Photo Essay: Reindeer Tagging with the Sami people of Sweden's Arctic Circle

When my friend Markus initially told me he’d be taking me inside the Arctic Circle my first preconception was of a featureless tundra of snow and ice, maybe with polar bears roaming around. I mean, if he had said Alaska or Antarctica I may have conjured a more accurate image. But I have to confess that my knowledge of the Arctic Circle was limited to the fact that it was a thin black line on every globe or atlas I had ever seen. “Um, what’s up there?” I asked, cautious with the tone of my question. “Good stuff, “ he replied, “I have some friends I want you to meet.” So I went, proud of myself for at least not asking if there would be snow on the ground in July.

My launching point for this trek to the Arctic Circle was the town of Luleå, Sweden, a charming seaport town of about 250,000 people on the Gulf of Bothnia at the far north end of the Baltic Sea. The town is famous for its iron ore and for its harbor which is frozen solid for most of the year. But on the midsummer day that I arrive the only hint of winter are the massive yellow ice breaking ships that I see moored down at the town pier. Otherwise the town is beautiful and, like much of the rest of Sweden, reminds me of Maine. Markus has been a friend for many years. We lived in New York City at the same time. And yet I have never before visited him in his homeland, the Swedish province of Norrbotten that comprises about a quarter of the country’s land area. I can tell from his broad smile when I see him that he is happy to have me there.

He meets me in town; looking tanned and fit from having just spent the previous weeks hiking in various parts of his homeland. Swedes have a deep-seated passion for the outdoors and benefit from a national “Right to Roam”. This law guarantees all Swedish citizens free access to camp, hike, fish and to pick berries and mushrooms, all over Sweden, including on private land. I ask Markus if this ever creates any trouble and he tells me that if you plan to camp on someone’s property for more than a day it is generally considered good form to ask permission. I expect my outdoorsy friends back in the Pacific Northwest would be envious of such a liberal policy on cross-country roaming. But know such a generous policy wouldn’t work in the US.

We set out in Markus’ Volvo and he begins to lay out the plans for the day. We will be driving out into the country for a couple of hours to have lunch at his friend’s farm that just so happens to be inside the Arctic Circle. His friend Alec is an ethnic Sami, one of the largest indigenous groups in Europe whose ancestral lands span northern Sweden and most of the other Nordic countries. Most Sami people and their descendants lead conventional, modern lives just like everyone else. However, Markus’ friends are semi-nomadic and still live by more traditional means, living in the woods seasonally and herding reindeer. Alec’s grandfather Truls is the patriarch of the clan. With his wife and sons Alec has a small farm on which they also grow potatoes and turnips, pretty much all that will thrive in the short growing season.

We’re crawling along the twisty country roads at about 90kph when Markus warns me that there will be a bit of rough road as we get farther out. As the scenery passes in a blur I ask him if his car is up to the task. He laughs and assures me that his car has all-wheel drive. But it doesn’t end there. While I’m reminding myself how much I hate to be a passenger and would usually rather be driving, Markus remarks about how ridiculous it is that we Americans insist on driving ginormous SUVs everywhere. “We enjoy being in the woods as much as you do, “ he notes, “And yet you see no big trucks here. We manage without them.” I can’t argue with his logic. And as we pass gas stations with prices that are the equivalent of $7-$10 a gallon it only underscores his point.

We’re off-roading on hard-packed gravel roads for about 25 minutes before we see our first reindeer herd. “They can be a nuisance,” Markus tells me, “because they don’t have the good sense to get out of the way.” Before we arrive to meet Alec and his clan, Markus and I stop at a large peat bog where an immense arch denotes the exact location of the Arctic Circle perimeter. The parts of the arch look like strangely like bones, as if some Viking God implanted the two ribs of a prehistoric Mastodon into the ground for the benefit of tourists. I tell Markus that the bones remind me of something I saw in a Flintstones cartoon once but his blank look suggests that the cultural reference is lost on him. His excellent command of the English language, coupled with his experience living in the US, often makes me forget that he didn’t grow up in the suburbs of America. The tourism board has kindly built wooden decking so that one might cross the peat bog for a photo op at the massive rib cage. One step off the wood and you sink in up to your knees. But the greater pitfall is the prolific mosquitoes the size of Messerschmidts that seem to be draining my blood by the pint.

We drive deeper into the forest, on what is looking increasingly like the logging roads back home in the Pacific Northwest, except here there is much more birch. Markus describes how different everything is in the winter when a thick blanket of snow descends on everything around us. The air is frigid too, especially at night. But of course with the winter also comes the stunning light show that is the aurora borealis. On this July day, Sweden’s light show is the ever-present sun that, at this latitude, barely sets. In fact, on one evening during this trip I witness the sun set very late at night, only to dip below the horizon and rise in nearly the same spot not 30 minutes later. For someone as jetlagged as I am, the nights without darkness are supremely disorienting.

