Hunting the Aurora Borealis on dark Arctic nights

"On cold nights it's common to see the aurora borealis," Juha, my host, tells me on arrival in northern Finland. The morning I land at Ivalo airport, in the heart of Finnish Lapland, the sky is shrouded in a thick blanket of cloud.

I'm beginning to doubt that I'll have the slightest chance of seeing anything that night, let alone the Northern Lights. For years I've harboured this desire to see this spectacle live, and I've considered various other places to do so, from Sweden to Norway or Canada.

Inari, in Finland, is one of the last settlements before we reach the sea and it points the way to the North Pole, straddling the border with Norway and Russia. I enter the Arctic Circle, one of my favourite places to enjoy the aurora borealis in its full splendour.

Juha, my Sami host, and his family welcome me with open arms. I stay in one of the wooden huts. With his white complexion and rosy cheeks, Juha speaks fluent English and lives with his family in this remote part of Lapland.

He tells me that he has reindeer meat for sale and I immediately imagine the intense aroma of a delicacy that my palate has not yet tasted, while outside I see the smoke from the chimney resulting from the pine wood burning and invading the Lapland skies.

Niklas, a journalist friend on the national television of Finland, advised me to plan the trip for November, when the snow has already arrived, the weather is cold but stable, and the sky is regularly clear. However, nothing prepares us for the moments of waiting, anxiety, and anticipation.

Surrealism or realism in Lapland?

I've been to several countries in Eastern and Northern Europe, but it's in Finland - or Lapland to be more precise - that I find perhaps the most beautiful, seductive and attractive winter landscape. This thought occurs to me above all when I'm speeding through the forest on a sled pulled by several people. huskies - dogs that are more than just pets. However, this divine landscape invites you to travel slowly and appreciate every detail.

In the forests and woodlands, trees and shrubs seem to have been planted with a ruler and square, in perfect alignment. The faint sunlight emphasises the immaculate white of the snow on their tops, their open arms, their exposed trunks.

Natural lines, neutral but enveloping colours, as if a genius painter had set up his studio here for several decades and, with a giant brush, was able to create this idyllic setting.

Man's intervention amounts to little more than one or two wooden huts scattered every ten kilometres. On the main road, I can count on one hand the cars I meet along the way.

All with snow chains, or like me, with special tyres for driving on roads where you can feel the ice and can't even see the tarmac. There are no exceptions, all the vehicles have their headlights on, but the lights I'm looking for are different and come from above. They are the magical lights of the Aurora Borealis.

From the sauna to the frozen lake

It's November and the sun, with its low intensity, doesn't rise above the horizon. The days have just over four hours of sunlight, which is only a detail because it's at night that the hunt for the aurora borealis intensifies. Outside, the darkness is complete, while the sky - previously covered in clouds - opens up to an infinite starry horizon.

I've heard and read countless stories of other travellers who have travelled dozens of kilometres each night in search of the northern lights, but I decide to wait for the show at the chalet. Isolated from any settlement or light pollution, I shelter from the almost minus 17 or 18 degrees outside.

I seek comfort in the comforting warmth of a fireplace, a Finnish sauna, a glass of red wine and a chat with friends.

O chalet where I'm staying is perfect. It's in a remote location and a few metres away is a lake - just one of hundreds in Finland. It's frozen over and you can even walk on it. The cold is immense, there's no moon, the night is dark and the sky is clear. The only thing missing is what brought me here: the Aurora Borealis. An excellent place to go on holiday in winter.

We've established a rule: go out onto the street (or the lake) in rotating 15-minute shifts to make sure the northern lights don't pass us by or over us. Zé, a long-time friend who travels with me, is the first to spy the skies.

I called myself shortly afterwards, close to 11pm, amid feelings of doubt and excitement. After fending off the onset of cloudy skies, temperatures hovering around minus 17 degrees Celsius and even a false alarm about the sighting of the Northern Lights, the dance finally begins.

The viewing angle is vast. The aurora borealis advances without warning. The green light, bright and intense like a soft mask in the starry sky. It almost makes Ursa Minor blush with embarrassment - or maybe it makes her smile.

I'm sure it makes you smile, and the only reason your smile isn't bigger is because your face is frozen from the cold. Only the snap of cameras and a few footsteps in the snow break the rhythm and silence of a masterful ballet of colour on the black, icy night of the Arctic Circle.

