery2024, pp. 4–5, 15–16, 31–32). The experiments also demonstrate how peripheral sites could generate epistemic authority: despite remote locations and modest resources, the stations at Sodankylä and Kultala contributed to an international debate on one of the most enigmatic phenomena of the natural world.

But, if taken with a grain of salt, the entire Finnish polar expedition can also be viewed as a vehicle for Professor Lemström to resume his auroral experiments in the north under the cover of substantial research funding. By modern standards, the acquisition, allocation, and reporting of funds for the two observation years would have raised more than a few eyebrows. In the first year, the final decision whether to grant funding rested effectively with the Deputy Director of the Finance Department of the Senate, Senator Leo Mechelin, who – as indicated above – was applicant’s own brother-in-law. For the second year, an extraordinary meeting of the Finnish Society of Sciences (Lemström, Reference Lemström1884), was convened on 22 May 1883 at Lemström’s initiative. Lemström justified the urgency by the need to obtain government approval before the polar station ceased operations in September. Although the matter had not been prepared according to normal procedure and the continuation of funding was openly questioned during the very meeting (Simojoki, Reference Simojoki1978, p. 56), the approval of the necessary extension and additional funds was secured.

The Finnish polar expedition also faced significant scrutiny from the Imperial Senate regarding its fiscal management. Budget overruns, undocumented expenses, and unauthorised asset sales prompted a formal request for clarification. Lemström personally contributed to the detailed response (Lemström, Reference Lemström1887), explaining that the expedition’s compressed preparation time, harsh conditions, and logistical complexity made full documentation impractical. Buildings and equipment were sold below cost to avoid maintenance expenses, and receipts were often unavailable due to remote travel and illiteracy among local service providers. Lemström also emphasised the personal sacrifices he had made to ensure project’s scientific success.

The local afterlife of the station’s brief existence also warrants attention, for the prevailing image relies on a narrative constructed from the metropolitan perspective – one that emphasises the wonder inspired among locals by “Tähtelä” (‘place of stars’) and its “tähtiherrat” (‘star gentlemen’). Because many instruments required light from above, some station buildings had windows in their roofs, and locals assumed this was related to astronomical observations (Petrelius, Reference Petrelius1885a, p. 75; Reference Petrelius1885b, p. 65). Yet, the memory of the station may not have endured for long. For instance, G.W. Forsström, who began a 35-year tenure as district forester in Sodankylä in 1891, makes no mention of the station or its activities in his memoirs. This omission is striking given that Forsström personally met Alfred Petrelius in 1913 during the final inspection and opening ceremonies of the new Sodankylä Geophysical Observatory (Forsström Reference Forsström, Kirri and Kirri1985 [Reference Forsström, Kirri and Kirri1926], pp. 115–116), an occasion that would have provided ample reason to recall the earlier enterprise.

A recent study (Ikäheimo, Reference Ikäheimo2025) has clarified the location of the Finnish polar station in Sodankylä, whose precise physical placement had been forgotten despite extensive documentation of its operations. Contemporary accounts by expedition members consistently describe the station as located “between the church and the parsonage, slightly off to the side” (Heinrichs, Reference Heinrichs1885a, p. 109; Reference Heinrichs1885b, pp. 98–99; Petrelius Reference Petrelius1885a, p. 75; Reference Petrelius1885b, p. 65). These spatial relationships were corroborated with multi-source analysis combining astronomical coordinates, written descriptions, historical maps, photographs, airborne laser scanning data, and topographic evidence. A decisive piece of evidence emerged from the Finnish National Archives: a cadastral map from 1891 explicitly marking the site as “ruins of the astronomical station,” located precisely within the area delineated by other sources. While the site today hosts a daycare facility and no visible traces remain, the convergence of archival and geospatial evidence restores the material coordinates of Finland’s first polar station and anchors its legacy in the landscape of Sodankylä anew.

Analysis

The Sodankylä station emerges, in the 1885 accounts, as an “everyday laboratory” where observation was inseparable from the infrastructures that sustained it. What appears, at first glance, as routine – hourly instrument readings and checks as well as “term day” intensives – was in practice an assemblage of cabins, bodies, materials, and timings calibrated to translate standardised IPY protocols liveable in Lapland. The result accords with a now classic insight from the history and sociology of science: facts are made durable when material arrangements, instruments, and social order are made to cohere (Latour & Woolgar, Reference Latour and Woolgar1986 [Reference Latour and Woolgar1979], pp. 65–66, 86–88; Shapin & Schaffer, Reference Shapin and Schaffer1985, pp. 25–26, 69). In Sodankylä, that coherence was achieved through specific design choices – iron‑free rooms, duplicated variation chains, externally sighted scales to minimise disruptive movement – alongside labour‑intensive maintenance and repair. Far from being ancillary, this maintenance labour underwrote the credibility and continuity of the record.

