(A Journey in Five Parts)
I. Into the Arctic
In February 2016, my brother Nathan and I met up in Oslo for a tour north of the Arctic Circle. The lure of a location where the entire joint is an esky was something we couldn’t resist.
We were heading to the heart of the indigenous Sami lands right up in the north of Norway, close to where the borders of Norway, Sweden and Finland meet – a place called Karasjok. Pronounced Kara-shock, as that’s what occurs the moment you step outside and quickly confirm the brochure claims that it’s the coldest place in Norway. I believe the local pub is named the Nutless Eskimo. Or at least it should be.
The plan was to get across the Finnmark Plateau (a 22,000 square kilometre ice plateau) and side-step a few reindeer – a tentative and modest plan which had potential for disaster.
We first flew into Tromso before our final transfer through to Kara-shock. We were quick to get talking to a local who smelt like a rum factory. We were like bugs to a light. He began to inform us that Sami people were untrustworthy and were going to steal our money and suggested we give it to him instead. Play on, mate.
After an hour’s bus ride from the airport to Karasjok we met our contact who was to ensure our safe passage across the Finnmark Plateau. Safe passage? What was this – people smuggling? Helge was his name, a sprightly 70-year-old. And while we were confident he had plenty of knowledge and experience, serious questions remained as to our chances of survival. Fortunately, the dozen-odd beers we had on the eve of the journey gave us the courage to press forward.
We began the journey the following day on skis to do some ice fishing, with a round trip of about 20 kilometres. Our overnight gear consisted of some warm stuff, hand lines, an ice bore and your typical survival pack of six beers. It soon became apparent that fishing was the least of our concerns as the heating in the tiny hut we were fishing inside of didn’t exist. It was such that sliding nude across a glacier would have been a warmer option.
The beers worn off, our confidence in Helge began to drop quicker than our body temps.
He was the kind of bloke who knew everyone and, despite his niceties, no one wanted to know him, on account of his ambivalence to social cues that would suggest the person he was talking at was losing interest. But we learned to love him nonetheless.
Come day’s end, we’d survived our trial run and came away with a couple of lessons learned. One, you needed a onesie-type setup to stay warm like in the cartoons. And two, the fish don’t volunteer to reduce one’s hunger.
II. WOLFPACK
The next day the real mission started. The captain’s run was done and dusted and it was time for the big game. We picked up a couple of snowmobiles and a trailer, threw the gear in and set off from Karasjok.
After a quick 18 kilometres over the frozen river, we put the blinker on and stopped to admire the view behind us. And what a view it was, despite it temporarily being interrupted by Helge taking a piss. His earlier requests to stop may have fallen on deaf ears . . .
We continued on our journey and soon came across a wolf lurking next to a rock about 60 metres away. It was great to see such an animal in the wild and miles from civilisation. Which is when we realised the thing was wild and we were miles from civilisation! By the snarls we could tell it was pretty pumped to see us, too, so we made like a bucket and bailed.
Not long later we came across a young woman on the track who looked quite buggered, towing all her supplies behind her. Turns out, telling a girl there’s a wolf on the loose is a sure-fire way to get her on the back of your ski.
She told us she was crossing the Finnmark Plateau by herself on skis and foot. It seemed we’d destroyed that plan. Still, it was better than freezing to death and getting cleaned up by a wolf – not necessarily in that order.
We continued on a good 60 kilometres to a place called Mollisjok and with the sun all but set – on account of it only hanging around long enough for lunch this time of year – we needed to get some grub post haste. After our good deed, we were hoping for a little karma with the fishing rods. We waded through 70 metres of waist-high snow before we came to the river, which carved through the ice sheet, and threw out a line. But sure enough, fate had other ideas and we returned empty-handed. By this stage hunger was somewhat critical. I like to have seven meals a day. To our delight, the old lady running the cabins had a truckload of reindeer meat and veg ready to go. It was like feeding time at the zoo between my brother, Helge and me. And let’s just say, Helge had his eye on some dessert . . .
III. THE FISHING
Come sun-up, we headed out for a few days’ fishing. But first we dropped off the young woman a bit further down the track and wished her all the best. I was impressed with her determination and at the same time worried she wouldn’t see her family again on account of the wolves.
We visited several frozen rivers through the day, chasing tar fish, or any bloody fish we could get, by boring through the ice and dropping a line.
