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| In Search of Sami ~ An Adventure in Lapland by Ann Lombardi |
| Photograph by Matti Tirri |
| WAVE Journey.com Women's Adventures, Vacations & Experiences ~ Your Journey Starts Here! |
TM
A Woman's Directory For Travel and Life.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented travel businesses & services
around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor
activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you
are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one
online travel resource.
WAVE Journey is your one-stop online resource for women-oriented travel businesses & services
around the world.
WAVE Journey is for every woman to enjoy. If you love to travel, cook, read or revel in outdoor
activities this website is for you. If you are looking to connect with other like-minded women or if you
are interested in finding businesses or services that cater to women, WAVE Journey is your number one
online travel resource.
I admit I was an odd kid. While other girls at St. Thomas More Elementary School prayed for their very own
snorting, galloping “National Velvet” for Christmas, I fantasized about owning a pet reindeer. Of course,
part of my aloofness towards horses stemmed from my tumble off a pony head first into a pile of pony poop
during Ellen Vogt’s birthday party in third grade. But my passion for reindeer had another source: my
fourth grade world geography class.
It started the day Sister Grace Maria unfolded a faded map and announced that we’d be learning about a
region in northern Europe beyond the Arctic Circle of Norway, Sweden and Finland. She described an
isolated, snowy place populated by the “Sami” reindeer herders of the Arctic north. “These peaceful
reindeer people belong to one of the oldest cultures in the world,” the Sister intoned, beginning a slide
show that depicted men wearing red and blue woolen outfits and standing in reindeer fur boots on the
frozen tundra. “Since 1500 A.D., the Sami have worked as reindeer-herding nomads. They use these trusty
animals to pull their loaded sleds. They drink reindeer milk, eat reindeer meat and make tents and clothing
from reindeer skins. The Sami even use reindeer tendons for sewing, and they carve reindeer antler for
tools. The warm reindeer fur is ideal for Sami winter boots.”
I was only half listening. Instead, I was already scheming to get my very own pet reindeer. My father took
the pragmatic approach. He gently tried to convince me our backyard in Atlanta, Georgia couldn’t produce
enough lichen and moss to meet the basic food needs of a reindeer. Dad also pointed out that our
scorching summer weather might not be a reindeer’s climate of choice. Unconvinced, I resorted to several
evenings of unproductive sulking in my room after supper.
One Friday night, Dad called me into the living room for a surprise. I remained unimpressed after I opened
his package and found inside a brown, hard stub. “It’s a real carved reindeer antler,” he said. His tone of
voice was calm, but I could tell from his smiling eyes that this was something special. “It came all the way
from Finnish Lapland. Your great aunt brought it back from a tour she took to Europe long ago.”
Although a live reindeer to go with the antler never materialized, it solidified my unlikely passion, and as the
years marched on, I still held fast to the dream of seeing the creatures in the flesh. Perhaps this explains
why forty years later, two weeks before Christmas, I was headed to Finnish Lapland. In the decades since
my father had indulged me with the Sami-carved reindeer antler, I had become a travel agent (after
failing to marry into money to fund my wanderlust) and a world traveler. I had frolicked with ballistic
dolphins in the Caribbean, toured back streets of Moscow with a black marketer, come in dead last in the
Berlin Marathon and flirted with North Korean soldiers on the DMZ. I had fought for my life in the Acapulco
undertow, fended off amorous Italians on overnight trains, shared sleeping quarters with a grunting boar in
the Alps and been tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul beauty salon. I had romped in volcanic hot
springs with a naked Icelandic guy, crashed overnight on an Amsterdam jail floor, been rescued from
quicksand by a French tractor and munched on roasted guinea pigs in Ecuador. But there was still a void in
my globe-trotting life: I had yet to take a dream vacation to Finland’s reindeer country.
As I bubble-wrapped the treasured antler and tucked it away in my carry-on bag, my brother Pat implored,
“Come join us at the beach like last year, Ann. Normal folks don’t head for Lapland in the dead of winter.”
