‘Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four,’ I count under my breath. ‘No, dammit!’ I say out loud, but no one hears me. Björn is way in front of me, directing the Lapp dogs and reindeer. I’ve counted the one with only one antler before, I think. And that one with the really big antlers that he swings around. The one next to him, or her with no antlers and a white bottom, I haven’t counted. I’ll start again from there and try and count in sections this time. I’m trying to keep my mind busy as we move slowly through the snowy forest. I have to keep an eye on the reindeer. I don’t want to be responsible for losing anyone today.
The snow has a crisp layer to it, like a crème brûlée, that crunches as we travel over it. I think Rocky could be sulking. He’s moving in fits and starts, one minute shooting off so fast I nearly fall off the back of the sled, and the next slowing right down to practically a standstill so that I have to cajole and coax him on.
It’s still cold, but there’s less wind. It’s so quiet, as if a soft duvet has been wrapped around my world. You can just hear the clicking of the reindeer’s ankles and the clattering of antlers when occasionally there’s a falling-out. It’s beginning to get lighter, and I start to relax a little, because the darkest hour is always just before dawn. The vargtimmen.
I begin my counting again, just to stop my thoughts from wandering to the closed box at the back of my mind. I see if I can do it in Swedish. ‘Ett, två, tre . . .’ My ‘Learn Swedish’ app on the plane journey to Stockholm suddenly seems like a very long time ago! I count the reindeer in blocks of ten in Swedish and give each of the blocks a name connected to something I’ve seen, so that I remember to write it in my improvised notebook, which is zipped into my coat pocket.
‘I’ll call you Night Train!’ I say to my first group of ten, to remind me of my train journey with the elves. ‘And you ten Husky Ride!’ The next lot will be Snow, then Pee Tree!
We pass through a clearing. The trees are thinner here, and to my left there is a shaft of pink, purple and then orange light on what I think is the horizon. The reindeer spread out and Björn works the dogs to keep them together. I do the same at the back of the herd.
‘No, no, keep moving,’ I say, and wave an arm at a practically white reindeer with fawn patches on its side. I nearly miss a little one that nips back into the forest. ‘Hey, you! Robbie the Reindeer!’ I call after him. That reminds me of watching films with my nephews back home at Christmas, and I quickly push the memory of us squished up on the sofa out of my mind. I have to jump off the sled and shoo him back to the herd, waving my arms and sinking into the deep snow. He swerves round me like a tearaway youngster, and then dashes up to a large fawn reindeer with darker fur on her belly and nestles into her: running back to Mum after a telling-off.
When Björn pulls up and tells me we’re stopping for lunch, I’m relieved, but at least this time I don’t feel as terrified or out of control as yesterday. I think I’ve counted nearly three hundred reindeer, but I’ll recount after lunch because I’m not actually sure; I think I counted quite a few twice, and maybe missed some too!
He ties the dogs to a nearby tree, and then the sled. I go to do the same with Rocky, who I swear dips his head and takes a swipe at me with an antler as I grab the orange lead rope, so that I have to jump sideways.
Björn smiles and shakes his head. ‘I see you and Rocky have yet to become friends!’
‘He’s so . . . prickly. And stubborn!’ I say, thinking about the couple of times he’s just stopped, and I’ve had to pull and then cajole him and the sled forward through the snow. ‘And then when I do get him to move, he suddenly shoots forward and I can’t stop him.’
Björn raises both his eyebrows. ‘Maybe,’ he says slowly, ‘his stubbornness is his way of saying he’s scared and needs help. If he keeps running, he doesn’t have to see or hear the things that scare him. It’s how he deals with things he doesn’t want to face.’ He looks at me, and I feel like I’m in one of those bad dreams when you’re walking down the high street naked. I go to change the subject quickly.
‘So . . . how many reindeer have you actually got here?’
He stands up tall and looks at me. ‘Asking a Sami person how many reindeer they have is like asking them how much money they have. So, how much money do you have in your bank account?’
For a moment I try and think of how to answer.
‘Well, it’s . . . I . . .’ I’m not going to tell him about my bank account! ‘Look, sorry, I didn’t . . .’ I realise I’ve made a faux pas and am worried I’m about to put our new-found tentative working relationship back three steps.
