French Ghosts, Russian Nights, and American Outlaws: Souvenirs of a Professional Vagabond. Susan Spano

interest in the Samis. The ice Globe Theater has presented an abridged version of Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the Sami language. The village of Jukkasjarvi has a Sami cultural center with displays devoted to the woodcarving, shamanistic religion, and hunting practices of the indigenous people. Several tours offered by the Icehotel’s adventure center introduce visitors to the Sami way of life.

      On my snowmobiling adventure, I met Kjell Nutti, a full-blooded Sami, who led the tour. Nutti spends his free time hunting, and said he’s been able to stay in the land he loves because of the Icehotel.

      He took me and two couples on snowmobiles through the forest and over frozen swamps to a Sami campsite by a lake, where he prepared a lunch of smoked reindeer meat and vegetables, accompanied by piping hot coffee and tea. Afterward, as we stood in the middle of the iced-over lake, rimmed like a fine china teacup with those shades of blue and pink, it became clear why he loves Swedish Lapland.

      Later, my dogsled trip introduced me to the canines of the region. It was led by a young Norwegian, who hitched 12 surprisingly small, spry dogs, all part husky, in front of a wooden sleigh that carried five people sitting astride in a row, including the driver. The dogs howled in disharmonious concert, straining at their halters to get going, and occasionally lapped up snow as they pulled the sleigh over the frozen Torne River. My favorite was Puss, a black female. I’d never seen a dog with such ghostly pale blue eyes.

      Flying past the village, I found it hard to imagine what Jukkasjarvi would look like in the green of summer. Later, when I walked there, bundled up and chugging along like a little engine, I thought that winter actually becomes the place. With smoke rising from chimneys and windowpanes frosted over, the small frame houses seemed quintessentially cozy. In the yard of one home, kids had built an ice palace of their own. And at the far end of town, the 18th-century wooden church, surrounded by a graveyard and a picket fence, slumbered blissfully in a cloak of snow.

      Blissful sleep was much on my mind the day of my stay in the ice room. To kill time before turning in, I had a long dinner in the restaurant, handsomely decorated with Swedish antique cabinets, paintings, and sconces. The meal started with smoked salmon stuffed with cream cheese and the house white wine, from Alsace, France. The entrée—grilled tenderloin of beef in Madeira sauce with a terrine of root vegetables—was followed by a dessert of chocolate mousse. Everything about the meal was exceptional, including the service. When I told the waiter I was sleeping in the Icehotel that night, he advised me to pass on after-dinner coffee.