Preserving Vanishing Cultures: A Journey to the Nenets of Siberia

February 2013 – One of the greatest motivations behind my travels is the opportunity to visit exotic cultures and indigenous tribes—communities that have managed to preserve their traditions despite the relentless forces of globalization.

I am drawn to those who still dress uniquely, speak ancient languages, and live in ways that are vastly different from my own.

In today’s rapidly homogenizing world, where cultures are increasingly blending into one, these traditional ways of life are disappearing at an alarming rate.

• Languages are fading.
• Traditional clothing is being replaced by mass-produced fashion.
• Centuries-old customs are being forgotten.
• Even the landscapes that sustain these cultures are vanishing.

For Arctic tribes, this struggle is particularly acute.

Many have faced:

• Forced assimilation into mainstream society.
• The erosion of their cultural heritage.
• The devastating effects of alcoholism and depression.
• Some of the highest suicide rates in the world.

The Call of the Arctic: Meeting the Nenets

When I learned about the Nenets of the Siberian Arctic, I knew I had to see their world firsthand.

Unlike many Arctic communities that have been absorbed into modern society, the Nenets remain truly nomadic, moving across the frozen tundra as their ancestors have for centuries.

• They follow their reindeer herds, migrating across thousands of miles.
• They live in chum, traditional teepee-like tents made from reindeer hides.
• They wear hand-sewn fur garments, crafted from the very animals they depend on for survival.

Their ability to survive and thrive in some of the harshest conditions on Earth, all while preserving their centuries-old traditions, makes them one of the most fascinating indigenous groups left on the planet.

Visiting them was not just about witnessing their way of life—

It was about understanding a disappearing world before it’s gone forever.

And so, I went.

The Nenets of Yamal: Surviving at the End of the World

The Yamal Peninsula is one of the harshest inhabited places on Earth. A flat, featureless expanse of frozen tundra, it endures sub-zero temperatures for most of the year, with winter temperatures often plunging to -50°C (-58°F). Even its name, Yamal, is a Nenets word meaning “the end of the world”.

Despite these extreme conditions, the Nenets people have thrived here for thousands of years, adapting their way of life to the unforgiving Arctic environment. Originally hunters, they turned to reindeer domestication as wild game became scarce, shaping a culture that revolves entirely around their herds. Interestingly, though they live above the Arctic Circle, the Nenets are more closely related to Mongolian pastoralists than to other Arctic Indigenous groups.

A Life Built Around Reindeer

For the Nenets, reindeer are everything—not just a source of food, but also clothing, shelter, and transportation. Their nomadic lifestyle is dictated by the need to find fresh pasture for their herds, which graze on Arctic grasses and lichen buried beneath the snow.

The Nenets revere their reindeer. Though they rely on them for food, they consider them sacred, believing in reincarnation into reindeer form. Their spiritual beliefs are deeply rooted in shamanism, ancestral worship, and their own pantheon of gods. Unlike many Indigenous groups that have succumbed to outside influences, the Nenets have resisted both Soviet-era communism and missionary efforts to erase their traditions. Their distinct Nenets language remains widely spoken alongside Russian.

A Culture Under Threat

Today, approximately 45,000 Nenets live in the Yamal Peninsula, with nearly half still practicing a fully nomadic lifestyle. However, this way of life is increasingly under threat. Yamal is one of Russia’s largest natural gas-producing regions, and the Nenets’ traditional migration routes have been disrupted by pipelines cutting across the tundra. Worse still, pollution from industrial activity has poisoned grazing lands, leading to reindeer deaths—a devastating loss for the Nenets. Many of the herders I met expressed frustration and anger at how the natural gas industry is encroaching on their ancestral lands and endangering their survival.

Despite these challenges, the Nenets continue to defy modern pressures and live as they have for generations, moving with their herds across the Arctic wilderness. Their resilience in one of the world’s most hostile environments is nothing short of extraordinary.

Journey to the Nenets: A Test of Endurance and Logistics

Visiting the Nenets is no easy feat. The process requires extensive planning, bureaucratic hurdles, and a willingness to endure some of the harshest conditions on Earth.

Securing Permission to Enter the Yamal

Before even setting foot in the Arctic, two major documents are required:

1. A Russian visa, which is a complex process in itself.
2. A special permit for traveling to the far north, which must be applied for months in advance. This permit requires a Russian contact to sponsor the application, making it nearly impossible to obtain independently as a foreigner.

The Route to the Yamal Peninsula

The gateway to the Yamal is Salekhard, the region’s largest city. There are two main ways to reach it:

• By plane – The quickest but least adventurous option.
• By train – The true adventure traveler’s route. This was my choice. The journey took three days and two nights, crossing the vast Russian landscape before finally arriving in Salekhard.