“Beware of hypothermia,” my well-meaning neighbor chimed in. What did they know? Leaving friends and
family behind, I sped off to the airport. After sprinting down the crowded concourse to the waiting aircraft, I
reached the departure gate and high-fived the dapper, European executive behind me. Before you could
say “Santa Claus,” I was winging my way across the ocean to a winter fantasy land at the edge of the
Arctic Circle: Lapland!
With visions of furry reindeer, brightly-clad Sami and salmon-pink winter skies, I drifted off to sleep for most
of the ten-hour trip, jolting awake when the plane landed with an icy thud in Helsinki. I fished around for
my mittens, grabbed my backpack and scooted to my connecting flight to Rovaniemi, the capital of Finnish
Lapland.
Feeling nothing short of triumphant, I arrived at my hotel, a mere stone’s throw from the Arctic Circle, where
reindeer reign supreme! Then I sauntered up to the hotel reception desk. A pink-cheeked clerk named
Henna greeted me with a curtsey. I inquired breathlessly whether she were Sami. Henna shook her head
and explained she wasn’t, but my disappointment was tempered when she offered to take off the whole
day to introduce me to the “real Lapland.” It turned out that at the bigger hotels in town, organized
snowmobile trips carted tourists to reindeer camps, where most of the people wearing Sami clothes were
actually just regular Finns dressed in costumes.
snorting, galloping “National Velvet” for Christmas, I fantasized about owning a pet reindeer. Of course,
part of my aloofness towards horses stemmed from my tumble off a pony head first into a pile of pony poop
during Ellen Vogt’s birthday party in third grade. But my passion for reindeer had another source: my
fourth grade world geography class.
It started the day Sister Grace Maria unfolded a faded map and announced that we’d be learning about a
region in northern Europe beyond the Arctic Circle of Norway, Sweden and Finland. She described an
isolated, snowy place populated by the “Sami” reindeer herders of the Arctic north. “These peaceful
reindeer people belong to one of the oldest cultures in the world,” the Sister intoned, beginning a slide
show that depicted men wearing red and blue woolen outfits and standing in reindeer fur boots on the
frozen tundra. “Since 1500 A.D., the Sami have worked as reindeer-herding nomads. They use these trusty
animals to pull their loaded sleds. They drink reindeer milk, eat reindeer meat and make tents and clothing
from reindeer skins. The Sami even use reindeer tendons for sewing, and they carve reindeer antler for
tools. The warm reindeer fur is ideal for Sami winter boots.”
I was only half listening. Instead, I was already scheming to get my very own pet reindeer. My father took
the pragmatic approach. He gently tried to convince me our backyard in Atlanta, Georgia couldn’t produce
enough lichen and moss to meet the basic food needs of a reindeer. Dad also pointed out that our
scorching summer weather might not be a reindeer’s climate of choice. Unconvinced, I resorted to several
evenings of unproductive sulking in my room after supper.
One Friday night, Dad called me into the living room for a surprise. I remained unimpressed after I opened
his package and found inside a brown, hard stub. “It’s a real carved reindeer antler,” he said. His tone of
voice was calm, but I could tell from his smiling eyes that this was something special. “It came all the way
from Finnish Lapland. Your great aunt brought it back from a tour she took to Europe long ago.”
Although a live reindeer to go with the antler never materialized, it solidified my unlikely passion, and as the
years marched on, I still held fast to the dream of seeing the creatures in the flesh. Perhaps this explains
why forty years later, two weeks before Christmas, I was headed to Finnish Lapland. In the decades since
my father had indulged me with the Sami-carved reindeer antler, I had become a travel agent (after
failing to marry into money to fund my wanderlust) and a world traveler. I had frolicked with ballistic
dolphins in the Caribbean, toured back streets of Moscow with a black marketer, come in dead last in the
Berlin Marathon and flirted with North Korean soldiers on the DMZ. I had fought for my life in the Acapulco
undertow, fended off amorous Italians on overnight trains, shared sleeping quarters with a grunting boar in
the Alps and been tear-gassed in curlers outside a Seoul beauty salon. I had romped in volcanic hot
springs with a naked Icelandic guy, crashed overnight on an Amsterdam jail floor, been rescued from
quicksand by a French tractor and munched on roasted guinea pigs in Ecuador. But there was still a void in
my globe-trotting life: I had yet to take a dream vacation to Finland’s reindeer country.