Suddenly he throws his head back and laughs. Glints of red in his beard catch the light through the snow-dipped branches, making them look like flashes of fire.
‘It’s okay. Just this once I’ll let you off. You didn’t know. But you will for the future. It’s very bad manners to ask.’ He smiles, clearly enjoying his own joke, and I find myself letting out a sigh of relief but also smiling too. ‘Let’s find some wood,’ he says as the reindeer mill contentedly around in the trees, the Lapp dogs sitting watching and occasionally rounding up one that strays too far. I notice it’s the younger dog that is doing more of the work. Björn walks into the woods, gazing silently down at the ground.
‘What are you looking for?’ I ask in a loud whisper as I follow him.
‘Tracks,’ he answers flatly. ‘You never know what might be about.’
‘What, moose and wolverine?’
He turns to look at me. ‘Or maybe dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘Shh,’ he tells me, then points to tracks in the snow. Not little feet marks, but like something has been dragged through it. ‘Ptarmigan,’ he says. ‘Very tasty if we can catch one.’
I grimace, though I know I shouldn’t. He looks at me.
‘We take only what we need from the forest, no more. Lagom,’ he says, then stops and glances around as if searching for something.
‘Lagon?’
‘Lagom,’ he corrects. ‘It means . . . well, it’s about our way of life: not too much, not too little, just enough. A balance. We take no more than we need, but we take enough to live.’
I nod. That makes sense. I think again of my house back home and all my appliances, mostly wedding presents that have never come out of their packaging or seen the light of day. Way more than I need. Maybe I’ll have a bit of a sort-out when I get back, give away some of the stuff I never use.
‘Here, this tree is dead. We’ll use that.’ He holds the axe out to me. ‘Let’s see if you can remember how to do it.’
He instructs me where to cut, and I listen and focus and put all my effort and the frustration I didn’t know I had in me into bringing down the little dead tree. Then he goes back to the sled for a saw and between us we pull and push and cut up the tree into little logs and stack them on my sled, putting some aside for the fire.
Björn uses some tiny bits of moss and bark to light the fire in the big wok-like fire bowl as I get my breath back. At least I’m warm now. Slowly he feeds the little flames with twigs and then bigger sticks from our fallen tree, using every bit of our haul. He stands back as the smoke curls up from the fire bowl, looking into it as if lost in his own thoughts. He seems very different from the stressed herder of yesterday.
‘You love it out here, don’t you?’ I venture.
He sighs. ‘Out here . . .’ he pauses and looks around, ‘I can think better, clearer. It’s all about the silence.’ He breathes in deeply and the smoke billows upwards. ‘Out here, it feels like freedom, no constraints.’
He starts pulling out pots from the plastic box. ‘We’ll get this going, then have some lunch. Here, grab some snow. We’ll make coffee. And if you want to make a friend,’ he nods at Rocky, who is standing with his back to me, ‘collect up some of the lichen from the trees for him. He’ll have pellets later, but he’ll love you if you find him some lichen.’ He reaches up into the tree and pulls out a handful. ‘Show him you want to be his friend. Work with him. Get his trust . . . let yourself trust him. The Sami and the reindeer have relied on each other for generations.
I take a moment to think what life must be like out here and thank my lucky stars I’m going back to a life of modern technology. But in the meantime, I do need this reindeer’s cooperation.
I look around and follow Björn’s instructions, picking lichen from the trees, getting showered with snow every time I disturb a branch. Then I offer it to Rocky. At first, he swings his antlers about and eyes it suspiciously. Then he takes a tiny nibble, just to see if I am offering him the real thing. When he realises I am, he stops swinging his head around and eats from my hand, even allowing me to stroke his head whilst he chews. I go to find more and put it on the floor in front of him, and he snuffles at it hungrily. I pat his hindquarters, but he swings round quickly, and I take it we still have a little way to go in our relationship.
‘How’s it going?’
‘We’re getting there. Baby steps.’ I sit down on a log that Björn has covered with a reindeer hide next to the fire bowl.
‘We’ll eat,’ he says, ‘then go and lay some nets. See if we can catch something for supper.’ He’s adding what look to be dried mushrooms to the pot on the fire, cut up on a board on his lap whilst sitting on another log. He pulls the coffee pot from the fire with a stick, then, using a thick glove, pours and hands me a mug. I take it and let the aroma fill my senses, then sip it. I used to find coffee bitter and way too strong, but this, this is different; smooth, not too intense.
