After a demonstration of the technology on a deserted ice lake as large as several suburbs, we head south towards the isolated town from which Mohn had to summon help almost 30 years ago.
The town nearest to the crash site is about 180 miles south-west of Arjeplog, but the convoys of slow-moving trucks and snow ploughs double our journey time to six hours on the icy and undulating single-lane roads. The road surface is so slippery that you can barely keep your balance when standing on it to take photos of the countless moose warning signs.
With stability control discreetly keeping us on the straight and narrow, we finally make it to Strömsund. However, covered in ice and snow, the roads and terrain in the north and the south of the town look the same.
Thanks to some divine intervention, we find the tow company that came to Mohn’s rescue all those years ago in this small community of 3500 people. The business has a new owner today, but they know how to find Tommy Bjurstrom, who, as a young lad, went to work with his dad that day in 1989 to retrieve some fancy new Mercedes.
Despite the language barriers between German, Swedish and English speakers, Bjurstrom eventually figures out why we’re here and what we’re trying to find after we produce the photos of the car from 1989 – and a young Tommy with his father and the tow truck. With that, his eyes light up and he ushers us to follow his lead.
We head about 2.5 miles south of the village to a nondescript stretch of straight road. The pavement has long since been redone and it could be anywhere else in rural Scandinavia.
Bjurstrom stops his car and waves his arm out the window. There is still a large ditch, but the big trees have been cleared from the edge of the road. It’s a reminder that the crash in 1989 could have had dire consequences had Mohn’s car come into the contact with the local habitat.