From Salekhard, most travelers must make their way further into the tundra. The next stop is typically Yar-Sale, a small Russian village with a significant Nenets population. This is where you can arrange visits with Nenets who still have nomadic relatives living in the tundra. However, reaching Yar-Sale is an adventure of its own—an eight-hour journey in a Trekol, a massive all-terrain vehicle designed for Arctic conditions.

The Challenges of Finding the Nomads

The Nenets’ seasonal movements determine how accessible they are:

• In the summer, they migrate further north into the remote tundra, making them almost impossible to reach without weeks of travel by 4WD vehicle or an expensive helicopter charter.
• In the winter, they migrate closer to the southern Yamal, making them easier to access—but at a cost: the brutal Siberian cold.

I chose to visit in February, not only because it was the best time logistically, but because I wanted to experience how the Nenets adapted to the extreme Arctic winter. Naively, I thought I could handle the cold—after all, I grew up in Minnesota. But I quickly learned how wrong I was.

A Key Connection: Meeting Edward

I first learned about the Nenets from a fellow adventure traveler, Edward—a seasoned explorer with a passion for remote cultures. Originally from England, Edward had spent years living in Russia with his wife, mastering the language and embedding himself in some of the country’s most isolated regions.

During his travels, he befriended several Nenets families, gaining firsthand experience in their way of life. Edward gave me detailed instructions on how to reach the Nenets independently, but given the logistical challenges and my lack of Russian language skills, I knew traveling there alone in the dead of winter would be foolish.

So, I invited Edward to join the journey, and he was eager to come along, as he was just launching his own adventure travel company. With our plans set, we flew to Moscow to meet him, ready to embark on one of the most extreme and unforgettable journeys of my life.

Location of the Yamal-Home of the Nenet People

Arrival in Moscow: The Gateway to the Arctic

My friend Kent and I flew into Moscow on Aeroflot, knowing that we still had another 1,000 miles further north before reaching the Yamal Peninsula. The moment we stepped off the plane, we were greeted by biting cold and swirling snow, a small taste of what awaited us in the Siberian Arctic.

We checked into an old Soviet-era guesthouse perched above the train station—a drab, noisy, but cheap accommodation. The walls were thin, the furniture outdated, and the hallways dimly lit, yet its prime location made up for the lack of charm. Despite the bleak atmosphere, it was within walking distance—albeit a long one—to many of Moscow’s iconic landmarks.

Exploring Red Square: The Heart of Moscow

No visit to Moscow is complete without stepping into Red Square, arguably the most fascinating and historic part of the city. This massive open plaza is flanked by some of Russia’s most symbolic landmarks:

• The Kremlin, the seat of power where Putin resides.
• St. Basil’s Cathedral, a breathtaking 16th-century basilica built under Ivan the Terrible, famous for its onion-domed towers painted in surreal, candy-like colors.
• Lenin’s Mausoleum, where the embalmed body of the first Soviet leader, Vladimir Lenin, lies in eerie preservation, available for public viewing only on rare occasions.

The Red Square is unpredictable—one day it might be empty, blanketed in snow, and the next, it could be the site of a pro-communist rally, with demonstrators waving Soviet flags and banners of Lenin. During one of my previous trips to Moscow, I stumbled into one of these protests, a surreal scene where elderly die-hard communists passionately chanted slogans under the shadow of their long-defunct empire.

St. Basils Basilica-Built by Ivan the Teriible in the 1500’s

St. Basils Basilica

Pro-Communist Protest

Pro-Communist Protest/Lenin Banner

Boarding the Train to the Arctic

At the Moscow train station, we finally met up with Edward, our guide and Russian-speaking travel companion. Before boarding, we stocked up on snacks and beer—essentials for the long journey ahead. The train ride to Salekhard, deep in the Russian Arctic, would take three days and two nights, and we wanted to make it as comfortable as possible.

Our tickets placed us in third-class on the Arkhangelsk line, a no-frills Soviet-era train. There were no private compartments, no doors, just row after row of open bunk beds, crammed with about 50 other passengers. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed clothes, strong tea, and cheap cigarettes, as travelers huddled in their seats, passing time with conversations, card games, and vodka-fueled laughter.

The train rattled to life, and as it pulled away from Moscow, we settled into the reality of spending the next three days in close quarters with complete strangers. It was going to be a long but unforgettable ride north—a journey to the very edge of the world.