‘This is delicious!’ I say, feeling surprised.
He laughs. ‘It is the way we make it. We crush the beans, not grind them. And then the water must be heated three times in the fire. It’s how my father taught me and, well . . .’ I wonder if he has anyone to pass the skills on to but don’t ask. ‘It’s the best coffee,’ he finally says. ‘And drinking it out here of course adds to the flavour.’ He waves an arm around at the clearing and the open space beyond the line of trees.
‘Mushroom soup okay?’ he asks.
‘Lovely,’ I reply.
‘We gather what we need from the forest and then dry and pickle it for the winter, when there is nothing. Mushrooms, blueberries, lingonberries, cloudberries.’ He points around with the spoon he’s holding. ‘Cloudberries are delicious.’
We fall back into silence, and I pull out my little notebook and begin to write about my journey and my relationship with Rocky. I describe the ride, the dryness in the air despite the snowfall, the trees, the snow like layer upon layer of dustings of icing sugar. I explain how I counted the reindeer and nearly caused offence by asking how many reindeer are in the herd. I write about the fire, which seems a constant comfort in this snowy landscape, like a warming hug pulling us in, and I wonder, just wonder, if I might see the Northern Lights, but I know I’m not here as a tourist. I’m here to find my bag and get those rings to that hotel. I wonder whether my mum and sister are worrying about me, having not been able to message them. I have lots to tell them all when I get back.
I can feel Björn looking at me as I write. He’s cooking, but when he’s not, he pulls out a small piece of antler he picked up earlier in the day, lost by one of the young, small males, and starts working it with his knife, whittling it, scraping off the mottled fur that has been mostly rubbed away against the trees.
As ever, I begin each entry with Dearest Griff, and write as if I’m reading it to him. I’m just describing the reindeer foraging and snuffling at the lower branches of the trees, making the snow fall in isolated showers on their soft fur, big black noses and mottled antlers, when Björn interrupts my thoughts with a plastic bowl and spoon and the most amazing-smelling soup, earthy, nutty and garlicky. My stomach roars its appreciation. ‘And here . . .’ He hands me a square of the Sami bread, toasted on the fire with cheese on top. I take it and bite into the hot, soft bread and melting cheese. Suddenly I’m in heaven!
‘This is delicious!’ I say again.
‘Thank you.’ He smiles, pouring out his own soup. ‘I’ve had practice.’
‘Really? You cook a lot?’
He suddenly clams up, then slowly says, ‘This sort of cooking was part of my growing up. Days off from school always involved a fire and cooking. It’s in here, part of who I am.’ He holds his hand to his chest and then tastes the soup and gives a little nod of approval to himself.
We eat in silence, just the snuffling of the reindeer around us and the occasional bickering between the resting huskies. Other than that, all I can hear is . . . well, nothing. Just the falling of snow from branches, and the clicking of the reindeer’s ankles as they move around the trees, pulling at the lichen, shuffling in the snow
It’s getting harder for them. The weather is warming, and that means that some of the snow melts in the day then freezes again at night, turning to ice. It’s much harder for them to get through ice to reach their food. That’s why they’re looking up to the trees. And in turn, we are happy. I glance around at the herd, with their amazingly thick coats and big dark eyes.
‘How come some of them don’t have antlers?’ I ask, finishing my soup and accepting seconds.
‘They lose their antlers every year, the males first at about this time. The females later so they can protect their young once they’re born. The antlers come back in the same shape every year. That one over there only has one antler and it grows back the same every year . . . just like her son.’ He points to another with only one antler.
We finish our soup and cheese on toast, the best I’ve ever eaten, then tidy up. I wash up with water we’ve boiled in the embers of the fire.
‘Okay, let’s lay some nets,’ Björn says. ‘Get some fish for supper.’
‘Lay nets? Where?’ I look around.
‘Over there.’ He nods towards the tundra beyond the trees. Just a big flat open space. ‘In the lake.’
‘That’s a lake?’
‘And you want me to walk across it?’
‘Uh-huh.’ He smiles broadly for the first time since we’ve started our trip, and I’m not sure it feels like a good thing.