When boring through the ice you’ve got about 45 seconds in minus-25 degrees before your hands would freeze up. Worst still, if you hit rock you had to change the blades. It was a tough gig. But hell, that’s what I brought Nath along for.
We soon had about six holes bored and had been fishing for about fours hours when Helge finally decided to drop a line. No joke, within minutes the bastard had pulled in a good size tar fish and made Nathan look absolutely useless with a rod.
We bored another 20-odd holes over the next day and a half without a bite – the fish were on strike. It was a sad effort, which was likely Nathan’s fault, as next to my old man he’s one of the most average fishermen I know.
All the gear but no idea.
So we pushed on to our next camp and pulled up next to a dozen or so huskies who were reflecting on their career choice.
We got stuck into a feed and started talking to a half dozen others from Norway and Sweden who were on their own adventures. When they asked us what we were doing there, Nathan responded, ‘Getting away from the cold.’ I didn’t know crickets existed that far up north . . .
Soon, our partner in crime, Helge, came staggering in for a feed perhaps a little dissatisfied with the free chiropractic work he’d got earlier – he’d come off the back of the snowmobile at about 60km/h. And it wasn’t the first time.
But nothing a few beers by a makeshift campfire dug into the ice wouldn’t fix. We subjected the locals to a few average jokes and confusing questions. Then a couple of hours in we spotted the northern lights. It was a magic scene – full moon one side and the northern lights behind us. The sled dogs started kicking off, which added a bit of atmosphere, too. Won’t forget that one . . .
IV. DRUG MULES
The following night, the cabin owner saddled up beside us, checked the coast was clear, then asked if we could offer her some assistance. You see, her bloke had left early that day but forgot some ‘medication’ he needed. With no transport available, she asked us if we could take this bloke’s bag with the medication to him. Hell, it was only 40 kilometres away in pitch black and heavy snow. Sounded like a job for Helge, but he was in no shape.
She ignored the apprehensiveness written on our faces, maybe under the impression that we were in fact Sami– Australian drug mules. We nodded ‘yes’ and decided to run the gauntlet.
Like a good mule would, we didn’t look into the bag; we just wanted to get it done. Nathan was on the owner’s snowmobile and I was on the rental. Nathan’s had a shit-ton more gas than mine and better headlights. So it was decided I’d be the one copping snow in the face for the next hour. We made it in record time and old mate was stoked to get his gear. He loaded us up with fuel, slapped us on the arse and sent us back to where we came from.
Now, getting back was a fair mission. Visibility was minimal and any wrong turn would have made survival unlikely. What put more pressure on was that Nathan’s scooter was leaving mine for dead when I was pushing 115km/h across the long flat stretches. He would speed off and cut the lights so I couldn’t see the bastard! Then he’d come roaring down a little hill between the flats to scare the shit out of me. One of us saw the funny side of it and it wasn’t me . . .
A couple of days later and our street cred at an all-time high, we returned to Karasjok with our heads aloft – despite having caught no fish and having shared the one Helge caught.
V. REINDEER KINGS
Before the trip was over, Helge invited us to check out a reindeer farm and meet some of the local Sami roosters. They hooked up a sled to one of the big bastards and the idea was to slowly cruise around the area. Anyway, long story short and with some irresponsible encouragement from Nathan, I cracked the whip and gave it some stick. She didn’t take kindly and took off at a rapid rate. I ended up about a kilometre from the pen and led the charge for a whole herd to follow me out the gate. One of the snaps on my FB page is me surfing on the reindeer sled on the way back – a moment of real pride.
Santa Claus better watch out, ’cause the Honey Badger is a comin’ to town.
Following this cultural exchange we felt like locals. We got ourselves into the lavo (Sami tent) to hear a few yarns about the Sami culture and it was really moving stuff to hear Sami yoiking – their own individual tune they make without lyrics which tells their story. It brought a couple of people to tears in the tent. Unfortunately, the cultural significance was lost on Nathan as he made the tent into a gas chamber. The reindeer tucker had turned his stomach into a biological warfare centre.
We got back to Helge’s joint soon after. Being Saturday night, we thought we’d take the old shagger and his missus out for a feed in Finland. It was just across the border, about 17 kilometres away.
I thought we’d be inside a bit so I just took the pluggers and footy shorts for good measure. But the stares and queer looks I got made me feel like a terrorist playing pass the parcel at a kids’ birthday party. It was time to get back home!
Another ripper trip.