ADVENTURE

Northern magic

Samiland has no borders or boundaries, wars or armies, and it does not appear on the map - it is a place for those who love nature untouched and clean.

HARISH KOHLI

FROZEN deep in the Arctic Circle and along the same latitude as Alaska and Siberia lies Samiland - an imaginary country that has no borders or boundaries, no wars or armies. It is imaginary because it appears on no map, and yet the Lapps - or the Sami people, as they prefer to call themselves - have lived here from time immemorial and traces of their presence here go back more than 8,000 years. Even today, they jet across parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and northern Russia on their shiny skidoos, largely oblivious to the outside world.

Samiland is a mighty land, rich in lakes, rivers, small streams and, not the least, grandiose mountains and boundless hills, which in some places reach as far as the Atlantic coast. In winter the wind occasionally blows across the wide Finnmarkvidda (plateau) in northern Norway and Finland, and the temperature plummets to minus 50 degrees Celsius. It affords the sort of adventure you might expect to experience in the vast plateaux of Tibet or in Antarctica.

Finnmarkvidda lies in Samiland and visitors to Norway now come here to see its scenery, which is spectacular. It is the vastness of the inhabited areas that make the greatest impression here: ranges of mountains and fjells stretch away to the horizon, seemingly without end, silent and awe-inspiring - a place for those who love nature untouched and clean.

As night descends, the snowy mountains and the frozen lake are still coruscating bright white, the sky a deep Tibetan turquoise blue, the air crisp and pure like a swig of fine dry champagne. I strap myself to a harness, attached to my pulk carrying one month's supplies complete with food and fuel. My skis - a new set of Norwegian backcountry 'Madshus' - are lighter than those I used while traversing the Himalayas in 1995. My body is acclimatised and tuned after a month's initial training in Hardangervidda, Europe's largest mountain plateau southeast of Bergen.

Agnar Berg, a veteran explorer who, with four others, achieved the first crossing of Greenland, wearing clothing and equipment as used by the Norwegian hero Fridtjof Nansen, skis alongside me. He is there to encourage me, to express his happiness at witnessing the beginning of an adventure or to wish me luck, or all three. It is a Norwegian send-off by one explorer of another.

At Jotka, Agnar turns back. Ahead, there is silent white: bushes laden with frosted snow look stunted in the distance; the sky beyond is now deep violet. The surface is all scarred and fractured ice. This is Lake Jotka on Finnmarkvidda. It seems so unreal, it is easy to believe it could be home to extraterrestrial life. For me it is a training ground.

It is to this idyllic setting that I have come to practise for my long-held ambition to traverse Antarctica. The route - starting from the Chilean end of the continent and climbing steadily over treacherous crevasses to the South Pole, rising up to 3,350 metres in the Trans-Antarctic mountains and across to McMurdo Sound - is almost 3,000 km long. It is a hundred-day journey with a payload of 200 kg and if one is going to attempt it alone, then one needs to practise, practise and practise.

HARISH KOHLI
A glacier above Finse. Samiland has many lakes, rivers, streams, mountains and boundless hills.

Two months earlier, I reached London, courtesy Air-India, and then Oslo where I trained at Hardangervidda for one month. I then flew from Oslo to Alta, the second biggest town in the north and possibly the oldest in Norway with a population of 14,000. Remains of a stone-age settlement - 10,000-14,000 years old - are said to have been discovered here in the Komsa Mountains.

Agnar drove me to his home, where I was able to see a different aspect of the people of the north. Fifteen or so howling hounds met us on our arrival, and Agnar took a few minutes to frolic around their enclosure with them. Four years ago he led a journey through the Northwest Passage with dog sleds, while his wife, Irena, followed him along a safer route with their two-year old son in her lap. He has been across Greenland and the Northwest Passage, but he is basically a dog-man, one of a tribe of old adventurers.

Earlier in the day, he drove me to the Finnmarkvidda, from where I am now beginning my journey. At the edge of Jotka Lake, half a dozen skidoos stand and I can hear conversation inside the single hut. I enter and find six people gathered around three empty wine bottles and plates with well-polished reindeer bones. It is warm inside, they smile, we make conversation and I move out into the cold again. It is almost midnight. Two Samis cross on their skidoos. The wind begins to gain strength and my GPS (global positioning system) equipment begins to malfunction. I move away from the skidoo track and dig in. As I begin to camp, the world's biggest light show, the Aurora Borealis, begins.

