When we stepped off the ferry at the Port of Moskenes in the Lofoten Islands, the first thing that hit us was not the cold or the everlasting night but the relentless wind carving the cliffs and searing our cheeks. This was not a conventional adventure; we were not here to capture the Northern Lights or catch migrating whales. Part biologists, part explorers, our collective went beyond traditional exploration and delved into a living laboratory. Equipped with vials, salivary swabs, and driven by our unshakable curiosity, we investigated how life itself bends but doesn’t break under extreme cold conditions. We collected rock fragments and seabed samples beneath the spectacular mountains and along silent inlets, looking for the genetic traces of life that can survive at subzero temperatures. Our mission wanted to understand how organisms – and people – adapt when the world around them becomes unfriendly and to discover whether these lessons in adaptation could catalyse our reactions to a quickly changing planet.

Ironically, the path that led us to these storm-battered shores can be traced back to a chance encounter in Rome – my home town. Years ago, on a random day, I went to a pub in the city centre, craving a beer. When I moved to the counter to place my order, I noticed another customer immersed in a book written by Nobel laureate Kary Mullis, whose invention of PCR (a methodology to make genes more ‘visible’) revolutionised genetic analysis. And… we started to talk – about science, resilience, our passion for outdoor exploration, and living closer to nature. The discussion with Marco evolved into a question  that eventually became the core of our research: could it be possible to measure a molecular signature of how organisms cope when environments become extreme?

This was the first meeting of our future collective, the ‘Vert Project’. From that spark, we launched a small pilot study in Albania, subjecting ourselves (and a crew of passionate friends) to cold and prolonged sessions of light deprivation inside deep caves. Our small team passed days rappelling down cold and wet vertical shafts, pushing our bodies to their physical limits. We spent our nights at the camp, gathered around the bonfire, using our headlamps. We eventually collected blood and swab samples and finally sent them to our laboratories in Sweden. When we analysed and sequenced our genomes, we observed a remarkable pattern: the activity of specific genes had skyrocketed under stress.

These ‘stress genes’ were supposed to regulate our internal compass for sleeping, waking and performing. Yet, here, their dysregulation was a clear sign that our bodies, unaccustomed to sustained humidity and physical strain, were reacting as though they didn’t quite know how to calibrate themselves. This phenomenon of exaggerated gene expression became the central mystery of our project. Were we witnessing a universal stress response that surged whenever humans faced extreme conditions? And if so, could that ‘overdrive’ be measured in other demanding environments? The pieces of the puzzle were a clear hint that we were onto something bigger: that adaptation had a recognisable molecular fingerprint, waiting to be decoded.

Fuelled by our discovery, we began to plan a second expedition that could truly test the bounds of what we had observed and eventually confirm the results we had gathered. If humidity in Albanian caves had caused our genes to spike, what might happen under extreme cold? Among our collective of outdoor enthusiasts, scientists, film producers, and, most importantly, friends with various types of expertise, the idea of a trip to the Arctic started taking shape. We dove into maps and articles and eventually stumbled across images of the Lofoten Islands, mesmerised by their threatening peaks and arctic climate. Temperatures could plunge way below freezing, battered by brutal winds. It seemed like the perfect natural and ‘open-air’ laboratory to see whether those same stress-related genes would flare up once again or if the body might respond differently. From an experimental point of view, the Arctic landscape was in direct contrast to the claustrophobic conditions we experienced underground. This new environment would challenge not only our physical limits but also our ability to gather data in a place where comfort was scarce, if not totally absent. At last, we were hooked; our path to the understanding of the universal code of human adaptation would have led us to Nordland.

While the crew, with its loaded backpacks and vials, was embarking across the Norwegian Sea, the plan was clear in our minds. The first goal was straightforward: replicate our ‘stress sampling’ routine in a completely different environment. We would measure how our bodies respond to sub-zero winter conditions, collecting regular saliva samples to track changes in stress-related genes. The second aim of our expedition was equally compelling: to investigate local extremophiles, microorganisms that not only survive but thrive in the severe cold of the Arctic. If these microbes demonstrated genetic stability in conditions that made our own physiology wobble, we’d have a striking contrast to illustrate how evolution shapes different strategies in response to extreme environments.

Our base plan involved hiking through mountainous trails, arctic beaches, and eventually a diving session in the Arctic Sea. We would collect rock scrapings, samples from sandy permafrost and glacial seabeds near potential microbial ‘hotspots’, followed by nighttime sessions in our headquarters to preserve and label our samples. Every crew member provided saliva samples at designated time points, before and after the expedition. In the end, we were able to capture a dual dataset: one centres around human genes, the other related to extremophiles. In short, we wanted to document a dual adaptation in real time: an everlasting one for ancient life forms and a dynamic one for ourselves.

