Akpatok Island

Forget the mundane golden-hour snapshots everyone flaunts on Instagram-here at Akpatok Island's Midnight Sun Photography Tour, you swap sunset cliches for the surreal twilight zone, where the sun stubbornly loiters like an overstimulated toddler refusing bedtime. Imagine yourself standing on a stark, windswept cliff along northern shores, camera gripped in numb fingers, at an unholy hour that's actually midday-bright, capturing seabird colonies dive-bombing the ice-gray waters against an eerily glowing Arctic sky. Whether your photography skills rival Ansel Adams or barely surpass your Aunt Edna's blurry Thanksgiving snaps, the relentless glow ensures you'll leave with at least a few jaw-dropping shots. Visit from late May through July, plan at least a month ahead (the Arctic doesn't exactly thrive on last-minute spontaneity), and budget generously-expect around $500-$700 for a guided experience. Pack layers, coffee, extra camera batteries, and a cynical sense of humor to navigate sleepless wonder. Sure, your circadian rhythm might never forgive you, but trust me, the bragging rights alone-casually dropping "when I shot this at midnight in the Arctic sun" into conversation-make the bizarre insomnia entirely worth it.

There's something delightfully absurd and faintly alarming about willingly venturing into the icy wilds of the Eastern Shore in search of polar bears-creatures whose main hobby, lest we forget, is stalking seals and occasionally sizing up tourists as appetizers. Guided tours here are your ticket into this fierce yet oddly endearing kingdom, offering front-row seats to a surreal wildlife documentary unfolding live. Aim for early morning-these bears are ironically similar to weary commuters: most active just after dawn, growling softly into the cold air as if griping about rush hour traffic. Book at least a month ahead, lest you find yourself stuck on shore, nursing a thermos of rapidly-cooling coffee while others gleefully snap award-winning nature shots. Budget generously ($300-$500 per person), bring binoculars and hand-warmers, and for heaven's sake, wear layers-hypothermia is far less funny than it sounds. Sure, there's an inherent risk in hanging out with predators at the top of their food chain, but there's an undeniable beauty in standing mere yards away from a magnificent, fluffy killing machine. Even if you don't come back with photographic proof (or all your fingers), you'll return with a damn fine story-one involving majestic beasts, frozen tundras, and perhaps a lifelong mistrust of Coca-Cola commercials.

Camping under Arctic skies in the Central Plains is one of those gloriously eccentric experiences where the romance of wilderness collides abruptly with your body's outraged insistence that nighttime should really involve darkness. Forget the tidy rules of sunrise and sunset, for here you'll find yourself cheerfully baffled beneath an endless sun, a celestial anomaly first described by awestruck Norse explorers convinced the gods were playing tricks on them. Aim to set up camp around late evening-though the term quickly loses meaning-and book your gear a couple weeks ahead, allowing plenty of time to source eye masks, industrial-strength bug spray, and a good whiskey flask to toast your internal clock's bewilderment. Budget-wise, expect to shell out around $100-200 on gear rental and supplies, comfortably cheaper than therapy sessions you'll need after wrestling your tent stakes into the permafrost. Sure, your circadian rhythm will mutter confused curses at you, and your breakfast might suspiciously taste like midnight snacks, but there's something thrillingly rebellious in defying nightfall itself. Besides, how often can you casually drop, "Oh, the last time I pulled an all-nighter beneath the Arctic sun..." into conversation?

Tundra berry foraging-admittedly not the sexiest phrase ever uttered-but hear me out, this is the rugged culinary treasure hunt you didn't know you needed. Picture yourself wandering around Southern Plateau, hunched over in a landscape that looks suspiciously like Mother Nature's fridge emptied onto a shag carpet: mossy patches, twisted bushes, and oddly resilient, psychedelic-colored berries clinging stubbornly to their stems. Go early, preferably just after dawn, when frost still clings like powdered sugar to berries with names you can barely pronounce-cloudberries, crowberries, lingonberries-each tiny fruit packing enough Vitamin C to prevent scurvy and tasting surprisingly like a tart-sweet homage to Vikings and polar explorers who braved harsher winds than your insulated jacket ever will. Plan ahead a few days, find a local guide-trust me, it's easy to mistake edible berries for ones that send you running to the nearest bush for other reasons-and bring sturdy boots, layers of clothing, gloves, and a small container ready to cradle your hard-won harvest. Budget-wise, you're mostly paying with your effort and pride, but toss $20-$30 your guide's way and call it a fair trade. Sure, at times you'll question what bizarre life decisions led you to stand half-frozen on a mossy, windy plateau, plucking berries intended for reindeer snacks, but trust that the jam you make back home-and the bragging rights-will be entirely worth it.