As I bubble-wrapped the treasured antler and tucked it away in my carry-on bag, my brother Pat implored,
“Come join us at the beach like last year, Ann. Normal folks don’t head for Lapland in the dead of winter.”
“Beware of hypothermia,” my well-meaning neighbor chimed in. What did they know? Leaving friends and
family behind, I sped off to the airport. After sprinting down the crowded concourse to the waiting aircraft, I
reached the departure gate and high-fived the dapper, European executive behind me. Before you could
say “Santa Claus,” I was winging my way across the ocean to a winter fantasy land at the edge of the
Arctic Circle: Lapland!
With visions of furry reindeer, brightly-clad Sami and salmon-pink winter skies, I drifted off to sleep for most
of the ten-hour trip, jolting awake when the plane landed with an icy thud in Helsinki. I fished around for
my mittens, grabbed my backpack and scooted to my connecting flight to Rovaniemi, the capital of Finnish
Lapland.
Feeling nothing short of triumphant, I arrived at my hotel, a mere stone’s throw from the Arctic Circle, where
reindeer reign supreme! Then I sauntered up to the hotel reception desk. A pink-cheeked clerk named
Henna greeted me with a curtsey. I inquired breathlessly whether she were Sami. Henna shook her head
and explained she wasn’t, but my disappointment was tempered when she offered to take off the whole
day to introduce me to the “real Lapland.” It turned out that at the bigger hotels in town, organized
snowmobile trips carted tourists to reindeer camps, where most of the people wearing Sami clothes were
actually just regular Finns dressed in costumes.
“Those reindeer excursions are arranged by the tourist office and you get a certificate for crossing the Arctic
Circle,” Henna said. “But if you can ski, we can go to a secret place where there are no other tourists. You
do ski, right?” she asked. “We don’t get much snow in Georgia,” I answered, clearing my throat. “But of
course I can ski.” At this point, I felt I’d say anything to convince Henna to lead me to the land I had
dreamed of since my childhood.
There was an uneasy silence. “Well, I guess if you can walk, you should be able to cross-country ski. Let’s
go search for Sami reindeer!” said Henna. With our fur-covered rucksacks and long, skinny skis in tow, we
ventured out into the snowy woods. Piercing rays of sunshine ricocheted off the bright landscape and
temporarily blinded my jet-lagged eyes. “You’d better get out your sunglasses right away,” Henna advised.
Glistening fir trees in thick white coats dotted the winding trails. “Incredible!” I gasped, enthralled by the
winter paradise.
“Time to put on our skis,” Henna called out. Miraculously, my middle-aged body stayed vertical as I wrestled
with my gear. “Not bad for a southerner,” I marveled out loud. Then Henna tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ann, you have your skis on backwards.” I promptly fell flat on my face.
Muscular men with tight buns and one percent body fat zoomed past me in silver, skin-tight ski togs. “Some
of these cross-country skiers are Finnish Olympians,” proclaimed Henna proudly. By that time, I didn’t care.
I had lost all feeling in my feet and legs. My nostrils were making funny crinkling noises, like the sound ice
cubes make when you pour lemonade over them. “Cover your face with your scarf so you won’t get so
cold,” Henna said. It was too late. My wool muffler had iced up and was now stuck to my bottom lip.
