FINLAND • Lapland
Field Entry: 04
November 13- 18, 2023
Wildlife Encounters via Apukka Resort
Reindeer & Winter Survival in the Arctic
We landed on what looked like a sheet of ice.
As the plane slowed, the runway and the surrounding landscape seemed to blur into one continuous stretch of white. Evergreen trees stood heavy with snow, their branches sagging under the weight. The air felt different the moment we stepped outside — sharp, clean, almost metallic in the way deep cold settles in your lungs. Our boots pressed into packed snow with a firm crunch. It was bright, but the sun hovered low, as though it had no intention of climbing higher.
By what would normally feel like midday, long blue shadows were already stretching across the ground. The light never quite reached overhead. It moved sideways, grazing the surface of the snow and making everything appear softer and quieter than it should have been.
We took a shuttle to Apukka Resort, watching the white landscape pass by the windows — forest, frozen water, more forest. After settling in, we walked toward the lodge, the children pulling at mittens and scarves, eager to explore. That was when we saw them.
Reindeer crossing the frozen lake.
At first they looked almost weightless against the snow. Then the details came into focus — dark legs lifting carefully, heads steady, antlers outlined against the pale sky. They moved in a long line across the ice, not close together but spaced in a way that felt deliberate. The only sound was the faint scrape of hooves on the frozen surface.
The lake felt solid beneath our feet when we stepped onto it later, thick and dependable. The children ran without hesitation, laughter carrying across the open space. Our youngest field journalists, only two at the time, napped outdoors beneath reindeer hides, bundled on sleds as we pushed them between lodge and forest. The runners of the sled whispered across the snow. What we were watching that afternoon — both the reindeer and our children — was life unfolding comfortably within winter.
Up Close
The next day, we saw them differently.
Our sleds were connected in a long train, and the reindeer pulling the sled behind us walked just beside us — close enough to study every detail. Velvet hung loosely from their antlers, shedding in long strands as they moved. It swayed with each step, soft and almost fragile-looking against the snow.
I hadn’t realized until later that this was seasonal timing. By late autumn, reindeer shed the velvet that once supplied blood to growing antlers. The breeding season has already passed, and the antlers are fully formed. What we were seeing was transition — biology marking the shift from growth to winter endurance.
Up close, their coats revealed subtle variations in color and texture, thicker and denser than they appear from a distance. They moved with calm certainty, following a route they clearly knew well, pulling us steadily toward a traditional Sámi lavvu where we were welcomed inside for warmth and tea.
We listened as a woman shared stories of reindeer herding and seasonal rhythms that have shaped life in this region for generations. Outside, we fed the reindeer lichen — their primary winter food, scraped from beneath the snow. They ate calmly, focused and unbothered by the cold.
Throughout the week, we continued to see them — crossing open stretches of snow, moving between trees, always aligned with the season.
Winter, Designed
Reindeer are built for winter in ways that allow this steadiness to exist.
Their fur is layered, with hollow guard hairs that trap air and create insulation so effective that snow can rest on their backs without melting. Beneath that outer layer is dense underfur that holds warmth close to the body.
Their nasal passages warm incoming Arctic air before it reaches the lungs, conserving heat with every breath. Even their hooves change with the seasons. In summer, the pads are softer for traction on wet ground. In winter, the pads tighten and the rim hardens, helping them grip ice and dig through snow to reach lichen beneath.
None of this looked dramatic from where we stood on the frozen lake. It looked ordinary.
But that ordinariness is the result of precise biological design. In Arctic environments, conserving energy matters. Movement is measured. Food is accessed carefully. Light is limited. The body must work efficiently within all of it.
It felt reliable.
Kristen
Creatures Are Our Teachers™
Let Science Run Wild.
