Six months in the North

This past week, I realized that I’ve now lived in the north for six months. When you say it like that, it sounds like a short time, but in reality, I feel like I’ve been here a long time—always. Maybe I have been, and now I’ve just physically moved here.

In six months, I feel like I’ve learned the ways of the land—at least, that’s what I think.

The reindeer that roam the roads daily no longer surprise this newcomer from the south as much as they did in the summer. I know they don’t mindlessly leap in front of cars; instead, they calmly stroll along the roadside. I could even claim to have seen them look left and right before crossing the road. Only the most hurried long-distance trucks—probably from Norway or Kilpisjärvi—honk at the herds, trying to make them move off the icy roads, and often succeeding. I’ve only seen the aftermath of a reindeer collision once in the winter snow. Given the number of reindeer, collisions are surprisingly rare.

A week ago, I received a true Lapland baptism by joining a reindeer roundup. The real deal, where you warm your frostbitten fingers over a fire made from resin-rich wood. Where everyone has a leuku, the Lappish knife, not for making neat cuts in sausage but for chopping down small fell birches into sticks, onto which you skewer a piece of self-hunted, smoked elk meat. Reindeer herders’ children were also there, taking time off school to count and mark their family’s reindeer. Alongside them, I drove and helped catch reindeer calves. Larger reindeer required more strength, skill, and experience. For me, grabbing the antlers of a wild calf running past at speed and holding it still long enough for the vet to administer a shot was challenging enough.

“How have you adjusted to living in the north? Has your car been working well as you drive between the fell villages? How’s the dog doing—does the cold bother it? Does the cabin stay warm at night?” These are the familiar questions I hear from people I meet in the village, at the store, or on nature trails. It’s best to answer them candidly, without beating around the bush like city folk tend to do. In a small town, the community is close-knit.

At a fell village 50 kilometers away, they recognized me at the rental shop when I wrote down my name and address at the counter: “You’re the one who lives in that cabin by the river!” The neighbor who stops by for coffee is known the next day as the husband of someone’s aunt in the village. Everyone is connected in some way, and everyone knows each other. In small circles, there are benefits, especially in today’s world of mass bureaucracy. If you don’t know something, someone nearby surely will. It’s people who matter here, not bots, machines, or automated responses.

Time moves slowly in the northern cold. There’s no rush, people often say. The winter light is scarce, and daily life goes on here, but at a more laid-back pace. The car might not start in the morning, and a snowplow could leave a meter-high drift blocking the driveway. Hakuna matata, as they’d say on the savannas of the southern hemisphere. Here, we save those words for a better occasion, grab a shovel, and get to work.

I’m not the only one who has found the northern climate relaxing, calming, even life-saving. Many people share similar stories: they came north to escape the rush, work pressure, stress, and burnout, and ended up staying. “We came for a year; now we’re on our thirteenth” is a common response when asked how they ended up here. People find partners, families, work, and that something special often called the magic of Lapland.

It may be hard to come here, but it’s even harder to leave.

The same realities of life apply in the north—you need a job, a livelihood, people around you, hobbies, and a roof over your head. The glossy images of northern lights filling social media don’t always tell the right story about what life here is really like. Given the circumstances, I’m actually proud of how these small regions persist in offering work and recreational opportunities to their residents. There’s no public transport, but the tight-knit community finds ways to organize ride-sharing. If you don’t have the right tools, you can borrow an entire tool shed from a neighbor. And if the village shop is missing something, a sales truck arrives every week, offering everything from wool pants to handmade goods—or chainsaws. Yes, there’s a truck that regularly comes to the village store to sell chainsaws.

Life follows its own paths here, and not all of them are ones you can choose. Still, I feel like walking those paths is lighter here, and the sky above them is more spacious. Breathing comes freely. The backpack on my shoulders may be heavy, and the fell’s slope steep, but my step is light, and my mind is clear. I don’t long to be far away—far away is right here. If, and when I can choose, I’ll choose the northern paths—sometimes heavy and snow-covered—that I intend to keep walking in the future.

So lovely to have you along on this journey with me!

♥: Sanna