Winter in the Arctic represents perhaps the quintessential ideal of dormancy. It is a place of extremes — long, unbroken nights in winter, endless daylight in summer — where survival is an art of adaptation. For ecologist and outdoorsman Charles Post, life in Norway’s Lofoten Islands has been a lesson in moving with the rhythms of nature rather than against them. In this conversation, Charles shares his insights into the ingenious ways Arctic species endure dormancy and darkness, how the landscape shapes his own daily life, and what the far north can teach us about resilience in a world of constant change.

The Arctic endures long periods of dormancy during winter. How do you see this phase shaping the region’s wildlife and ecosystems?

Winter in the Arctic isn’t just a pause; it’s a recalibration. Everything here slows down, conserving energy for the explosion of life that follows in spring. The seabirds migrate, like the black legged kittiwakes who spend their winters feeding off the coast of New Foundland before returning to our island to breed in the spring.  Even the trees seem to take a deep breath, dropping their leaves, resting and waiting for the return of the sun. But what’s most striking is how life doesn’t just endure — it thrives by adapting.

Here in Lofoten, we experience 24 hours of daylight at the peak of summer, and for six weeks in the winter, the sun doesn’t rise at all. The only light we have comes from the moon and stars. Everything is extreme here, and it’s easy to fall out of balance, so we have to be extra mindful of how we take care of ourselves — prioritizing sleep, eating well, and getting outside even when the daylight is fleeting and the wind can feel relentless. Even while living in a village of just 18 people, we’ve learned that winter isn’t something to endure; it’s something to embrace and find inspiration in.

What are some of the most surprising or creative ways Arctic species adapt to long periods of dormancy and darkness?

One of my favorite adaptations is how the ptarmigan swaps its brown summer feathers for pure white ones in winter, perfectly blending into the snow. The Arctic fox does something similar — its fur shifts from brown to snow white, and its paws act like built-in snowshoes, allowing it to silently move across icy terrain.

But one of the most incredible adaptations isn’t visible at all — reindeer actually change the structure of their eyes between seasons. In summer, their eyes are golden yellow, but as winter sets in, they shift to a deep blue, becoming over a thousand times more sensitive to light. This lets them pick up on ultraviolet reflections from snow and ice, helping them spot predators, food, and terrain in ways we can’t even comprehend. It’s a perfect adaptation to a harsh and dynamic landscape where seeing — or not seeing — can mean the difference between survival and struggle.

And then there are redpolls — one of my favorite songbirds — tiny, tough little birds that weigh just 15 grams and somehow thrive on the northernmost edges of the world. In summer, they nest in the tundra among low willow shrubs, taking advantage of the endless days and cool Arctic growing season. Many migrate south by fall, but the ones that stay have a special adaptation to help them deal with the winter. These birds can survive temperatures as low as -80°F, and when heavy snow falls, they don’t fight against it — they use it. On the coldest nights, they dive into the powder and bury themselves, letting the snow insulate them against the deep freeze.

The Arctic has this way of making survival look like magic. Every species here has found a way to bend with the season, to use the landscape and weather rather than resist it. It’s a kind of adaptation that makes you wonder how much we, too, could learn from just going with the rhythms of the land and march of the sun instead of trying to outsmart it or resist the march of summer and winter.

How does the extended winter season influence your own lifestyle and routines?

Winters here have a way of stripping life down to what truly matters. With weeks of darkness, and even more weeks of intense storms, we lean into slow living — hearty meals at home, candles and walks looking for the northern lights, mountain skis (with bright headlamps!) with our dogs Knute and Rowan under the sea of stars, and appreciating the simple things: a good book, a workout, coffee with our neighbors, or the way snow softens every sound and the sea eagles perch on the rocky shore beyond the kitchen window.

But living in the Arctic has also made us more intentional. Even when the light is scarce, we make it a point to get outside, even if it’s just to watch the waves crash against the shore or walk through the village with the dogs. Our neighbors have dogs too and so we are always coordinating our walks with them so we can get some social time in for us and the pups!

We’ve also realized how much we rely on community in the winter. Our little village is home to just 18 people, and yet, somehow, we’ve found a sense of belonging here. We feel so lucky to have a relatively steady stream of friends and family visiting us too. There’s something about winter and remote locations that brings people together – checking in on each other, sharing meals (and tractors to move snow!) and finding warmth in good company.