Train to Yamal

Life Aboard the Soviet-Era Train

For the next three days and two nights, the train became my home. The fifty passengers in our third-class berth, mostly Russian miners and oil workers, became my unspoken companions. With no doors and no privacy, we were all thrown into a shared reality—a rolling microcosm of life in the Russian Arctic.

Language was a barrier, but it hardly mattered. Edward, our supposed guide, spoke fluent Russian but rarely translated for us. He was more of a co-traveler than a guide, spending most of his time socializing with locals and indulging in vodka-fueled conversations. For Kent and me, the experience was about observation and adaptation—trying to understand our fellow passengers through gestures, laughter, and shared moments of hardship.

The train itself was a relic of the Soviet era, chugging along tracks laid by gulag prisoners, many of whom perished under brutal conditions, their bones now resting in the frozen tundra beside the rails. The thought was haunting—the journey we were casually taking had been a death march for thousands decades ago.

Heat, Snoring, and a No-Nonsense Train Attendant

A stern female attendant, her orange-dyed hair standing out like a warning signal, kept law and order in our cabin. She patrolled the aisles with an iron gaze, making sure no one got too rowdy. The train was heated by coal, shoveled into furnaces between carriages, leaving no way to regulate the stifling heat.

With windows that didn’t open and the dry, suffocating air, passengers stripped down to shorts, barefoot and sweating, trying in vain to cool off. At night, I would wake up gasping for air, the dryness in my throat making it impossible to breathe. And then there was the snoring—a relentless, overlapping orchestra of cackling snores from all directions.

The only escape was music—a barrier between me and the chaotic symphony of life inside that train. With headphones jammed in my ears, I let the rhythm drown out the night, knowing that ahead of us lay the frozen edge of the world.

3rd Class Cabin packed with miners

Life in the Rolling Furnace

As the train rattled deeper into the Russian wilderness, we made acquaintances with many of the miners onboard. The unwritten rule of Russian hospitality meant vodka flowed freely, and soon we found ourselves taking shots, sharing strips of dried meat, and fumbling through card games with men whose faces were weathered by years of hard labor in the Arctic north. Communication was futile, a patchwork of broken Russian and English mixed with gestures and laughter—but that was part of the charm.

At the back of the cramped third-class cabin, near the filthy, closet-sized toilet, was a particularly rowdy group of miners. Their beds were unkempt, littered with half-empty bottles of cheap vodka, and the party never seemed to end. Every time I approached the toilet—a metal bowl bolted to the floor that opened directly onto the tracks below—they would beckon me to join them for another round of drinks. Occasionally, I obliged out of politeness, but more often, I declined, trying to pace myself through what was already a long, grueling journey.

One detail stood out—a lone woman among them, always inebriated, regardless of the time of day. She swayed as she walked, slurring her words, eyes half-lidded from intoxication. I initially assumed she was just another passenger, but the truth became apparent when I saw three different men escort her in and out of the tiny bathroom within the span of a few minutes. The offer soon came to me.

One of the miners leaned in, grinning with missing teeth, and gestured toward the bathroom door. “Your turn?” he asked in crude, broken English. The implication was clear.

I declined immediately, my stomach turning—not in shock, but in sadness. This was life for some on the rails of Russia. The train wasn’t just a mode of transport—it was a moving world of hard lives, fleeting pleasures, and quiet tragedies.

Escaping the Heat

The cabin itself was a furnace, thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, coal dust, and stale liquor. The air was stifling, and sweat clung to my skin. Whenever it became unbearable, I escaped to the inter-carriage platform, where frigid Arctic air leaked through the flimsy metal enclosure. Passengers smoked in silence, their faces glowing under the dim overhead light as the landscape outside blurred into endless snow-covered tundra.

It was the best place for fresh air—even if it was laced with tobacco smoke and coal dust. Here, I could watch the train attendant, a hunched man in a soot-streaked uniform, methodically shoveling coal into the furnace that powered the train’s antiquated heating system. With every scoop, he wiped his brow with a blackened sleeve, barely acknowledging the world outside his routine.

As the train thundered on, I stood there in the freezing wind, listening to the rhythmic clank of the steel wheels, watching smoke curl into the Arctic night. This was Russia in its rawest form—gritty, relentless, and unfiltered.

Bunk Beds

Vodka, meat and beer with new friends

Ghost Towns of Siberia

One of the highlights of the train journey was the random, fleeting stops in Siberian villages frozen in time—their weathered wooden houses, dilapidated train stations, and peeling Soviet murals standing like relics of a bygone era. The entire landscape felt trapped in an eternal Soviet winter, as though nothing had changed since the collapse of the USSR. Perhaps it was the season, or perhaps it was just Siberia, but everything—the people, the buildings, the very air itself—felt drenched in a melancholy that stretched as far as the eye could see.