Stunned, we watched the phenomenon for the 15 minutes it lasted. It would return (and so would we) that night and the next to illuminate the frozen lake and our souls.

Reindeer: from Hollywood to the restaurant table

It's not long before I'm "forced" to pull over to the side of the road, overlooking an extensive lake - frozen over, of course. What I see is in line with the warnings I've read about driving precautions in this part of Lapland.

The reindeer take priority over (almost) everything and appear unexpectedly from around a bend or from the edge of the forest. They cross several tens or hundreds of cubic metres of water - now in the form of ice and snow. These animals are the face, body and soul of the whole of Lapland. From the landscape to the plate. In the past, present and, most probably, future. And they are the basis of many families' livelihoods.

Emboldened by Hollywood and Christmas fables, reindeer have gained a fantastical and mythical halo. From fur for artefacts, coats, gloves and other clothing - such as Juha's mother's handmade fur boots - to meat for the most varied culinary preparations. "You just put the reindeer meat in the pan with a little salt and butter and a few minutes later it's ready," reveals my host.

I would later follow his advice, but I would also discover how difficult it is to distinguish between butter and cheese on the shelves of Inari's supermarket - unless you understand Finnish. On a visit to the huge freezer Juha has built on his farm, he explains to me that everything can be used from a reindeer, including bones and antlers.

While Juha is talking, I'm having trouble working out whether it's colder inside the fridge or outside - it seems to me that the outside wins by a wide margin.

There is also a luxury delicacy, smoked meat. The price is marked: €105 per kilo. The process takes about a month, until all the water has been extracted and the drying is complete. I'd risk buying 100 grams. The taste is strong but flavoursome. Perhaps more intense than venison or lamb.

Throughout my stay, reindeer would be on the menu at 80 per cent of meals, including reindeer pizza at one of the few restaurants in Inari. Don't worry, the menus guaranteed that it wasn't Rodolfo the reindeer or any of his inseparable travelling companions.

As always, we'll all continue to receive presents distributed with the help of Father Christmas's reindeer.

Aurora Borealis in the lands of Arctic nomads

My host is of Sami ethnicity. The Sami, or Lapps, are a native people - numbering around 80,000 - from the northern region of Europe that includes Finland, Sweden, Norway and some areas of Russia. Hunting, fishing and reindeer herding have always been the main activities since its origins.

The Sami languages are indecipherable to any foreign traveller and not even among the Lapps themselves are they fully understood.

United, the Lapps have managed to get their influence and importance recognised in the various countries where they live, with the creation of their own parliaments and the transnational celebration of National Day on 6 February. In Finland, the Sami parliament has 21 members.

The Sami are entirely dependent on the movements of the reindeer which, in the summer of the mythical midnight sun, set off in search of the best pastures. In the summer months, the calves, now adults, have been marked on their skin with the blade of a knife, a ritual that allows the Sami herders to recognise their animals when they are separated.

When Autumn arrives, it’s time to gather them with the help of quad bikes, sleds, or snowmobiles. The task of separating the reindeer by their respective owners can take between four and eight hours, sometimes extending until dawn.

Reconnaissance takes place in a kind of circular stable, or arena, shared by dozens of wild animals with sharp antlers and men, women and teenagers, who fearlessly advance towards the antlers to grab each reindeer.

Next to me, watching this unique spectacle, were just two other holidaymakers with Polish accents, wearing high heels, clearly uncomfortable in the blanket of snow and the polar Arctic cold. I would see them disappear a few moments later into the freezing fog, just before a reindeer almost managed to jump over the fence, which was more than two metres high.

The thermometer dropped to minus 20 degrees this evening and my host's empirical explanation was confirmed. The aurora borealis was once again going to put on her gala dress and give me another silent, divine dance of light and colour.

According to ancient Sami mythology, you shouldn't whistle while watching the aurora borealis because it brings bad luck. In silence, with frozen lips, without whistling, I clearly feel lucky.

Note: This text was originally written for the in-flight magazine of the Portuguese airline TAP. It has since been revised, rewritten and published on the blog.

Also see everything you need to know to see the Northern Lights and how to photograph the Northern Lights.

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