The Northern Lights can resemble a psychedelic experience. The sky is filled with pink swirls, which, in a split second, change to sharp green zigzags, then fold in on themselves to become high-speed silver rain. The oddest thing is that all this happens in the dense Arctic silence - Ravi Shankar's sitar or Zakir Hussain's tabla would suit this celestial disco.

I wake to find myself on an awesomely flat ground, across which I can see almost 40 km, maybe more. A Sami man and two women pass me on their skis. Some distance ahead I catch up with them while they rest and soon I realise that they represent three generations. The eldest of the three, the man's grandmother, is nearing 70 and still fit. The wind is strong, but from the northeast, the direction in which I am travelling, it is a head wind and I cannot use my ski-sail, the very reason I have come here from so far away. If the wind were right, I could zip along at breathtaking speed, like the skidoos.

Jiesjavrre (lake), which runs north to south and is about 50 km long, is the biggest of the 177,000 lakes in Finnmark. Molisjok, at the southeastern end of this lake, is a strange oasis in this wilderness. A generator, making a "tuk-tuk" noise, powers the single house and the long aerial that helps locals and travelling executives from Stockholm, Tokyo and London to keep in contact with the outside world through their mobiles.

'Mobile' could be a Sami's middle name. They are on the move all the time, usually tugging around behind them some kind of temporary home. Apart from the deafening noise of their skidoos, the only sound in Finnmark is what you can make yourself.

HARISH KOHLI
At Finnmarkvidda. The scenery is spectacular here.

Yet it is the kind of place where every Norwegian would like to be. For Scandinavians, sunshine is synonymous with life - something to be cherished, pursued and exploited. In winter they seek their sun god (Baldur, as he was known to their pagan ancestors) on the shores of the Mediterranean, the Canaries and the Azores. And in summer, as soon as the sun gathers strength, they take every conceivable opportunity to get out of doors and luxuriate in its warmth.

"Look, he is almost brown," say Kristine and Kirsten, awed at what they take to be my tan. They have themselves driven here from Hammerfest, the northernmost city in the world, in the hope of becoming as brown as I am. Now, after a week's skiing on the plateau and drinking in large doses of sunlight, they only feel invigorated. "I am ready to join the world again now," says Kirsten. "I am beginning to unfurl, in my thoughts, like a fern when its leaves unfurl. I feel like a new human being."

And so they look. They have come straight out of the sauna at Ravnastua, my day's destination. I catch a whiff of their perfume as they wish me luck. As they pass by, I notice their light blue eyes twinkle and their blonde hair framing their tanned, glowing skin.

I continue my journey past Ravnastua, where a courting couple sit, having driven there on their skidoos. Not far beyond, I sit in the wide wilderness, take out my steel thermos from the pulk and drink coffee. I drop my chocolate bar in the mug for it to melt rather than risk my teeth. The cold is intense.

A convoy of about two dozen skidoos passes by, some of the drivers casting amazed looks, while others give a customary navy salute. I smile and raise my thumb. Later, I ski past elk and reindeer, marvelling at the thousands of stunted silver birches (more hardy than pine and fir) and lolloping arctic hares. The reindeer is the most important animal here and the basis of the Sami household. It is the Sami's staple and his future.

There are very few truly nomadic Sami people left. Most now have a permanent home, even though the herders from the interior still move with their herds to the high grounds in the summer. During late summer and in autumn the reindeer are driven down to the woods near the foot of the mountains where the lichen pasture is rich. There they stay during winter, roaming freely until the spring, when it is time once more to move up the mountains to the high slopes where the vegetation is now juicy, succulent and nourishing.

Remarkably enough, though they constitute a minority, the Sami people have been very successful in conserving their rich cultural heritage and many unique traditions. They have fought for political control over their own affairs and now have their own Sometinget (Parliament) in Karasjok.

HARISH KOHLI
'Mobile' could be a Sami's middle name. The Sami people are on the move much of the time, usually tugging around behind them some kind of a temporary home.

As the plateau drops down in the Karasjok valley, the gradient becomes steep. The pulk pushes from behind, threatening to cause an awful accident. The route comes out at Assebakte on the Kautokeino-Karasjok road. I find an emergency shelter in which to camp. The scene from the window is beautiful, and I watch it for a long time as the full moon rises in the sky. It is never really dark these days. There is always a glow, like an unending evening.

The next day, the route along the Jies Jokka (river) is sprinkled with Wild West-style villages until I reach Karasjok. Karasjok is the Sami centre, where the ancient and modern houses blend into each other. A new Sometinget is under construction, its design reflecting modern architectural influences. So does the new church in the new part of town while the old still stands in the ancient centre.