At each stop, bundled-up babushkas stood like statues beside the tracks, their frost-bitten hands clutching jars of pickled vegetables, dried fish, and questionable cuts of frozen meat. They spoke in low, matter-of-fact tones, bartering their goods with miners, oil workers, and weary travelers stepping off the train for a few stolen moments of fresh air. I never saw a smile. Life here was survival, not sentimentality.

Somehow, the Russian passengers seemed immune to the cold—as if Siberia had hardened them into a breed apart from the rest of humanity. Men disembarked barefoot in the snow, clad in only shorts, t-shirts, and flimsy plastic flip-flops, casually stretching as if they were stepping into a sauna instead of subarctic temperatures.

The Urine Icicles 

One ritual at every stop became an unforgettable spectacle—watching the train attendant emerge with a pickaxe to chisel away the grotesque urine icicles that had formed beneath the toilet compartments. It was a thankless, Sisyphean task, but a necessary one to prevent the pipes from freezing shut with layers of human waste. The chipping sound of ice against steel, the cold vapor rising as frozen urine shattered upon impact, and the expression of sheer resignation on the worker’s face—it all added to the train’s surreal charm.

The Fear of Being Left Behind

Kent and I made it a point to explore as much as we could during these stops. We wandered through snow-covered platforms, examined weather-beaten Lenin statues, and peeked at faded Soviet propaganda posters still clinging to the decaying walls of train stations.

But we were careful never to venture too far. The train’s schedule was a mystery, and there was no stationmaster calling out a final warning. Instead, a single, ominous horn blast would echo through the frozen air—our only cue that we had less than a minute to scramble back aboard. There was no waiting for stragglers, no second chances. In Siberia, if you missed the train, you were forgotten forever, left to the mercy of the cold and whatever life existed in the vast nothingness beyond the tracks.

We never tested our luck.

Foods for sale by babushka women at each train stop

Ubiquitous Lenin Statue observed in a Siberian Village

Arrival in the Frozen Wasteland

We stepped off the train in Kharp under the cover of darkness, and the cold hit like a sledgehammer to the chest. There are places that are merely cold, and then there’s Kharp—where the air itself feels like it’s trying to kill you. The wind carried an unforgiving Siberian bite, and even though I had experienced cold before, this was something else entirely. It was a hostile, unrelenting abyss.

Adding to the bleakness was Kharp’s grim reputation—this was the site of one of Russia’s most notorious prisons, where the country’s most dangerous criminals were sent to rot in the tundra. It was the kind of place you don’t end up in by accident.

We didn’t linger. A taxi was waiting, and we piled in, eager to escape the gloom. The hour-long drive to Salekhard felt like we were being transported deeper into some dystopian world. The headlights barely penetrated the Arctic darkness, illuminating only the vast, frozen nothingness beyond the cracked windshield.

A Russian Bachelor’s Paradise (Or Hell?)

Salekhard, when we finally arrived, wasn’t much warmer—just another gray, brutalist Siberian outpost swallowed by ice. Edward had arranged for us to stay at a friend’s house—a young Russian bachelor who, as we soon learned, was missing a finger.

His self-inflicted wound was the result of a drunken game gone wrong—a knife trick, where the objective was to stab the blade between your fingers as fast as possible without losing one. He had, predictably, missed the mark.

We stepped inside his apartment, and the scene was exactly what you’d expect from a Russian bachelor’s den in the Arctic Circle:

• Empty vodka bottles littered the floor, the casualties of nights long forgotten.
• Posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his peak bodybuilding days dominated the walls, flexing over the chaos.
• Bench presses stood in every room, as if the entire apartment doubled as a makeshift gym.
• Stacks of nudie magazines were scattered haphazardly on top of the workout benches, completing the décor.

I pushed aside some questionable, soiled clothing from a makeshift bed that also functioned as a weightlifting station. It was either this or the floor, so I made my peace with it. The Arctic was merciless, but so was this bachelor pad.

As I lay down, I heard the wind howling outside, rattling the windows, a stark reminder of where we were. I closed my eyes, trying not to think about the fingerless man, the vodka-fueled insanity, or the fact that I was sleeping in a home gym that doubled as a men’s magazine archive.

Tomorrow, we’d finally set off into the heart of the tundra—toward the Nenets and their reindeer camps. But first, we had to survive the night in Salekhard’s wildest frat house.

