We were on the road to the end of the world, and suddenly there was no land in sight. We had
picked up a four-wheel-drive rental car in Alta, Norway. My travel companion, Jim Martin, a
photographer, and I were approaching Nordkapp, also called North Cape, 132 miles away. The
site is the most northerly point in Europe accessible by road: there's nothing much between you
and the North Pole but a lot of Arctic Sea.
We were hoping we wouldn't drive off the 1,000 foot cliff before we had even seen it. It was late May and early June of last year, but high above the Arctic Circle our car was engulfed in snow and mist. The only focal points to break up the whiteout and keep us on the road were tall sticks stuck in the snow to mark where the roads are that added to the other-worldly scene.
Into the mist we advanced, finally spotting a road sign, "Nordkapp." A big, idling SnowCat was waiting, with a driver, to shuttle visitors up the hill. We jumped into the rear cabin and thundered off, arriving a few minutes later at Europe's farthest outpost.
We entered the Nordkapp Hall, a visitors' center run by Scandinavian Airlines System that extends for four floors down into the mountain. The top level contains a restaurant, an office dispensing information about the area and a Scandinavian gallery; the next floor is a museum containing dioramas of past visitors to Nordkapp, over a period of four centuries; the third level has a chapel with artwork by children from around the world. Finally, a tunnel burrows into the cliff and leads to an underground bar and observation lounge with panoramic views north out to sea. In majestic isolation, we sipped champagne and ate caviar.
Nordkapp is the prime vantage point for observing the midnight sun. From May 13 to July 29 the sun dips to just above the horizon, then rises again at midnight to turn night into pale afternoon. According to the log in the center's lobby, many visitors also arrived during the 67 days when there is no daylight there, from Nov. 18 to Jan 23. Nordkapp is visited by 100,000 people each year from around the world. There is no permanent settlement there.
In 1664 Francesco Negri, a priest from Ravenna, Italy, was the first known explorer to set foot on Europe's final bastion against the open seas. He wrote: "Here I am at the North Cape.... and I can say that in all the world my thirst for knowledge is now fulfilled."
Thanks to the ease of driving the Arctic highway, which goes from Sweden, up near Nordkapp and into Russia, today, we could explore further. We spent the night in a hotel in Honningsvag, a small town about an hour from Nordkapp, and the next day drove 150 miles southeast, through the heart of Finnmark County, or Lapland. The largest uninterrupted area of wilderness in Europe, it shelters alpine lakes, pristine salmon streams, bear, arctic fox, wolves and reindeer herds. We had arranged through local companies a two-day trip that would allow us to sample the culture of the Samis, as the nomadic people of Lapland like to be called. Four hours after leaving our hotel we reached Karasjok, a Sami town of 2,700, at the bottom of a valley, surrounded by pine and birch forests.
Karasjok is the Sami cultural and social capital, with an excellent museum and meeting hall for the newly established Sami Parliament. Built of native pine, the building has a variety of exhibits, well labeled in English, and a small theater where you can see slide presentations, also translated into English, on Sami life. In the museum we learned that Sami nomads arrived in Norway 10,000 years ago, possibly originating from the Somojed tribe in Siberia. There are now about 60,000 Sami in all, half of them in Norway. The reindeer has traditionally been the backbone of Sami existence, representing a livelihood and a means of transportation; providing food and milk, as well as leather and fur for clothing, tents and shoes. Today about 1,000 Sami earn their living herding 160,000 domestic reindeer; other occupations include farming, mining, private trade and tourism.
We checked into the modern S.A.S. Karasjok Hotel near the museum, which has a sauna and other comfortable amenities. From there we could walk to almost everything worth seeing in the town. That night we joined some other foreign visitors and an interpreter at a traditional Sami dinner of smoked salmon and reindeer stew inside a gammen - a comfortable log house covered over with sod and warmed by a fireplace. After dinner entertainment included joiks, the Sami's musical mode of expression since ancient times - eerie tremolos and ululations meant to convey the inner spirit of a person, animal or place. After listening to the wild concertos it was easy to understand how the Sami have been perceived by outsiders as mystical, possessing a special kinship with nature.
The next morning we joined three or four visitors at the edge of town, including those from dinner the night before, for a reindeer ride. Climbing aboard our single sleighs, nearly everyone cracked a smile as the hoofed and antlered ones took off. The reindeer flew the two miles uphill to the camp of the herder, Kirsten Berit Gaup, who would be our host for the next few hours.
In a clearing where two tepees and in the main llavvo, or tent, we sat crossed-legged in a circle on reindeer skins around a blazing fire. Through a Sami interpreter, Kirsten told the group about her life. She was born in a llavvo in the traditional sector of Lapland. Along with another Sami woman, she has pressed authorities and Sami interest groups to establish equal ownership rights to reindeer herds for women. The case is now before the Norwegian Department of Justice.
Although Kirsten owns her herd because she is a widow with no sons, she will not be able to pass it on to her daughter, Anna Rauma Gaup. When I asked how large Kirsten's reindeer herd is, the interpreter remained silent for a moment, then said, "That is considered impolite to ask - as it would be to as you, ‘How much money do you have in the bank!'"
Kirsten served a hearty lunch of soup and homemade bread in the tent, and told stories of wandering the tundra with the reindeer herds. As we were about to leave, a stray reindeer, a young doe lost for a week suddenly showed up in the clearing, prancing around wide-eyed. Kirsten held a rope behind her back and stepped slowly through the snow. Just as the doe was about to bolt back into the bush, the lasso loop sailed through the air. The wild one was tied to our reindeer train as we blitzed downhill. On the ride back to Karasjok, I learned that Kirsten's rapport with reindeer runs in the family. Kirsten said her daughter, Anna, who helps manage Kirsten's herd, has been chosen to provide reindeer from that herd for the opening ceremonies at the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer, Norway, next February.
We had initially planned to leave the next day, but we had heard there would be a Sami wedding and asked, through the interpreter, if we could attend. We joined 400 guests, many traveling from distant towns and villages. They gathered at the house of the bride and groom, then walked en masse, couple by couple, a mile through town to the pine church.
During the procession, thick clouds moved in and in low light the traditional Sami clothing glowed. The bright red and blue coats were adorned with hand-embroidery and traditional silver jewelry. The Samis wore four-point "star" hats; reindeer fur leggings, and fur boots with curled-up toes (so the ski bindings won't slip off). Soon it began to snow, which only accentuated the richness of the clothing.
After the ceremony everyone gathered in a nearby reception hall, where the wedding party went on for three days - feasting, drinking and dancing. There we met a Sami "sailor man" - a middle-aged maverick who left the homeland and reindeer herds to work for 13 years on international freighters. Hans was the unofficial Sami ambassador to the world, wearing his traditional clothing in the ports of call and singing private joiks and popular songs on his guitar in four languages. I asked the lifelong musician who his favorite guitarist was.
"Jimi Hendrix," he said, referring to the American rock artist. "He is very famous here in Sami-land. He was the father of the guitar, and his style of play is understood here. Like our shamans, he performed in a trance - bringing back messages from the other world..."
Before we left, Hans pulled out a big knife and walked over to a birch tree, slicing off a square from the papery bark, then wrote his name and address on it.
His card went into my briefcase and has never left.
