THE RETURN TO MUONIOVARA.

While at Kautokeino I completed my Lapp outfit by purchasing a scarlet cap, stuffed with eider down, a pair of boellinger, or reindeer leggings, and the komager, or broad, boat-shaped shoes, filled with dry soft hay, and tightly bound around the ankles, which are worn by everybody in Lapland.  Attired in these garments, I made a very passable Lapp, barring a few superfluous inches of stature, and at once realized the prudence of conforming in one’s costume to the native habits.  After the first feeling of awkwardness is over, nothing can be better adapted to the Polar Winter than the Lapp dress.  I walked about at first with the sensation of having each foot in the middle of a large feather bed, but my blood preserved its natural warmth even after sitting for hours in an open pulk.  The boellinger, fastened around the thighs by drawing-strings of reindeer sinew, are so covered by the poesk that one becomes, for all practical purposes, a biped reindeer, and may wallow in the snow as much as he likes without the possibility of a particle getting through his hide.

The temperature was, nevertheless, singularly mild when we set out on our return.  There had been a violent storm of wind and snow the previous night, after which the mercury rose to 16 deg. above zero.  We waited until noon before our reindeers could be collected, and then set off, with the kind farewell wishes of the four Norwegian inhabitants of the place.  I confess to a feeling of relief when we turned our faces southward, and commenced our return to daylight.  We had at last seen the Polar night, the day without a sunrise; we had driven our reindeer under the arches of the aurora borealis; we had learned enough of the Lapps to convince us that further acquaintance would be of little profit; and it now seemed time to attempt an escape from the limbo of Death into which we had ventured.  Our faces had already begun to look pale and faded from three weeks of alternate darkness and twilight, but the novelty of our life preserved us from any feeling of depression and prevented any perceptible effect upon our bodily health, such as would assuredly have followed a protracted experience of the Arctic Winter.  Every day now would bring us further over the steep northern shoulder of the Earth, and nearer to that great heart of life in the south, where her blood pulsates with eternal warmth.  Already there was a perceptible increase of the sun’s altitude, and at noonday a thin upper slice of his disc was visible for about half an hour.

By Herr Berger’s advice, we engaged as guide to Lippajarvi, a Lapp, who had formerly acted as postman, and professed to be able to find his way in the dark.  The wind had blown so violently that it was probable we should have to break our own road for the whole distance.  Leaving Kautokeino, we travelled up the valley of a frozen stream, towards desolate ranges of hills, or rather shelves of the table-land, running north-east and south-west.  They were spotted with patches of stunted birch, hardly rising above the snow.  Our deer were recruited, and we made very good progress while the twilight lasted.  At some Lapp tents, where we stopped to make inquiries about the ice, I was much amused by the appearance of a group of children, who strikingly resembled bear-cubs standing on their hind legs.  They were coated with reindeer hide from head to foot, with only a little full-moon of tawny red face visible.

We stopped at Siepe an hour to bait the deer.  The single wooden hut was crowded with Lapps, one of whom, apparently the owner, spoke a little Norwegian.  He knew who we were, and asked me many questions about America.  He was most anxious to know what was our religion, and what course the Government took with regard to different sects.  He seemed a little surprised, and not less pleased, to hear that all varieties of belief were tolerated, and that no one sect possessed any peculiar privileges over another. (It is only very recently that dissenters from the Orthodox Church have been allowed to erect houses of worship in Norway.) While we were speaking on these matters, an old woman, kneeling near us, was muttering prayers to herself, wringing her hands, sobbing, and giving other evidences of violent religious excitement.  This appeared to be a common occurrence, as none of the Lapps took the slightest notice of it.  I have no doubt that much of that hallucination which led to the murders at Kautokeino still exists among the people, kept alive by secret indulgence.  Those missionaries have much to answer for who have planted the seeds of spiritual disease among this ignorant and impressible race.