My bed also a bench press

Into the Deep Freeze: Salekhard to Yarsale

The next morning, we attempted to explore Salekhard, but at -50°C with windchill, even the idea of going outside felt like a suicide mission. The cold was not just uncomfortable—it was hostile, like an invisible force that wanted you dead. With the real tundra journey still ahead, we decided to minimize exposure and stay indoors as much as possible.

Our only real activity was dinner at a restaurant that transformed into a techno bar—because, of course, this was Russia. The bass thumped aggressively, the room was dimly lit by strobe lights, and the bartender was built like a powerlifter who moonlighted as a bouncer. Midway through the night, a drunken Russian stumbled into me, his glassy eyes locking onto mine. For a brief, adrenaline-filled moment, I thought I was about to have my first Arctic fistfight. He mumbled something incoherent, but just as quickly as he sized me up, he seemed to forget what he was angry about and wandered off into the techno fog.

It was time to leave civilization behind.

The Tundra Trek: A Mechanical Odyssey

Late in the evening, we departed Salekhard in a convoy of tundra trucks, heading toward Yarsale. The journey would take us deep into the Arctic wilderness, where no roads exist in winter, only the seasonal ice road that snakes across frozen tundra, lakes, and rivers.

Our ride? A Trekol—one of those absurd, oversized, all-terrain Russian monstrosities that looks like it was designed by someone playing around in a post-apocalyptic video game. The vehicle sat on enormous balloon-like tires, built to traverse anything and everything the Arctic could throw at it. The only thing it wasn’t designed for? Passenger comfort.

Inside, I was crammed in the back, seated directly on top of a gearbox, my knees practically touching my chest. The heat was cranked to hellish levels, as if the driver was trying to recreate a tropical summer inside a steel coffin. Our Uzbek driver, like many of the workers in the far north who migrate from the Stans, was blasting deafening electronic music at ear-piercing levels—the kind of Soviet-era techno that makes you question whether you’re on a road trip or inside a Moscow nightclub at 4 AM.

For eight grueling hours, we rumbled across the Arctic void. The landscape outside was an endless whiteout, a featureless expanse of ice and snow stretching to infinity. Occasionally, the convoy would stop for a bathroom break, which meant stepping out into the abyss, making sure not to wander too far, lest we become permanent residents of the Siberian tundra.

Then came the real crisis—one of the trucks lost its heating system, and in this weather, that wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was a death sentence. The only solution? We crammed the frozen passengers into our already overpacked truck. Suddenly, our uncomfortable ride turned into full-blown Arctic misery. The air inside became thick with sweat, body heat, and the unmistakable stench of too many people wearing the same clothes for too long.

With every bump and jolt, my spine absorbed the full impact of the unforgiving gearbox. The techno music didn’t stop. The heat remained unbearable. And the Arctic outside continued to remind us that, at any moment, this journey could turn into a disaster.

Arrival in Yarsale: A Refuge from the Cold

At some ungodly hour, we finally arrived in Yarsale, a small, snow-cloaked village on the edge of the known world. The Trekol sputtered to a stop, and for the first time in eight hours, I felt my legs again.

We were greeted by a Nenet family that Edward had befriended on a previous visit, their expressions calm and welcoming, as if hosting foreigners fresh from an Arctic ordeal was just another Tuesday for them. The truck dropped us off at their home, and the moment I stepped inside, the warmth hit like a drug.

We collapsed onto the floor, half-frozen, half-cooked, and fully exhausted. For the rest of the day, we slept in the safety of their home, trying to regain feeling in our extremities and recover from the hellish tundra trek.

Our plan? Wait for the nomadic Nenet relatives of our hosts to arrive—the ones still living in the tundra, migrating with their reindeer. They would take us even deeper into the Arctic, to their camp, where we would experience the true heart of their nomadic existence.

But for now, I just wanted to sleep in warmth, away from techno music, gearboxes, and the unforgiving cold outside.

Trekkol Convoy to Yarsale

Frozen to the Bone in Yar-Sale: Life at -70°C

Yar-Sale is a tiny, wind-swept village on the edge of civilization, home to about 800 people, mostly Nenets. The settlement is a mix of permanent residents who have left behind the nomadic life and visiting reindeer herders who come to town for supplies, medical care, or to trade antlers and meat for food and, more commonly, vodka.

When we arrived, the weather was trying to kill us.

The temperature had plummeted to -70°C with wind chill—a number so absurdly low that it almost didn’t seem real. I grew up in Minnesota, so I thought I knew what cold was. I was wrong.

Life at -70°C: When the Air Itself Hurts

You don’t just “walk around” at -70°C—you dart from one warm refuge to the next, praying your fingers don’t turn black along the way. Every step outside felt like stepping into an industrial deep freezer, except you’re in it, and it wants you dead.

