Tromsø sits at almost 70 degrees north on an island in Arctic Norway, directly under the auroral oval. That is the ring around the magnetic pole where the lights are almost always happening, so the odds here are not really about the sun. They are about cloud. Guides drive out of the city glow into the dark valleys and islands around it, Kvaløya and Ringvassøya. A good one keeps moving for hours to find you the one patch of sky that stays open. Some nights the wait is on snowshoes, flat on your back on a frozen lake with nothing to crop the view. When it comes, the green is oxygen struck about a hundred kilometres up; the rarer deep reds are the same gas higher and thinner, and nitrogen lower down fringes the curtains violet. The colour is a map of altitude.
The Sámi of this north took the lights for living spirits, and held that whistling or waving could make them notice you and come down. The rest of the winter is built around the same dark. You take the reins behind a husky team across a snow-filled valley with almost no sound but paws and the hiss of the runners; in midwinter that run happens in full darkness. The Fjellheisen cable car climbs to the Storsteinen ledge, where the city's lights spread across the dark fjord and the aurora can come up over the rooftops. Across the bridge the Arctic Cathedral has been the city's silhouette since 1965, a white triangle that lights from inside after dark. From November into January orcas and humpbacks crowd the fjords north of the city to feed on wintering herring, met by boats out of Skjervøy. From late November to mid-January the sun does not rise here at all. Nobody is waiting for darkness; the driving is for a gap in the cloud.