What is interesting about the community is how the Sami, the townspeople and the newer arrivals all get on so well, drawn together by a frontier mentality and fierce independence. Local Finns and Swedes herd elk and reindeer alongside the Sami. Women dressed in beautiful braided clothes visit the Rimi and Mega shopping plazas. We stop and admire each other.

In the uptown handicrafts emporium, you can buy reindeer leatherwork and traditional silver jewellery, exquisitely handcrafted into chains and elegant pendants. Silver was discovered in the frozen mountains by the Europeans, who arrived here in the 16th century. In the 1880s an iron-ore mine was excavated at Kiruna in Sweden, and a coalmine at Gullivare, and Lapland became a northern frontier with bars and boxcars, gambling parlours and moonshine brews.

I continue my journey along the Tana River, known for its salmon. Across the river is Finland but these borders are meaningless for a Sami, who moves at will across the northern territories. This is a Mecca not only for skiers but also for anglers: in one recent year, 28,000 day passes were issued and about 50,000 kg of salmon was caught with fishing poles.

"The Finns have two distinct passions," a Finnish priest said. "These are angling and sauna." Every village has a forest, a lake and a little group of huts that can be hired to provide the authentic sauna experience. In fact, "sauna" is a Finnish word. Everyone is equal in the sauna culture. The Finnish Cabinet used to meet in the sauna every evening in what came to be known as the "evening school". "It was there that the major decisions were taken, but not any more," said the priest, shaking his head. "Not since they decided to appoint a woman as Minister."

Birch fires have been burning all day to heat the gargantuan sauna room. I undress, tip a couple of barrels of water over myself, then hang out in the cosily dark sauna and pass out. I awake to a light beating on my back with bunches of birch twigs from (don't ask), who, like me, were travelling to Lavajok.

HARISH KOHLI
Ski-sailing. On a summer night in May, the author has this to say of his ski-sailing experience: "... I am in a trance, where only my sail and I exist. The only sound is of the wind and my skis zipping on the snow. This is ecstasy..."

Rasti-gaissa, at 1,067 m, is the highest mountain in the eastern part of the plateau. "So high, it may be closer to heaven," reads a signboard at the beginning of the track at Lavajok. My progress, although late in the day, is obstructed by Ole, who emerges, as if magically, from behind the clouds. We walk to his hytte, inside which two women are playing dice. They don't speak English, but they have beautiful smiles.

I sleep in the outhouse and slip out, as pre-arranged, at 3 o'clock in the morning. By 8 o'clock I am still struggling with my pulk and half way up when Ole overtakes me on his skidoo. His two women are safely tucked behind on a sled under layers of reindeer skins. At noon, when I reach Levva javrre (lake), Ole has already set up a tent, with oil burner, light and a VHF (very high frequency) telephone.

We spend the day fishing in the lake through a hole about 15-20 cm in diameter made by a drill. As dusk falls, the peaks throw shadows across the ice; a bonfire is lit on the frozen lake to ward off the chill and we cook fresh arctic char, a tasty deep-water fish. It is their kind of a weekend.

The next day the wind is strong, but I travel anyway, copiously using my GPS and compass. I cross over the mountain range between Suodine and Ucca gaissa to Suodine javrre, from where I pick up another skidoo trail that runs northwest. From lake to lake and mountain to mountain, I travel alone on the frozen Martian landscape with no one to talk to or see. I cannot even remember if this is the world I live in. The Seven Wonders of the World don't even come close to this. This is far more beautiful, far more exotic, far more seemingly unreal.

At day's end I notice a hytte, the only one since my start from Lavajok and the only one I may find till I reach Skoganvarre. Its location in the wide wilderness impresses me and I begin to wonder how people will react on seeing a stranger. And what if the stranger is profusely tanned, with a shaggy white beard, and smells less like a human and more like a reindeer?

Knock, knock! I can hear voices but no footsteps. I peep through the glass in the door and catch sight of a woman. She stares, drops her jaw and turns. Another woman opens the door, drops her jaw and retreats. I look on. A man strides up from behind, winks and motions me to come in.

Randi, the tall woman, laughs at herself for mistaking me for someone else, as she pours wine into my glass and fills hers. Yes, wine! Mari, the other woman, sits alongside and we make conversation. She uses a mix of Sami and English, at the end of which she nods and says, "Oh, you understand." I nod back, saying, "Yes, I do." Actually, I have understood nothing. Bjarne, the man, looks on, rising occasionally to pour wine or kiss one of his ladies. The wine-women-and-wilderness cocktail is heady.