We attempted to explore the village, but our excursions lasted only minutes at a time before the cold physically forced us back indoors.

• Breathing hurt. The air was so cold that inhaling through my nose felt like snorting glass shards. Every breath stabbed my lungs like tiny icicles.
• Eyelashes froze together. A few minutes in the open, and suddenly blinking became a struggle, as if my eyes were being glued shut by frost.
• Exposed skin was a death sentence. Any area left uncovered—even for seconds—would instantly feel like it was burning, except instead of fire, it was ice doing the damage.

The forecast for the entire week was a relentless -50°C to -70°C, and this was for Salekhard—a much milder place than the tundra. According to Edward, once we left for the tundra, it would only get worse.

This was not a place for the unprepared.

Yar-Sale: A Frontier Outpost at the End of the Earth

The village itself was a cluster of snow-covered wooden buildings, their windows thickly frosted over. Some were traditional log homes, while others were modern Soviet-era blocks, looking forlorn and battered by the elements.

Despite the extreme cold, life continued as normal:

✔ Nenets men walked the icy streets wrapped in thick reindeer coats, their fur hoods pulled tight over frost-covered faces.
✔ Women bundled up in layers of bright scarves, darting between markets and small shops, their breath visible in the freezing air.
✔ Children played in the snow, completely unfazed by temperatures that would kill an unprepared outsider in minutes.

Inside one of the small village shops, Nenets hunters bargained over fresh meat, while another tried to trade reindeer antlers for supplies. One shop sold vodka in bulk, and judging by the groups of slightly swaying men, it was clearly the most popular place in town.

Everything in Yar-Sale felt both surreal and utterly real at the same time—a place where the modern world barely existed, where life was still dictated by the brutal, unforgiving Arctic wilderness.

The Plan: Journeying Even Deeper Into the Cold

Our Nenets hosts were expecting relatives to arrive soon from the tundra, and once they did, we would begin our journey into the heart of the Arctic wilderness.

We would leave the relative warmth of Yar-Sale behind, traveling by sled and snowmobile to their reindeer herding camp, where temperatures would plunge even lower, and survival depended entirely on adapting to the Nenets’ way of life.

I knew one thing for sure:

If -70°C in Yar-Sale was unbearable, the tundra was going to break me.

Yarsale House

My travel companion, Kent napping with the family’s dalmation dog

The Russian father of the house where we stayed

Into the Heart of the Arctic: A Vodka-Fueled Departure into the Tundra

We had been waiting for days in Yar-Sale, hosted by a Nenet family that Edward had befriended on his previous trips. Edward had spent months in this region, earning the trust of the locals, and because of this, he interacted with them like a family member rather than an outsider.

Their home—a warm, cozy house filled with life—was a stark contrast to the harsh, frozen tundra just beyond its walls. Inside, a Dalmatian dog lazily stretched by the fire, while a box of kittens curled up together, indifferent to the blistering -70°C cold just outside.

The family was an interesting mix of cultures:

• A Russian white man
• His Nenet wife
• Their children
• A constant rotation of visiting Nenet nomads—relatives stopping in before heading back into the tundra.

While we waited for our nomadic hosts to arrive, we passed the time watching Russian soap operas, sipping vodka, and eating frozen reindeer meat.

The Endless Wait & the Nenet Concept of Time

The nomads were already a day late.

According to Edward, this was completely normal. The Nenets do not operate on Western schedules. Out on the tundra, there is no phone reception and no need for punctuality. Time is fluid, dictated by weather, reindeer movements, and necessity rather than clocks or calendars.

As the waiting stretched on, so did the drinking.

The vodka continued to flow, and just as I began to wonder if this trip was even happening, our hosts suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

A Nenet mother and her daughter arrived on a snowmobile, their young son confidently driving. They didn’t stop long—they were headed straight back into the tundra.

I assumed we’d be leaving immediately too with the Nenet father. But no.

• First, we needed to purchase fuel for the snowmobile—a task that, for reasons unknown to me, wasn’t happening anytime soon.
• There were no updates, just more vodka drinking, as the sun inched lower in the sky.
• Hours passed. The waiting turned into a vodka marathon, with everyone getting increasingly intoxicated.

Then, without warning, someone slurred, “We’re leaving soon.”

Wait… now?!

A Risky Departure: Riding into -70°C Without Proper Gear

We had been promised full-body reindeer fur clothing—malitsa and leggings—to survive the extreme cold of the tundra.

But there was a problem.

The Nenet father only had reindeer fur coats with hoods, but no leggings that fit us. He assured us that we’d be fine for the snowmobile journey, claiming there were extra leggings waiting for us at the chuum (tent) in the tundra.