The night was cold and splendidly clear.  We were obliged to leave the river on account of rotten ice, and took to the open plains, where our deers sank to their bellies in the loose snow.  The leading animals became fractious, and we were obliged to stop every few minutes, until their paroxysms subsided.  I could not perceive that the Lapps themselves exercised much more control over them than we, who were new to the business.  The domesticated reindeer still retains his wild instincts, and never fails to protest against the necessity of labour.  The most docile will fly from the track, plunge, face about and refuse to draw, when you least expect it.  They are possessed by an incorrigible stupidity.  Their sagacity applies only to their animal wants, and they seem almost totally deficient in memory.  They never become attached to men, and the only sign of recognition they show, is sometimes to allow certain persons to catch them more easily than others.  In point of speed they are not equal to the horse, and an hour’s run generally exhausts them.  When one considers their size, however, their strength and power of endurance seem marvellous.  Herr Berger informed me that he had driven a reindeer from Alten to Kautokeino, 112 miles, in twenty-six hours, and from the latter place to Muoniovara in thirty.  I was also struck by the remarkable adaptation of the animal to its uses.  Its hoof resembles that of the camel, being formed for snow, as the latter for sand.  It is broad, cloven and flexible, the separate divisions spreading out so as to present a resisting surface when the foot is set down, and falling together when it is lifted.  Thus in snow where a horse would founder in the space of a hundred yards, the deer easily works his way, mile after mile, drawing the sliding, canoe-like pulk, burdened with his master’s weight, after him.

The Lapps generally treat their animals with the greatest patience and forbearance, but otherwise do not exhibit any particular attachment for them.  They are indebted to them for food, clothing, habitation and conveyance, and their very existence may therefore almost be said to depend on that of their herds.  It is surprising, however, what a number of deer are requisite for the support of a family.  Von Buch says that a Lapp who has a hundred deer is poor, and will be finally driven to descend to the coast, and take to fishing.  The does are never made to labour, but are kept in the woods for milking and breeding.  Their milk is rich and nourishing, but less agreeable to the taste than that of the cow.  The cheese made from it is strong and not particularly palatable.  It yields an oil which is the sovereign specific for frozen flesh.  The male deer used for draft are always castrated, which operation the old Lapp women perform by slowly chewing the glands between their teeth until they are reduced to a pulp, without wounding the hide.

During this journey I had ample opportunity of familiarising myself with reindeer travel.  It is picturesque enough at the outset, but when the novelty of the thing is worn off nothing is left but a continual drain upon one’s patience.  Nothing can exceed the coolness with which your deer jumps off the track, slackens his tow-rope, turns around and looks you in the face, as much as to say:  “What are you going to do about it?” The simplicity and stupidity of his countenance seem to you to be admirably feigned, and unless you are an old hand you are inevitably provoked.  This is particularly pleasant on the marshy table-lands of Lapland, where, if he takes a notion to bolt with you, your pulk bounces over the hard tussocks, sheers sideways down the sudden pitches, or swamps itself in beds of loose snow.  Harness a frisky sturgeon to a “dug-out,” in a rough sea, and you will have some idea of this method of travelling.  While I acknowledge the Providential disposition of things which has given the reindeer to the Lapp, I cannot avoid thanking Heaven that I am not a Lapp, and that I shall never travel again with reindeer.

The aberrations of our deer obliged us to take a very sinuous course.  Sometimes we headed north, and sometimes south, and the way seemed so long that I mistrusted the quality of our guide; but at last a light shone ahead.  It was the hut of Eitajarvi.  A lot of pulks lay in front of it, and the old Finn stood already with a fir torch, waiting to light us in.  On arriving, Anton was greeted by his sister Caroline, who had come thus far from Muoniovara, on her way to visit some relatives at Altengaard.  She was in company with some Finns, who had left Lippajarvi the day previous, but losing their way in the storm, had wandered about for twenty-four hours, exposed to its full violence.  Think of an American girl of eighteen sitting in an open pulk, with the thermometer at zero, a furious wind and blinding snow beating upon her, and neither rest nor food for a day!  There are few who would survive twelve hours, yet Caroline was as fresh, lively, and cheerful as ever, and immediately set about cooking our supper.  We found a fire in the cold guest’s room, the place swept and cleaned, and a good bed of deerskins in one corner.  The temperature had sunk to 12 deg. below zero, and the wind blew through wide cracks in the floor, but between the fire and the reciprocal warmth of our bodies we secured a comfortable sleep ­a thing of the first consequence in such a climate.

