Strong Sámi and Reindeer Skulls

Jess McGlothlin

I was new to the Russian style of dating. So new, in fact, that I didn’t realize the day was a date until halfway through.

It was mid-summer on the Russian Arctic tundra. Life had fallen into a routine of daylight, twilight, Atlantic salmon, and mosquitoes. Biblical numbers of mosquitoes. Mosquitos so thick we’d taken to wearing our waders and wading jackets even when we weren’t on the water, as at least Gore-Tex provided some sort of mechanic barrier against the tundra demons.

It was my first day off in weeks—I’d lost count how many—and Alexei, one of the mechanics, asked if I’d like to go for a hike and a picnic.

At least I thought that was what he asked. My Russian was still blossoming, and his English was non-existent. Tall, cute, and oh-so-very Russian, he’d come freshly from their military, where he’d done something pertaining to missiles. We never were able to translate what, exactly.

Alexei’s (Lesha, he urged me to call him early on) idea of a picnic was an eight-kilometer hike across boggy, mosquito-covered midsummer tundra to reach a small Sámi cabin. Used by nomadic reindeer herders, the little wooden hut stood abandoned for the summer. Home to copious amounts of posters with scantily-clad women, one inexplicable Chanel bag hanging on a nail along one wall, and an ancient—yet still stout—stove, the cabin was a welcome respite from the blood-suckers buzzing outside.

 

Littering the outside of the little hut was a selection of rusted-out military vehicles and fuel barrels, left to rust after some Arctic training exercise. There was also a single pull-up bar, which Lesha eyed with a somber, very Russian certainty, them simply noted, “Strong Sámi.”

In true Russian style, he’s managed to scrounge up a quality picnic. From where, I still don’t know. Our camp rations were limited. His rucksack magically produced sausages, bread, tomatoes, and apples, which prompted a heated bi-lingual discussion about how to eat apples. Russians peel.

He proudly produced a single Snickers bar, which we sliced into 1” chunks and ate with the knowledge we’d not soon get another contraband candy bar. I didn’t ask where he’d scrounged it. Lesha was, after all, the man who’d had a friend drive a glass jug of milk to Lovozero, our half-way supply shuttle point, to hand off to the helicopter pilot. The milk arrived icy and half-frozen. We’d taken it to the bar and poured shot glasses of the white, icy substance… our first fresh dairy in months.

In the Sámi hut, Lesha cooked the sausages, and we both relished in the way the smoke chased away the omnipresent buzzing bastards. He carefully plated the meal, setting out two plates on either side of the bench seats, and we settled in for what proved to be one of my better meals in Russia. Maybe because we’d bushwhacked our way across the bog to earn it. Maybe because he was so damn thoughtful with the whole thing. And maybe because there was some magic in the reindeer pelt-laden little hut. We each understood maybe a quarter of what the other way saying, but some things just don’t need a translator.

Refueled, we post-holed our way back across the tundra, pausing only to eyeball a decomposing reindeer skull, more mysterious military metal piles, and wolf tracks as broad as Lesha’s palm. The apple-peeling debate resurrected itself at our rest point on a plateau above the confluence of the Ponoi and the Purnache Rivers, smoke from the main fishing camp merely a smudge on the horizon. 

We weren’t bored. After all, there are plenty of ways to burn an afternoon date on the Arctic tundra.

 

About the Author
Jess McGlothlin sees her mission as a simple one: tell stories. Working as a freelance photographer and writer, she’s learned how to throw spears at coconuts in French Polynesia, dodge saltwater crocodiles in Cuba, stand-up paddleboard down Peruvian Amazon tributaries and eat all manner of unidentifiable food.

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