I hesitated. This seemed like a terrible idea.

• I was wearing modern synthetic snowpants, boots, wool socks, and long underwear, but this was nothing compared to the insulating power of reindeer hide.
• At -70°C, exposed skin freezes in minutes. Even thin clothing is almost useless at that temperature.

But despite my concerns, we had come too far not to go through with it.

We took one last shot of vodka, which the Nenet father insisted was necessary to “keep us warm”—a claim I strongly suspected was more tradition than science.

Then we climbed into the wooden sledge:

✔ Kent and I huddled together in the back, clutching onto whatever warmth we could find.
✔ Edward rode on the snowmobile with the Nenet father.
✔ The sun was already setting.

The temperature had plummeted.

The wind howled across the barren tundra.

Then, with the roar of the snowmobile engine, we finally set off into the Arctic wilderness—our bodies woefully unprepared for what lay ahead.

Into the Arctic: No Such Thing as Bad Weather, Only Bad Preparation

According to the Nenets, there is no such thing as bad weather—only bad preparation.

This philosophy is ingrained in their survival. The tundra is unforgiving, but with the right clothing and preparation, there is nothing to fear.

For them, modern synthetic winter gear is useless compared to their time-tested traditional garments, designed to withstand brutal Arctic conditions.

The Essential Nenets Clothing

✔ Malitsa – The essential Nenet winter coat, made entirely from reindeer hide with thick fur worn on the inside. It provides unparalleled insulation and shields against the icy tundra winds.
✔ Leggings & Boots – Also made from reindeer fur, these protect the legs and feet, preventing frostbite and allowing them to traverse the tundra in extreme cold.
✔ Reindeer Sinew Threading – Unlike synthetic materials, malitsa and leggings are stitched with reindeer sinew, which is naturally resistant to moisture and cold cracking.
✔ No Metal, No Zippers – Metal zippers and buttons would freeze instantly in the tundra. Instead, Nenets clothing is wrapped, tied, and layered to provide flexibility and warmth.

The Mistake of Not Wearing Full Reindeer Gear

We knew the importance of proper clothing, yet here we were, sitting in the wooden sledge, wearing only partial Nenet gear.

✔ We had malitsa coats but not the essential reindeer leggings.
✔ Our modern snow gear was no match for the raw power of -70°C windchill.
✔ The Nenets father assured us we’d get leggings later, but we were about to experience firsthand why they were so necessary.

As we set off into the tundra, the temperature instantly ripped through our bodies.

The winds howled, and the snowmobile roared forward, kicking up a flurry of ice and powder behind us.

At first, I thought, “Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

Then, the cold hit like a hammer.

The Brutal Reality of -70°C Travel in the Tundra

Within minutes, the pain set in.

✔ Every gust of wind felt like needles stabbing through my legs.
✔ My thighs and knees went numb, then started burning from the cold.
✔ I couldn’t move my toes, and I knew that frostbite wasn’t far away.
✔ The alcohol from the vodka earlier made things worse—it gave a false sense of warmth while my body was actively shutting down from the cold.

I looked over at Kent—his face was stiff, his eyes wide with pain.

Edward, bundled up on the snowmobile ahead, seemed fine in his full reindeer outfit. The Nenets father, completely wrapped in fur, didn’t even flinch—as if this was just another routine drive across the tundra.

I thought back to the Nenets saying:

There is no bad weather, only bad preparation.

We were underprepared.

And we were learning that lesson the hard way.

Me Dressed in the heavy malitsa, made entirely from reindeer hide

Nenet Mother and daughter of the family we stayed with before departing to the tundra in their sledge from Yarsale

Into the Siberian Night: A Journey with the Nenets in -70°F Wind Chill

The last glow of sunset painted the Arctic sky in hues of orange and pink as we set off on our snowmobile, leaving the small village of Yarsale behind. Ahead of us lay the vast, frozen tundra of the Yamal Peninsula—one of the coldest and most desolate environments on Earth.

As we rode out of town, we passed a Nenet graveyard, an eerie and sobering sight. Due to the permafrost, all the coffins lay aboveground, exposed to the elements, a reminder of the harsh realities of life in this unforgiving land. Not long after, we made a brief stop at a sacred Nenet site—a towering pile of reindeer antlers, a spiritual marker for the nomadic herders. Following local tradition, we paid our respects with a ritual: one shot of vodka for ourselves, and another poured over the antlers as an offering.

The Nenets, an indigenous Arctic people, guard their sacred sites fiercely, many of which are strictly off-limits to outsiders. We were honored to be granted access, yet the moment felt fleeting as our true challenge lay ahead—the deep tundra, the biting winds, and the bone-cracking cold of a Siberian night.