Our deer started well in the morning, and the Lapp guide knew his way perfectly.  The wind had blown so strongly that the track was cleared rather than filled, and we slipped up the long slopes at a rapid rate.  I recognised the narrow valley where we first struck the northern streams, and the snowy plain beyond, where our first Lapp guide lost his way.  By this time it was beginning to grow lighter, showing us the dreary wastes of table-land which we had before crossed in the fog.  North of us was a plain of unbroken snow, extending to a level line on the horizon, where it met the dark violet sky.  Were the colour changed, it would have perfectly represented the sandy plateaus of the Nubian Desert, in so many particulars does the extreme North imitate the extreme South.  But the sun, which never deserts the desert, had not yet returned to these solitudes.  Far, far away, on the edge of the sky, a dull red glimmer showed where he moved.  Not the table-land of Pamir, in Thibet, the cradle of the Oxus and the Indus, but this lower Lapland terrace, is entitled to the designation of the “Roof of the World.”  We were on the summit, creeping along her mountain rafters, and looking southward, off her shelving eaves, to catch a glimpse of the light playing on her majestic front.  Here, for once, we seemed to look down on the horizon, and I thought of Europe and the Tropics as lying below.  Our journey northward had been an ascent but now the world’s steep sloped downward before us into sunshine and warmer air.  In ascending the Andes or the Himalayas, you pass through all climates and belts of vegetation between the Equator and the Pole, and so a journey due north, beyond the circle of the sun, simply reverses the phenomenon, and impresses one like the ascent of a mountain on the grandest possible scale.

In two hours from the time we left Eitajarvi we reached the Lapp encampment.  The herds of deer had been driven in from the woods, and were clustered among the birch bushes around the tents.  We had some difficulty in getting our own deer past them, until the Lapps came to our assistance.  We made no halt, but pushed on, through deeper snows than before, over the desolate plain.  As far as Palajarvi we ran with our gunwales below the snow-level, while the foremost pulks were frequently swamped under the white waves that broke over them.  We passed through a picturesque gorge between two hills about 500 feet high, and beyond it came upon wide lakes covered deep with snow, under which there was a tolerable track, which the leading deer was able to find with his feet.  Beyond these lakes there was a ridge, which we had no sooner crossed than a dismally grand prospect opened before us.  We overlooked a valley-basin, marked with belts of stunted birch, and stretching away for several miles to the foot of a bleak snowy mountain, which I at once recognised as Lippavara.  After rounding its western point and turning southward again, we were rejoiced with the sight of some fir trees, from which the snow had been shaken, brightening even with their gloomy green the white monotony of the Lapland wilderness.  It was like a sudden gleam of sunshine.

We reached Lippajarvi at twelve, having made twenty-eight miles of hard travel in five hours.  Here we stopped two hours to cook a meal and change our deer, and then pushed on to reach Palajoki the same night.  We drove through the birch woods, no longer glorious as before, for the snow had been shaken off, and there was no sunset light to transfigure them.  Still on, ploughing through deep seas in the gathering darkness, over marshy plains, all with a slant southward, draining into the Muonio, until we reached the birchen ridge of Suontajarvi, with its beautiful firs rising here and there, silent and immovable.  Even the trees have no voices in the North, let the wind blow as it will.  There is nothing to be heard but the sharp whistle of the dry snow ­the same dreary music which accompanies the African simoom.  The night was very dark, and we began to grow exceedingly tired of sitting flat in our pulks.  I looked sharp for the Palajok Elv, the high fir-fringed banks of which I remembered, for they denoted our approach to the Muonio; but it was long, long before we descended from the marshes upon the winding road of snow-covered ice.  In vain I shifted my aching legs and worked my benumbed hands, looking out ahead for the embouchure of the river.  Braisted and I encouraged each other, whenever we were near enough to hear, by the reminder that we had only one more day with reindeer.  After a long time spent in this way, the high banks flattened, level snows and woods succeeded, and we sailed into the port of Palajoki.