What has been one of your most memorable experiences of the Arctic winter?

One winter, deep into the polar night, I stood outside in the stillness and realized just how profoundly quiet it was. No birds, no wind — just the occasional crunch of snow underfoot. But even in that silence, life was still moving. A snowshoe hare darted past, its white coat blending perfectly into the landscape. The sky pulsed with northern lights, and suddenly, that “dormancy” didn’t feel empty — it felt alive with the slow, deliberate rhythm of the Arctic.

Another moment that sticks with me is the first time I saw the sun return after the long winter. It was just a sliver of light over the mountains, but it felt like the entire landscape exhaled — like the edge of summer was on the icy horizon. It’s a wild thing to shake hands with the sun after weeks without feeling its warmth on your face. And in that moment, you realize that soon the birds will return, and home will once again erupt with birdsong so loud we have to sleep with earplugs as our village becomes a nursery for thousands of song, sea and shorebirds, like the curlews and oystercatchers, who nest in the fields surrounding our house.

And soon my garden will come back to life. First the purple crocus break through the frozen soil, then the first rose buds swell and the birch trees too. And before long, you can begin to fill the world swelling, nearly ready to burst, as spring inches closer. Once we pass the winter solstice we go from 24 hours of darkness to gaining nearly 15 minutes of light a day… so the summer sun feels like it’s at a full sprint towards us!

How does living at a Northern latitude influence your outlook on the pace of life or rest in your personal world?

Living here has forced me to redefine productivity. In a world that glorifies hustle, the Arctic teaches something different: the necessity of slowing down, of syncing up with the seasons. Just like the land needs its dormancy, so do we. Rest isn’t a luxury — it’s part of the cycle that allows for real growth.

There’s a word called phenology, and it’s the calendar of events in nature. I’ve come to use this as my guide. Look to the plants and animals to see how they are finding balance and rhythm in the far north. I think it wasn’t that long ago that all of our ancestors lived in sync with the seasons as the animals and plants do. It’s just up to us to remember and practice not just looking for the signs but practice seeing and reading the signs so that we can reacquaint ourselves with a life more closely braided into the seasons — as we are evolved to be.

I’ve realized that we never really stop moving — we just move differently depending on the season. The sandhill cranes and tree swallows I used to watch for hours on end in Montana don’t disappear when winter comes; they just find somewhere else to be. The trees don’t stop growing; they just turn inward, storing energy for spring. The Arctic has taught me that rest isn’t the opposite of progress — it’s an essential part of it.

What lessons from the Arctic could be applied to broader conversations about adaptation in a changing world?

The Arctic is a masterclass in adaptation. The way species and ecosystems shift to survive the long winters and short summers mirrors what we, as humans, need to do in times of change — whether that’s climate shifts, personal challenges, or moments of transition. It’s about knowing when to push forward and when to retreat and restore in preparation for what’s next. 

We protect what we love, and I think that starts with knowing a place intimately — its birds, its seasons, its changes. The more time we spend getting to know nature, the more we’re able to speak up for it. I think about the migratory birds I’ve studied — the ones that braid together backyards, wilderness areas, parks, and gardens into one living thread of movement across the planet. We’re all connected in ways we can’t always see, and that makes resilience a shared effort. This is reciprocity in its simplest form. To see and know how we are connected to nature and the seasons just takes practice. Once we have exercised that muscle and learned how to read the signs of nature, then we can develop the fluency in all the wonder and teachings that unfold in sight but just out of view for many of us.

There’s a quote by Aliza Grace that’s been sitting with me lately: “The grief doesn’t go away. The grief doesn’t shrink. The grief stays. And we grow.”

I think resilience works the same way. We don’t avoid change — we grow around it. We take what’s hard, what’s unknown, what’s shifting, and we adapt. My wife Rachel and I had to lean into this in a big way when we left Montana, our family, friends and a really amazing life all to try and make a new life on a small island in a small village in the Arctic, across the world. It’s been an exercise in trust, process and patience. And I think when you look at any animal well adapted to life in the far north, you’ll find they rely on these same principles to not just survive but thrive.