For crying out loud, why hadn’t I bothered to study Mrs. Messner’s Girl Scout first aid book on warning signs
of frostbite? I was having major trouble breathing, so I gave my muffler a tug to make way for more fresh
air, and in the process ripped a chunk of skin right off my lip. I didn’t dare lick my injured mouth, certain that
the sub-zero temperatures would weld my lips together in just a matter of seconds.
“Come on!” yelled Henna, a full 100 yards ahead of me. “We are almost ready to cross the Arctic Circle.”
Pumping my fists wildly in the frigid air, I shouted with renewed vigor. I felt the spirit of Sir Edmund Hillary
at the summit of Mount Everest. But then, we were back on the trail again, slogging for what seemed like
endless hours. Finally we skidded to a stop, just short of a huge herd of startled reindeer.
The animals had gigantic antlers, something I didn’t recall from my grade school slide show. I couldn’t help
but picture the dozens of sorry tourists lying gored and crumpled on the streets of Pamplona, Spain after
the annual Running of the Bulls. Just in case the reindeer were mounting a surprise attack, I glanced around
nervously in search of an escape route, but the hundreds of brown eyes which followed our every move
made a getaway seem improbable.
Circle,” Henna said. “But if you can ski, we can go to a secret place where there are no other tourists. You
do ski, right?” she asked. “We don’t get much snow in Georgia,” I answered, clearing my throat. “But of
course I can ski.” At this point, I felt I’d say anything to convince Henna to lead me to the land I had
dreamed of since my childhood.
There was an uneasy silence. “Well, I guess if you can walk, you should be able to cross-country ski. Let’s
go search for Sami reindeer!” said Henna. With our fur-covered rucksacks and long, skinny skis in tow, we
ventured out into the snowy woods. Piercing rays of sunshine ricocheted off the bright landscape and
temporarily blinded my jet-lagged eyes. “You’d better get out your sunglasses right away,” Henna advised.
Glistening fir trees in thick white coats dotted the winding trails. “Incredible!” I gasped, enthralled by the
winter paradise.
“Time to put on our skis,” Henna called out. Miraculously, my middle-aged body stayed vertical as I wrestled
with my gear. “Not bad for a southerner,” I marveled out loud. Then Henna tapped me on the shoulder.
“Ann, you have your skis on backwards.” I promptly fell flat on my face.
Muscular men with tight buns and one percent body fat zoomed past me in silver, skin-tight ski togs. “Some
of these cross-country skiers are Finnish Olympians,” proclaimed Henna proudly. By that time, I didn’t care.
I had lost all feeling in my feet and legs. My nostrils were making funny crinkling noises, like the sound ice
cubes make when you pour lemonade over them. “Cover your face with your scarf so you won’t get so
cold,” Henna said. It was too late. My wool muffler had iced up and was now stuck to my bottom lip.
For crying out loud, why hadn’t I bothered to study Mrs. Messner’s Girl Scout first aid book on warning signs
of frostbite? I was having major trouble breathing, so I gave my muffler a tug to make way for more fresh
air, and in the process ripped a chunk of skin right off my lip. I didn’t dare lick my injured mouth, certain that
the sub-zero temperatures would weld my lips together in just a matter of seconds.
“Come on!” yelled Henna, a full 100 yards ahead of me. “We are almost ready to cross the Arctic Circle.”
Pumping my fists wildly in the frigid air, I shouted with renewed vigor. I felt the spirit of Sir Edmund Hillary
at the summit of Mount Everest. But then, we were back on the trail again, slogging for what seemed like
endless hours. Finally we skidded to a stop, just short of a huge herd of startled reindeer.
The animals had gigantic antlers, something I didn’t recall from my grade school slide show. I couldn’t help
but picture the dozens of sorry tourists lying gored and crumpled on the streets of Pamplona, Spain after
the annual Running of the Bulls. Just in case the reindeer were mounting a surprise attack, I glanced around
nervously in search of an escape route, but the hundreds of brown eyes which followed our every move
made a getaway seem improbable.
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