The old Finnish lady curtsied very deeply as she recognised us, and hastened to cook our coffee and reindeer, and to make us a good bed with sheets.  On our former visit the old lady and her sons had watched us undress and get into bed, but on this occasion three buxom daughters, of ages ranging from sixteen to twenty-two, appeared about the time for retiring, and stationed themselves in a row near the door, where they watched us with silent curiosity.  As we had shown no hesitation in the first case, we determined to be equally courageous now, and commenced removing our garments with great deliberation, allowing them every opportunity of inspecting their fashion and the manner of wearing them.  The work thus proceeded in mutual silence until we were nearly ready for repose, when Braisted, by pulling off a stocking and displaying a muscular calf, suddenly alarmed the youngest, who darted to the door and rushed out.  The second caught the panic, and followed, and the third and oldest was therefore obliged to do likewise, though with evident reluctance.  I was greatly amused at such an unsophisticated display of curiosity.  The perfect composure of the girls, and the steadiness with which they watched us, showed that they were quite unconscious of having committed any impropriety.

The morning was clear and cold.  Our deer had strayed so far into the woods that we did not get under way before the forenoon twilight commenced.  We expected to find a broken road down the Muonio, but a heavy snow had fallen the day previous, and the track was completely filled.  Long Isaac found so much difficulty in taking the lead, his deer constantly bolting from the path, that Anton finally relieved him, and by standing upright in the pulk and thumping the deer’s flanks, succeeded in keeping up the animal’s spirits and forcing a way.  It was slow work, however, and the sun, rolling his whole disc above the horizon, announced midday before we reached Kyrkessuando.  As we drove up to the little inn, we were boisterously welcomed by Hal, Herr Forstrom’s brown wolf-dog, who had strayed thus far from home.  Our deer were beginning to give out, and we were very anxious to reach Muoniovara in time for dinner, so we only waited long enough to give the animals a feed of moss and procure some hot milk for ourselves.

The snow-storm, which had moved over a narrow belt of country, had not extended below this place, and the road was consequently well broken.  We urged our deer into a fast trot, and slid down the icy floor of the Muonio, past hills whose snows flashed scarlet and rose-orange in the long splendour of sunset.  Hunger and the fatigue which our journey was producing at last, made us extremely sensitive to the cold, though it was not more than 20 deg. below zero.  My blood became so chilled, that I was apprehensive the extremities would freeze, and the most vigorous motion of the muscles barely sufficed to keep at bay the numbness which attacked them.  At dusk we drove through Upper Muonioniska, and our impatience kept the reindeers so well in motion that before five o’clock (although long after dark,) we were climbing the well-known slope to Herr Forstrom’s house at Muoniovara.  Here we found the merchant, not yet departed to the Lapp fair at Karessuando, and Mr. Wolley, who welcomed us with the cordiality of an old friend.  Our snug room at the carpenter’s was already warmed and set in order, and after our reindeer drive of 250 miles through the wildest parts of Lapland, we felt a home-like sense of happiness and comfort in smoking our pipes before the familiar iron stove.

The trip to Kautokeino embraced about all I saw of Lapp life during the winter journey.  The romance of the tribe, as I have already said, has totally departed with their conversion, while their habits of life scarcely improved in the least, are sufficiently repulsive to prevent any closer experience than I have had, unless the gain were greater.  Mr. Wolley, who had been three years in Lapland, also informed me that the superstitious and picturesque traditions of the people have almost wholly disappeared, and the coarse mysticism and rant which they have engrafted upon their imperfect Christianity does not differ materially from the same excrescence in more civilised races.  They have not even (the better for them, it is true) any characteristic and picturesque vices ­but have become, certainly to their own great advantage, a pious, fanatical, moral, ignorant and commonplace people.  I have described them exactly as I found them, and as they have been described to me by those who knew them well.  The readers of “Afraja” may be a little disappointed with the picture, as I confess I have been (in an artistic sense, only) with the reality; but the Lapps have lost many vices with their poetic diablerie, and nobody has a right to complain.

It is a pity that many traits which are really characteristic and interesting in a people cannot be mentioned on account of that morbid prudery so prevalent in our day, which insults the unconscious innocence of nature.  Oh, that one could imitate the honest unreserve of the old travellers ­the conscientiousness which insisted on telling not only the truth, but the whole truth!  This is scarcely possible, now; but at the same time I have not been willing to emasculate my accounts of the tribes of men to the extent perhaps required by our ultra-conventionalism, and must insist, now and then, on being allowed a little Flemish fidelity to nature.  In the description of races, as in the biography of individuals, the most important half of life is generally omitted.