For supper we have a Sami staple - reindeer meat. I am served chops and reindeer tongue with clear soup, a delicacy. My stomach growls as I look at the tongue unappetisingly stretched out on my plate. In the end I realise I have finished three helpings and many cups of soup. It was delicious.

The three are half-Sami and reflect the strong Sami culture for protecting animal species. A discussion ensues on the effects of technology on nature. From the window, as far as I can see, it is pristine nature. This is the route I take the next day.

All day I have nothing but wild beauty in front of me. Wilderness is irresistible but after a time you develop a hunger to share it with another person. Mari called it "Magi, magi" last night. Now I understand what she meant. It is magic, magic!

As I begin to descend, I notice the mosses and lichens giving a gentle splash of colour to the rocky hillsides and the edges of the bog. Perhaps these colours have been a source of inspiration for the Sami costume that is now worn only on special occasions. During Easter, particularly in Kautokeino, there are no bounds to this richness and colour, which make a magnificent sight.

At Skoganvarre I am in the lowlands where pine, blue fir and spruce grow and the reindeer dutifully troop south to their winter pasture. The road between Karasjok and Lakselv cuts through the plateau and runs further to North Cape. I look for skidoo tracks crossing the road that I can follow to climb up the western plateau again. Soon I come to a farmstead. A dog barks, a window opens, a sun-baked head pops out and I am asked who I am. I answer and am told that I don't have permission to go any further before I have had a cup of coffee with him. I have two.

I am now on my fourth and final lap. The journey from Skoganvarre will bring me back to Jotka, a circuit of almost 400 km on the Finnsmark plateau. The day's journey is dominated by Vuorje, which at 1,024m looms large, majestically overlooking the wide, flat terrain and sheltering Laevnjas javrre at its foot - one of the prime fishing locations. As I approach, I see a couple zip past on their skidoo. The wind starts blowing; I draw out my ski-sail but realise it is again a head wind as it has been throughout my journey. I camp as soon as I reach the end of the lake. The scene from my tent is exotic and I find it hard to relate it to anything I know. Imagine the red planet Mars with water, emerging out of the Ice Age. It is the closest I can get.

HARISH KOHLI
Outside a hotel in Finse, at an elevation of 1,222 metres.

The next day I meet three young men who are travelling from Norway's southern tip to North Cape - an adventure that many young Norwegians like to undertake after they graduate. I wish that many young Indians would show a similar spirit and go Trans-Himalaya.

Adventure, I suppose, cannot be taught in schools. It is caught from one generation by another. Fridtjof Nan-sen, Roald Amundsen, the Arctic explorers, and Thor Heyerdahl of the Kon Tiki and Ra expeditions, still are a great inspiration for Norw-egian youth. And the number of modern explorers such as Borge Ousland, Sjur Modre and Agnar Berg is on the rise.

Despite the inhospitable nature of the region and the ferocity of the winter, the people of Finnmark are greatly attached to their part of Norway. Outside an old unused telephone hut at Dollajuolgge, two boys sit on their skidoos and watch the wind blow the snow. I ask if they are coming or going. The answer is, neither. They are there just to be outdoors.

It is May, and the night is light. It is this pale, translucent light of what the Norwegians call a sommernetter (summer night) that is so much more remarkable than normal light. Instead of dipping, the sun begins to rise, rise and rise again. In this magical, diffused golden light, all normal rules of life seem suspended and anything at all is possible.

Just then, the wind tugs me from behind. I am thrilled. It is a back wind and could be perfect for sailing. Although it is late at night, I clip on my ski sail and I am ski-borne. The plateau ahead is wide, open and flat. On it are my sail, my pulk and myself travelling at great speed, without fear, moving as wildly as a skidoo. Travelling at this speed, I am more exhausted with excitement than by the pull of the sail in front and the pulk behind. I am in a trance, where only my sail and I exist. The only sound is of the wind and my skis zipping on the snow. This is ecstasy. I feel heady, drunk on life. I begin to understand why the Norwegians call their summer night the "time of life".

This day comes as a present from nature and I cherish it as the most beautiful in my life. It is a day I will live for again. It is a place I will come to again and again. And when I retire, I want to live here, die here. Is nature giving me a portent of success, by showing me that the wind can be harnessed and that I have been tried and tested? The wind took me south but will it take me to the South Pole?

Harish Kohli is an adventurer and explorer and founder of the Asian Geographic Trust for the promotion of adventure (www.asiangeographic.com). He is based in London where he works as a travel consultant and freelance travel writer. He is currently planning a solo Trans-Antarctic expedition and can be contacted on hckohli@asiangeographic.com