The IPY template prescribed simultaneity, uniformity, and comparability across sites. Sodankylä translated those universal demands into local practice by hard‑wiring time discipline (Göttingen mean time) and devising shift systems that balanced fatigue against coverage. In this sense, the “protocol” was not merely a paper schedule but a social technology: it organised sleeping, eating, and attention, distributed competencies across observers, and synchronised local rhythms with an international grid (Chambers & Gillespie, Reference Chambers and Gillespie2000, p. 230–231, 239; Renn, Reference Renn, Arabatzis, Renn and Simões2012). At the same time, Professor Lemström’s auroral work illustrates how the extraordinary was domesticated: experimental campaigns were absorbed into the same temporal and spatial regimes that governed barometer taps and declination swings.

Sodankylä’s knowledge infrastructure combined advanced and vernacular technologies. The telephone – still a novelty in Finland in 1882 – was folded into auroral parallax campaigns and timekeeping, while telluric‑current lines doubled as ad‑hoc telecoms. At the same time, reindeer haulage, local guides, and trench‑digging labour made the functions of the station possible. Such hybrids illustrate how “how knowledge moves” depends on sociotechnical systems that are at once global and provincial, engineered and improvised (Arapostathis & Laborie, Reference Arapostathis and Laborie2020; Krige, Reference Krige and Kriege2019). Even photography functioned as both documentation and mediation, prefiguring the visual regimes now associated with the IPY’s transnational publicity (Barr & Bulkeley, Reference Barr, Bulkeley, Barr and Lüdecke2010; Fjellestad, Reference Fjellestad2022).

The glimpses of chores, leisure, and local interaction complicate the image of the IPY station as a purely scientific enclave, as the expedition’s success depended not only on instruments and protocols, but also on networks of trust, hospitality, and reciprocity. The Sodankylä team’s daily life oscillated between the precision of global science and the improvisation of frontier existence. Their routines were sustained not only by discipline and instruments but also by tea boiled in the night, songs rehearsed for evening gatherings, and the strength of reindeer hauling sledges through Arctic forests. In this sense, the station was as much a social institution as a scientific one, its rhythms shaped by both global schedules and local customs.

The Lemström–Porthan conflict – over design, workmanship, costs, and authority – reveals both the interdependence and the fragility of alliances between metropolitan science and local power. What began as a pragmatic arrangement regarding parsonage land, provisioning, and lodging unravelled into a public dispute in the pages of Hufvudstadsbladet, with mutual accusations of incompetence, waste, and misrepresentation. Add to this the political economy of funding brokered in part through familial and elite networks, and one sees clearly how grand‑challenge science is inseparable from governance, patronage, and legitimacy (Arapostathis & Laborie, Reference Arapostathis and Laborie2020; Krige, Reference Krige and Kriege2019). Even the station’s dismantling and the demand to remove foundations signal how research leaves material residues that must be domesticated or erased when projects end (see also Barr & Bulkeley, Reference Barr, Bulkeley, Barr and Lüdecke2010; Forsström, Reference Forsström, Kirri and Kirri1985 [Reference Forsström, Kirri and Kirri1926]).

The afterlife of the Sodankylä polar station is also a story of representational labour. Louis Sparre’s snow‑laden reworking of Granit’s late summer photograph for Finland in the Nineteenth Century reshaped the observatory into an emblem of Arctic hardship and national prowess, aligning the image with expectations of “polar” heroism. Later treatises have amplified this optic, crediting the expedition with placing Finnish science “on the world map.” Yet, the distinctiveness of Sodankylä polar station as a First IPY observatory lies in its intimate embedding in a parish social world – it was a different kind of variant: less a fortress in the ice than a negotiated enclave in a lived boreal forest landscape. It is precisely the sort of microhistory that complicates neat macro‑narratives of the First IPY and restores the social and material thickness of geophysical knowledge in the making (see Chambers & Gillespie, Reference Chambers and Gillespie2000, p. 239; Renn, Reference Renn, Arabatzis, Renn and Simões2012).