Through Arctic Lapland

by Charles John Cutcliffe Wright Hyne

The three Lapps were certainly foot-sore and shoulder-galled, and when at last they did start with us, one could not but be sorry for them, and they were undeniably sorry for themselves. But they soon made the best of the inevitable. We started off in a narrow canoe up a shallow creek between beds of tiny reeds and horsetails, and as soon as the paddles began to get into swing, their sulkiness passed from them like clouds from a summer sun. Pat grinned, and began negotiations for securing the lightest load; Pedr smiled beautifully over the steering paddle; and Johann broke out into a series of yells and roars which I think he intended as a boating song.

We landed by the other third of Pokka, a new house with two glass windows and a chimney of rubble stone. It seemed silent and deserted. The Lapps swung on past it at a limping gait, making the best of their ailments now that we were really on the road; and in three or four miles we found ourselves coming into a new phase of scenery. The trees of a great forest were round us, but they were older and finer trees than those we had come across heretofore. Reindeer moss carpeted the ground, and little black and tan lemmings ran about amongst the moss. As usual there were frequent swamps. But even these had changed in character. In the distance—and before we got to them to discover their wetness—they looked like lawns. It was hard to realise we were still deep within the cold, black Arctic Circle. In fact the whole country had that “park-like” appearance which is the great feature that always strikes every one about certain parts of Central Africa.

If all Arctic Lapland were like this slip of territory between Pokka and Scurujärvi, it would be worth the visits of lovers of beauty. The long tree-aisles bedecked with every shade from banana green to black, and peopled with the moving forms of deer, the green and silver of the birches with the living lace-work shadows, the glorious heaven above, and the ivory-yellow moss beneath, made up a marvel of colour and form which we told ourselves it would be hard to equal in a more Southern land. But it must be confessed that such oases of comeliness were rare; and perhaps from contrast with the aching wildernesses in which they were set, we were slightly apt to over-estimate their beauty.

There was some indication of a trail, too, nearly all the way. We would come upon a swamp, and see a broken path of logs winding across it like some long, gray snake, which disappeared here and there in the grass. Very good ankle-traps these log-tracks were too, for they were all shockingly rotten, and would turn sometimes almost before one trod on them. Nobody was interested in keeping them up, and one wondered why they had ever been put down. There is no summer traffic between the scattered farms of Arctic Lapland.

At one place we sat down for a halt in a broad savanna of grass, which must have been a dozen miles in circumference. There was not a bird to be seen, and, for once, there were comparatively few mosquitoes. But instead there were millions of dragon-flies, artificial-looking insects, which irresistibly reminded one of tin and clockwork mechanisms from the Lowther Arcade.

It was here, I remember, that the Lapps gave us a fine example of their fastidiousness about drink. The prairie was pitted with ponds and seamed with rivulets, and Hayter and I quenched our thirst from the stream which was nearest to our bivouac. Johann went and sampled it carefully, and then spat the water from his lips. It was not sufficiently cold for his taste. He went on farther and tried again, and farther and tried again, and still farther and farther, sampling and spitting. He was very tired, very foot-sore, and very thirsty; he was absolutely without the most elementary niceness in his food requirements, but in this matter of drink he did not mind how much trouble he spent so that he got his water icily cold. He spent an hour searching for a suitable tap, and when he had got it, consumed just one half-pint. And then Pat, who had been to much engaged in scratching himself to take part in the hunt, went off to share in its fruits.

Hills rose up ahead of us as we marched on, the highest we had seen since Enare, and our way lay through an alley fenced in by silvery birch-stems. The Lapps waddled wearily with their burdens; the Arctic sun beat fiercely on us from overhead; and the mosquitoes came out again to remind us that the flesh indeed was weak. The miles rolled themselves up most tediously.

One soon loses count of time under these conditions of tiredness, and insufficient food, and fever from bites; and marching becomes mechanical after the first few miles, and even the joy at seeing new country is staled. Only one thing puts spirit into the pace, and that is the sight of axe-work, which heralds the neighbourhood of man. Scurujärvi as usual advertised itself in this way. We topped a ridge and found ourselves amongst the stumps of a clearing. Unconsciously we all straightened ourselves. There was nothing in sight yet, but the next bridge showed us the town—of one house—and the long, narrow sliver of lake from which it took its name. The carriers’ limping waddle quickened into almost a run. We swung down the slopes, threw open the slip-rails of a fence—veritable slip-rails!—and brought up before the front of the house in quite dashing style. A sloping-way of planks led up to the door. A hard-visaged, capable madame beckoned us up, and with business-like promptitude showed us into the inevitable dairy-bedroom.

It really looked as though we had stumbled into decent quarters at last. The room was clean, and held a high, white, stone stove garnished with bunches of juniper. The milk-tubs stood orderly on rows of shelves, and their sourness was not obtrusive. And on one of the shelves was actually a book—a large, heavily-bound, religious book, with metal clasps and dull-red edges. The sight of it cheered us; it was the first time for many a weary mile we had come across folk human enough to possess a book. But as we got to know the people of Scurujärvi better, doubts assailed us on this point; and we looked inside the book, and found it was printed in the black letter; and we were driven to the conclusion that it was there more as a fetish than a thing of use.

The family lived in the big kitchen, and consisted of a long, feckless Finn, who was the owner of Scurujärvi; his limp, sickly wife, who was a new-made mother; a swarm of tow-headed, bare-legged brats; and two older boys who had grown to the stage of high boots and private tar-bottles. These two boys we were destined to see more of. The elder came into our room first to inspect us. He wore his ragged trousers tucked into the high boots aforesaid, and suspended by one brace over a gratuitously red shirt. His face and his whole get-up was one which we knew—one which a great many thousand other people know also.