Imagine a world where ancient traditions collide with cutting-edge technology, all set against the breathtaking backdrop of Sweden’s untamed wilderness. This is the real story of Rudolph’s kin—the reindeer herded by the Sami people, a culture both resilient and misunderstood. But here’s where it gets controversial: while many associate reindeer with Santa’s sleigh and touristy charm, the reality is far more complex, rooted in centuries of struggle, adaptation, and survival. This is the part most people miss—the Sami’s modern-day battle to preserve their way of life while embracing innovation.
High atop a snow-draped hill, two figures sit bundled in thick, padded clothing, their backs resting against snowmobiles. One scans the valley with binoculars, while the other tinkers with a drone equipped with a speaker and thermal imaging. ‘It’s all about keeping the herd in sight,’ explains Elvjin, the younger of the two, as he pours steaming coffee. ‘When calving season hits, predators like bears, wolverines, and eagles become a real threat.’ This isn’t your storybook reindeer herding—it’s a high-stakes, tech-driven endeavor.
Before arriving in Sweden’s western mountains, I imagined reindeer herding as a quaint, traditional practice. But this trip shattered my preconceptions. The Sami’s way of life, though authentic, has been both repressed and commodified—reduced to tourist traps of sleigh bells and embroidery. Yet, here, it thrives as a genuine, evolving culture. Elvjin’s father, Peter, laughs as he sums it up: ‘Reindeer herding is a tough business. We use every tool at our disposal.’ And it’s a lucrative one too, with reindeer meat highly prized across Scandinavia.
Peter’s story is a testament to resilience. Raised in the 1960s by grandparents who once lived in tipis, he grew up in a world where speaking the Sami language was punishable. In the 19th century, Christian missionaries destroyed shamanic drums and built churches on sacred sites, leaving scars that still linger. Yet, Peter and his wife, Helena, have turned this history into a bold initiative: a tour offering an authentic glimpse into modern Sami life. Alongside income from their handicraft shop, they subsidize Elvjin’s full-time role guarding the reindeer—a job he loves. ‘Most Sami can’t afford to dedicate this much time to their herds,’ Peter notes.
The herd below us—800 strong—is cooperatively owned by the community of Grövelsjön, a village near the Norwegian border. Each reindeer bears an ear mark identifying its owner. But herd management is fraught with challenges. ‘The government allows us 2,700 reindeer,’ Peter explains, ‘but predators take over 10% annually.’ This raises a contentious question: How do we balance wildlife conservation with livelihoods? Peter’s solution? ‘Modern technology can help us target only the predators that threaten reindeer.’ But when it comes to wolves, he’s unwavering: ‘Wolves and reindeer cannot coexist.’
As the sun breaks through, a line of reindeer appears on the horizon. Peter lies on a patch of moss, his face turned skyward, and begins a haunting joik—a traditional Sami song. It’s a moment of pure connection to this ancient culture. Later, from a wooden cabin, Peter scans the landscape, struggling to describe the reindeer’s location in English. ‘Our language is made for this environment,’ he explains. ‘We have multiple words for snow-free mossy areas alone.’
The herd’s instincts add another layer of complexity. ‘This time of year, they want to walk west, into the wind, to detect predators,’ Peter says. Herdsmen counter this by placing food sacks, as we’re doing now. After feeding the reindeer, we ride snowmobiles into a wooded valley, arriving at a clearing with old cabins. Helena shares the story of a woman who once ran a farm here, abandoned by her husband yet denied divorce—a stark reminder of the hardships faced by women in the past.
Inside one cabin, we light a magnificent old cooking range. As dusk falls, Helena brews unsweetened coffee, served in handmade wooden cups. Peter adds scraps of cheese and reindeer biltong to his—a tradition that surprisingly works. Curious about pre-coffee days, Helena brews lichen tea, a bitter reminder of why coffee caught on. Over a long, rolling discussion, Peter reflects on his upbringing in a tipi and the old practices that have faded. ‘My grandfather once took a reindeer to Stockholm by train,’ he recalls. ‘He moved here in 1930 after the government reversed its policy of eradicating reindeer herding.’
The conversation turns to Peter’s father, a talented skier who competed in two Winter Olympics despite never having seen a large town. Yet, reindeer remained the family’s focus. ‘Even Loovis, our pet reindeer, is part of the household,’ Helena adds, sharing the story of an orphaned calf they adopted.
As night falls, I’m left alone in a cabin, the fire burning low, thinking of the hibernating bears nearby. The next day, we visit Peter’s brother, Thomas, who cares for Loovis and a small herd of semi-domesticated reindeer used to acclimate the main herd to humans. Walking with them through the forest, we dig a snow bench, light a fire, and drink coffee as the reindeer forage for lichen. It’s a simple yet profound experience.
My final night is spent in a tipi, wrapped in down sleeping bags, a log burner humming beside me. I leave the canvas door ajar to watch the stars, feeling privileged to have witnessed this blend of ancient and modern Sami life. But here’s the question: As we marvel at their resilience, are we doing enough to support indigenous cultures like the Sami? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep this conversation alive.
