Fire and Ice: The Symbolism of Winter Olympic Flames
Carrying fire through frozen landscapes
Carrying fire through frozen landscapes
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A torch in summer is a celebration. A torch carried through snow says something more: that warmth can be brought to cold places and light walked into dark ones. The Winter Olympics have been saying it for over 70 years, and it began at a fireplace.
The first Winter Olympic torch relay, for the Oslo Games of 1952, did not start in Olympia, Greece. It started in Morgedal, Norway, where the flame was kindled in the hearth of the house where Sondre Norheim, the pioneer of modern skiing, was born. Norwegians called it a torch greeting from the cradle of skiing, and the relay traveled to Oslo on skis.
When Squaw Valley hosted in 1960, the flame came from that same Norwegian fireplace. Only from Innsbruck 1964 onward has the Winter flame been lit at Olympia like its summer counterpart.
I love how domestic that origin is. Before the Winter flame was a spectacle, it was a household fire, the thing a family gathers around when the world outside is frozen.
Winter fire rituals are far older than the Olympics. The solstice, the longest night of the year, has been answered with flame for millennia: Scandinavian Yule logs, midwinter bonfires, lanterns and candles set against the dark.
Scripture gives us fire as presence: the burning bush, the pillar of fire in the desert, the tongues of flame at Pentecost. Churches keep a sanctuary lamp burning beside the tabernacle because some lights should never go out. The Olympic flame is a secular fire, but it is treated with the same care: kept alight around the clock, guarded, and passed carefully from hand to hand, which is why the Olympic flame never goes out.
At Lillehammer in 1994, the torch entered the stadium off the end of a ski jump, carried in flight by Stein Gruben, a substitute who took the jump after the original jumper, Ole Gunnar Fidjestol, was injured in rehearsal days earlier. He flew through freezing night air holding fire. I can't think of a summer ceremony that has matched it.
At Vancouver 2010, the indoor cauldron's four arms were supposed to rise from the stadium floor so four Canadian legends could light it together. One arm froze in place, leaving speed skating great Catriona Le May Doan standing with a lit torch and nothing to light. At the closing ceremony, the organizers owned the flub: a mime "repaired" the cauldron, the missing arm rose, and Le May Doan finally got her lighting to an enormous roar. I remember that one better than any flawless ceremony.
In February 2026, Milano Cortina became the first Olympics with two cauldrons, one burning in Milan and one in the mountains at Cortina d'Ampezzo.
Los Angeles in 2028 will not be cold. The torch will pass palm trees, not snowdrifts. But a sprawling city has its own kind of cold: people isolated from each other, neighbors who never meet.
When I picture carrying the torch through Santa Monica, I think of the hearth kind of fire, the kind people gather around on Ocean Avenue as much as in Morgedal. If someone in your life has been that warmth for others, nominate them to carry the flame.