"Yes, I have a special knife in the car in case I need it." Tuija, our guide, is zipping along the road in a spanking new VW SUV across Lapland, a misnomer for Samiland. Our destination is Inari, about 300 km north of the Arctic Circle, on the western shore of Lake Inari, the heart of Inari Saami country. Beyond the vast wooded valleys, the summer afternoon sun takes forever on its way to the horizon, filtering light through the crests of birches and pines, washing the rivers and ponds in white silver. High above us, occasional eagles glide silently. For long stretches of time we drive through a seemingly human-free landscape. So, why a knife in the car? Unfriendly Sami? Brown bears? No. Reindeers.

Before Santa Claus or written records, reindeer herding has been at the core of the Inari Sami's survival, their reciprocal relationship ensuring the survival of both species in this harsh wilderness.

Never slowing down for moment, Tuija explains that she must remain alert to avoid hitting a reindeer at all costs. I tighten my seat belt a little and ask her to elaborate. If you ever contemplate driving in Finland, know that reindeers have absolute priority.

Know also that blowing your horn is useless: they either pay you no attention, or stop and stare at you or, worse, may be irritated into charging your car. If the animal gets hurt in the process, it's entirely your fault. What you do is wait till they move on. If, in the worse case scenario, you hit the animal, two possibilities arise: you wounded it or you killed it. Tuija explains," . . .in case an accident should happen, the reindeer gets killed immediately. The worse is that it runs away with broken leg or other hurt, because then it's difficult or impossible to catch. And if it is badly hurt but still alive my duty is to end his suffering by cutting his throat or by pushing the knife through the neck into his brains!"

The prospect sends cold shivers down our spines. After all, we have come here to marvel at the sight of them, not as would-be executioners. Tuija, confident in her driving skills, speeds on, " It is also my duty to let the blood run out the animal by cutting its throat so that the owner could at least give the meat to the dogs . . . Sounds brutal, but it is true!" She gets no denials from her passengers. But there is more to come. "When the animal is dead," our guide continues "then I have to contact the nearest village and wait for two representatives to come and examine it, take down all my information and cut the ear." "Cut the ear! Why?" we exclaim in stricken unison. Well, the Sami don't brand their cattle. Instead, a yearling's ear is marked with a series of identifying cuts. The ear will be the evidence needed for the owner to receive reparations from the insurance company. Well, you can guess what the question was, and the answer is, up to 2,000 Euros depending on the animal's gender, age, expertise (like pulling a sleigh or racing for championships).

Suddenly, we stop. On our right, a small group is grazing along the road. The males are in full antlers, ready for the confrontations of the mating season in a few weeks. Their antlers will drop soon after and the castrated males' between December and February. The females dropped their antlers back in spring, a week after the birth of their young. By that time, a calf can keep up with the herd and no longer relies on maternal protection from the preying of bears, wolverines and eagles.

For all their centuries of co-dependence on the humans, reindeers are only half-tame. Most of their life is spent on the open fell, the high rocky moorland that covers Northern Finland and Norway, where they roam free till round-up time in late summer. These round-ups are depicted in drawings dating back 6,000 years and the corrals used today are still based on the same model, a huge circle fenced with supple birch branches with smaller individual corrals attached outside its perimeter.

In the 1950's, the snowmobile drastically altered the round-up process. "Some women told me they were very unhappy," says Tujia "because the men used to be gone for weeks rounding up the animals in a large area. With the snowmobile, they would go for the day and then come home at night. That means that the women, who used to have a break in housework and cooking, now have no time off." We are four women in the car and our sympathies are firmly aligned with the wives.

Round-ups are the major annual events here, a time when the fate of virtually every animal is in the balance. Females fare better since they assure the next generation. "You need at least 250 females to make a herd profitable," explains Tuija. The males chances are more dicey. Herders keep only a few breeding bulls to lessen the chances of fighting injuries during the mating season; others will be tamed by castration and trained to work along their owner, pulling sleighs across the winter snow, for example. The balance is sold to new owners or slaughtered. Our small group by the road keeps us in the corner of their eyes, ready to trot away if we move too close. I wonder whether the just-weaned yearlings will make it through another season with their family. Eventually, they lose interest in the patch of sharp thick grass and move away.

That evening, our hotel menu offers reindeer ragout. I imagine a tasty venison dish but my diary's entry reads, "awful, overcooked, tasteless, tepid." For now, reindeer are safe from my carnivorous appetite. (November 2004)