I’m starving by the time we arrive at the farm, which consists of a small Swedish country house with various barns and outbuildings and rough-hewn fences. Markus is greeted warmly by two men standing outside of a small structure that looks very much like a teepee but that is called a kota. I am introduced to Alec and his grandfather Truls, who are dressed in traditional dark navy wool costumes with colored bands on their sleeves and back that are unique to their clan. Markus catches up with them in Swedish as they invite us into the kota where we sit on reindeer skins laid out on the grass. There is a crackling wood fire burning on a small metal stove and I can see from the inside that the kota appears to be made of the slim trunks of birch trees over which reindeer skin has been laid to form a protective covering. An opening at the top allows the smoke from the fire to escape. The air is not particularly cold but the fire is welcome as it seems to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

It immediately becomes clear that Truls speaks no English, nor does he smile very much, and he looks at me only to peer suspiciously at my rather large camera. Swedish is not his preferred tongue as he is of an older generation and he prefers to speak in a slightly more obscure Sami dialect. But Markus and Alec do an excellent job of translating. The men are striking in their blue wool suits. On their belts they wear knives with handles made of intricately scrimshawed reindeer antler and their footwear consists of shoes they make themselves from reindeer skin, with the front of the shoes slightly upturned in a bow-like structure that helps them to cut through the snow when they walk.
Small herds of reindeer seem to be walking in the woods at the periphery of the farm and some of the small fenced-in pastures have reindeer that are sequestered from the others. Alec explains that the reindeer usually come closer to the farm but that today they are a bit spooked by our car as we approached. Apparently someone has made them aware of Markus’ antic driving skills. The reindeer are neither captive nor wild. Alec goes on to say that the animals freely roam the woods in herds and that he and his father roam with their herd in a sort of symbiotic relationship that has existed for centuries. When necessary, they cull what they need from the herd that provide antlers, skins, furs and meat. I ask what happens when they cross paths with other herds and Alec grows very excited. He tells us that their reindeer have their ears cut into a specific tag that the family can identify them and that, in fact, Truls has a calf that is ready to tag which he will show me after lunch. Markus interjects that we’re very fortunate to see this, as it is something rarely shared with outsiders.

If I have any qualms about eating reindeer meat while live reindeer are standing nearby looking on, I forget it the instant I taste the lunch they have made for our visit. Alec’s wife Ute emerges from the house with a large kettle of savory reindeer stew which she ladles out over some of the most buttery, fluffy mashed potatoes I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Jellied lingonberries are served on the side, along with the ubiquitous Swedish multigrain hard tack. There is also a delicious slaw made with lingonberries and bright red lingonsaft to drink. Everything is absolutely delicious, made more so by eating in the open air.
After lunch Truls is joined by his two young grandsons for the tagging process. Alec’s boys plod out of the house wearing modern clothes and look like any other children who only moments before were pecking away at their Gameboys. But by the gravitas in their grandfather’s voice as he speaks to them about what they are to do underscores how important it is to the family that they learn the traditions of their forbearers. We watch as Truls and the boys enter one of the fenced pens behind the house where a handful of sequestered reindeer calves have been resting in the grass. Truls uses a snare on a wispy pole to reach out and grab one of the calves’ hind legs. As he does this Alec explains that this process isn’t painful for the reindeer. He says that what stresses them more is the contact. It seems that reindeer have issues with personal space. Even in the wild reindeer are not touched or nuzzled by their parents. Very little touches them. So clearly the experience of being snared and held down for a few minutes by a group of people is among the greatest stress they will experience around the farm.

Once they have them on the ground the boys hold the reindeer firmly while Truls takes a knife from his belt and quickly carves arcs in the cartilage of their reindeer calf’s ears. Bright red arterial blood drips from its ears as it gazes wildly, looking for an escape. Moments later, the process has ended as quickly as it began and the boys file out of the pen behind their grandfather as the reindeer calf stumbles on coltish legs, regaining its footing to rejoin the herd.
My eyes continue to follow the reindeer calf, discernable among the others by the red tips of his ears. He regards me carefully as I stand at the perimeter of the pen. His eyes are deep and knowing, like that of a horse. And I am struck by a feeling that there is something enigmatic and familiar in his look but I spend my remaining moments on the farm secretly trying to puzzle it out. It is only as we are ready to leave that it comes to me. I clamber back into Markus’ car realizing that the look of fear on the reindeer calf’s face is no doubt the same look I will have on mine when Markus once again puts his foot on the gas as we return to Luleå.