The first rule of reindeer sledding in Norwegian Lapland is a matter of manners: Never ask your Sami guide how many reindeer are in his herd. “It’s like asking a man how much money he makes,” says Roar Andre Kemi Nyheim, 35, my guide during an after-dark outing with Lyngsfjord Adventure (lyngsfjord.com) in the Arctic Circle near Tromsø. Roar is a Sami, one of Scandinavia’s indigenous people.
Some 50,000 Sami live in Norway today, but only about 5,000 to 6,000 of them are still reindeer herders, Roar tells me. “I don’t go to an office, I go to my reindeer,” he says, with what appears to be a high level of job satisfaction.
Roar is clad in a jacket made of 10 reindeer skins that his wife made by hand — an outfit that looks considerably warmer than the synthetic polar suit I’m sporting. But I’m feeling toasty as I climb atop a wooden sled and watch as the heavily antlered animal in front of me creaks into motion, pulling the sleds across snow so dry, it squeaks beneath the blades. Our pace is more a tortoise’s than a hare’s.
“Sit backwards on the sled, it’s like you’re moving backwards in time,” urges Roar.
It’s a fittingly slow and deliberate way to try to catch the elusive northern lights. But the sky is cloudy on this night, making our odds of seeing them about as likely as one of the reindeer suddenly taking flight. Before long, I’m lost in the plodding pace and gentle whoosh of the animal’s breath, moving backward in time across a frozen lake.
AURORA STALKING
Northern Norway is one of the best places in the world to see the northern lights. “The Vikings thought they were the spirits of dead ancestors waving or signs of a war in the north,” my guide from Arctic Adventure Tours (arcticadventuretours.no) explains as we ride a bus along snowy roads to the darker outskirts of Tromsø, looking for a place to scout for the telltale curtains in the sky.
Norwegian children are often told not to whistle at the lights, lest they risk being sucked up into them, and there are other wives’ tale warnings, too. “My parents always told me not to wave a white cloth at them,” a Norwegian friend tells me. “We used to try it as kids, it seemed like it made them move faster.”
As we’re scanning the night sky, clear and promising, something starts to happen. In the beginning, it’s hard to distinguish the aurora from a cloud. But there’s something there, written low and ghostly in the sky. When the lights finally appear for real, they arc in a great bow across all of the sky. And I can’t help myself — I sneak a tissue from my pocket and wave it toward the aurora, on the off chance something even more magical might happen.
DOG SLEDDING
I hop a short flight (30 minutes) north of Tromsø to Alta, the largest town in Finnmark, for the chance to go dog sledding with Northern Lights Husky (northernlightshusky.com). By 5 p.m., it’s already long past dark, and the dogs are eagerly bouncing on their hind legs, filled with anticipation of the exercise to come. I prepare to be guided on the canine equivalent of a pony ride — after all, I haven’t even signed a waiver. But the owner, Trine Lyrek, who regularly competes in the local Finnmarksløpet race (1,000 kilometers) and has also been in the Iditarod, has other plans. “It’s important to me that people learn how to prepare the dogs, attach them to the sleds and mush for themselves.”
My partner tucked inside the sled in front of me, I push off the snow like I’m pumping the pavement on a skateboard, and the dogs charge down a path through the trees, careening into the night. The stars are prickling planetarium-style in the sky. And when I brake too hard for the huskies’ liking, their glowing eyes glance back as if to say, “C’mon, Yank. Try to be a little more Norwegian.”
NEED FOR SPEED
The Finnmark Plateau — the rolling landscape where the Sami bring their reindeer for winter — is our destination for a morning of snowmobiling with Alta tour operator Sorrisniva (sorrisniva.no). The snowmobiles are parked in a garage made entirely from snow. And there’s an igloo built from blocks of ice, carved with chain saws, from a nearby lake that’s both a hotel and a chapel for wintry weddings. I roar behind the guide along a trail for a good 30 minutes before we reach the plateau, where we stop to scan the horizon and Alta River, famous for some of the world’s best salmon fishing, in the valley below. The snow around us has formed feathery crystals that sparkle like a geode cracked open in the low Arctic sun.
ICE FISHING
I’ve got the snowshoeing part down pat as I plod across a frozen lake for a spot of ice fishing, which is harder than it looks, with GLØD Adventures (glodalta.no). I break into a sweat in my polar suit as I swivel the hand auger to break through nearly a meter of ice and snow layered atop the lake. “It gets harder before it gets easier,” someone shouts. And the last couple of inches feel like I’m trying to drill granite, until ‘Plunk!’ — the auger plunges into the icy water, and I’ve got a window into some poor arctic char’s flood-lit world.
The maggot on my tiny hook isn’t enough to entice a fish to my line, but my friend gets lucky with a 7-inch specimen that we promptly release. Norwegian ice fishermen, we are not. But the chance to warm up by a fire inside a lavu — a traditional Sami tent — while salmon caught by someone else sizzles on the open flame is a fitting end to the week’s wonderful icy efforts.
More info: Northern Norway Tourism (northernnorway.com) and Visit Norway (visitnorway.com).