December’s scant daylight pushed us to set off early for Kvalvika Beach, determined to reach the shore and return before dusk caused temperatures to drop even lower. A fierce blizzard that lasted five days turned what should have been an easy approach to the beach into a long series of attempts, allowing us to finally reach our destination only on the fourth day. As our schedule was tight, every footstep was a test of concentration, as the howling wind threatened to topple us and subzero gusts nipped relentlessly at our faces.

Yet even amid the discomfort and physical effort, we marvelled at the beauty of the place. The stark silhouettes of distant peaks framed the water’s edge, and every surrounding seemed to carry an echo of untouched wilderness. We successfully collected rock fragments during the ascent, hoping to find extremophiles homing in these subzero conditions. By the time we reached Kvalvika’s frozen beach, the sand crunched beneath our boots, frozen into crusty ridges that glinted under an anemic sun, painting the Arctic sky in pastel shades of orange and pink.

Physically stressed by such inhospitable environmental conditions, we scooped vials of sand from permafrost-laden spots and carefully labelled each sample. Realising we still had a lengthy return trip, we retraced our path as light rapidly faded. The excursion lasted seven gruelling hours, and we arrived at the parking lot by dusk. Before packing our gear, we followed our familiar protocol: each team member provided a saliva sample, and finally, back at our makeshift base, we gathered around a small stove, comparing notes, impressions, and feelings in front of a huge portion of pasta al pesto.

If the beach tested our endurance, a trip to the sea demanded a whole new level of skills. Two days after our beach exploration, we cruised on two boats in the early glacial morning to a cozy inlet that we had identified as the bacteria collection site. A faint glow of dawn around 10 a.m. offered us only three precious hours of partial daylight to execute our diving experiment in the Arctic Ocean, near Litlmolla. Low-lying clouds brushed the steep granite cliffs that towered above the fjord, their dark forms set against a paler yet orange sky. The water temperature hovered at around a bone-chilling 3°C, while drifting shards of ice glistened under the weak winter sun. Majestic peaks loomed on every horizon, creating a natural amphitheater of rock and ice, and occasional sea eagles traced graceful arcs overhead, escorting us towards our berth in the middle of the sea.

Our diver, geared in a thick neoprene layer, descended into the green icy water with a flamboyant somersault. Once below, he collected a few samples of the Arctic seabed – full of extremophiles. For one tense hour, from the boat, we kept our gaze fixed on the waves, our hearts pounding, in heavy silence. When he finally resurfaced, his body shook uncontrollably, a mild hypothermic shock setting in with startling speed. We swiftly hauled him aboard, hastily wrapping him in blankets, pressing hot liquids into his hands, and bringing him into the cabin. Despite the urgency, we persisted in our established routine: collecting a quick saliva sample to capture the acute biological stress of near-freezing immersion. With the diver recovering, the rest of the day blurred into painstaking labelling and preserving the seabed materials. An unspoken relief spread through our small crew once the samples were secured. We exchanged weary smiles, fully aware that every calculated risk deepened our exploration of the molecular boundaries of human resilience.

A few months after leaving Lofoten’s cold and dramatic coastlines, we gathered in our laboratory in Stockholm, to discuss the molecular results of our explorations. It was summertime, and the roar of the warm sun shining in the everlasting day contrasted sharply with the memories of subzero gales and dim December daylight. At last, we investigated the DNA isolated from the samples brought back from the Arctic, both the extremophiles lying in rock fragments and sea sand, and our saliva. Genome sequencing translated every biological trace we’d gathered into raw data, ready to be analysed and discussed.

Early reads in human data resembled what we had observed in our expedition to the Balkans: sudden jumps in ‘stress genes’ following both our crazy Kvalvika trek and the freezing dive. Conversely, and surprisingly, cold-loving extremophiles displayed genes remarkably stable (or even downregulated!) under these conditions, perhaps suggesting a deep evolutionary ability to remain unperturbed by such extreme environments. Looking ahead, we are confident that these results will spark conversations about global climate changes and how societies can brace for, or even embrace, extremes. As global temperatures rise, urban heat waves, fluctuating weather patterns, and other environmental stressors will affect daily life for countless communities. Our adventures stand as a reminder of nature’s genius: many of the answers we seek could lie in ancient, even simpler life forms that evolved under harsh conditions. If we harness their survival strategies responsibly, we might help people – and their genes – adapt to the new world that, for better or worse, we have created.

The same (or similar) molecular pathways we found in Arctic microbes could inform new medical or wellness interventions that bolster our resilience to abrupt environmental shifts. This is our mission. Vert Project is a multidisciplinary team with members from different backgrounds. It includes, besides me, Marco Ruperto, Karen Iacono, Rocco Caroselli, Francesco Spallotta, Michael Manasseri and Matteo Ruperto. Our studies were also made possible with the assistance of many professionals in rescue, exploration, and extreme environments. Through continued investigation, in the lab and the wilderness, and interdisciplinary collaborations, we intend to focus attention on the science of adaptation, equipping future generations to navigate the planet’s changing environments with understanding, empathy, and hope.