The Journey into the Frozen Abyss

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we were swallowed by darkness. The temperature, already brutal, plummeted further with the wind chill, reaching a mind-numbing -70°F (-57°C). My friend Kent and I huddled together in a wooden sled, wrapped in thick layers of fur and wool, gripping onto whatever warmth we could find. The sled, tied to the back of a snowmobile, lurched violently as we were dragged across the endless expanse of white.

The driver? A vodka-impaired Nenet herder.

This man, a nomadic reindeer herder, had agreed to take us from Yarsale to his family’s encampment—a collection of chums, traditional teepees made of reindeer hide. It was the middle of their migration season, and their herds were on the move. He was our only hope of reaching shelter, and yet, as the sled rattled and the wind howled, doubt gnawed at me.

With my head tucked down, I focused on one thing—staying alive. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, only the creeping realization that this might have been a terrible mistake. Had my adventure lust finally led me too far? Had I just signed our death sentence?

I had known, deep down, that leaving at night was a bad idea. But I had agreed to it anyway. And now, with the Arctic cold pressing in on us, I feared we wouldn’t make it to morning.

Survival in the Yamal Wilderness

The Yamal Peninsula is a place of extremes. It is a treeless, frozen wasteland bordering the Arctic Ocean, inhabited only by the Nenets and their migrating reindeer herds. Temperatures here can drop to lethal levels, and a single misstep—getting lost, a mechanical failure, an injury—could mean certain death.

As we continued across the tundra, each passing moment felt heavier. The darkness was absolute, the only sound the roar of the snowmobile and the crunch of ice beneath the sled. Our driver, despite his evident vodka intake, navigated the frozen expanse with an uncanny ease, as if guided by an instinct passed down through generations.

How long had we been traveling? An hour? Two? Time had lost all meaning. I clung to the hope that the flickering light of a chum would appear in the distance, that warmth and safety weren’t just figments of my imagination.

We had ventured into one of the harshest environments on Earth, putting our trust in a nomadic herder and his snowmobile. As the wind howled around us, I wondered—had we made the right decision, or were we simply passengers on a journey to the edge of survival?

Sacred Nenet site/pile of antlers

Bleak emptiness of the tundra

Wrestling for Warmth: A Night in the Siberian Arctic

I looked at our Nenet guide and told him, as plainly as I could, that my friend and I could no longer feel our legs.

His response was not what I expected.

Through Edward’s translation, he turned to me with a serious, almost somber expression and said:

“You save feet, drink vodka and wrestle.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was joking. But there was no humor in his face.

This man—who had just flipped our sled, lost his snowmobile keys, and now expected me to wrestle him in the middle of a sub-Arctic tundra—was dead serious.

And yet, something inside me told me to trust him.

So, I did.

Vodka, Wrestling, and Survival

I grabbed the bottle of vodka from his hand and took a deep swig, finishing the last of it. The alcohol burned its way down my throat, but before I could even process what was happening, the Nenet lunged at my legs and flipped me over his back.

I hit the snow hard, but instead of feeling the brutal sting of the cold, I felt a rush of adrenaline and warmth.

We continued to wrestle—rolling, tumbling, twisting—his strength undeniable, his movements effortless. Despite the bizarre circumstances, he was right. The combination of vodka and wrestling warmed me up, and soon, I could almost feel my legs again.

At least for a little while.

After one final throw, he released me, grinned, and casually dug through the snow. A few moments later, he found the missing snowmobile keys. Just like that, it was time to go.

I climbed back into the sled, exhausted, still shaking, but grateful for the strange wisdom of our Arctic host.

Navigating the Black Void

As we set off again into the pitch-black tundra, I couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly the Nenet guided us forward.

There were no roads. No lights. No signs.

The snowmobile tracks around us seemed to go in all different directions, crisscrossing and disappearing into the darkness. To me, the land was featureless, an endless void of white and black with no way of knowing where one was in relation to anything.

And yet, our guide never hesitated.

I later learned that the Nenets navigate by the stars, using even the smallest, most imperceptible features of the landscape—snowdrift patterns, wind direction, and distant hills—to find their way. What looked like an endless, blank tundra to me was, in fact, filled with invisible markers that only the Nenets could read.

A Flicker of Light in the Darkness

After three or four more wrestling stops, I was beginning to question whether we would ever reach our destination.

Then, as if materializing out of nowhere, the darkness cracked open, and a small flickering light appeared in the distance.

A moment later, more lights—soft, glowing oases in the frozen blackness.

I couldn’t believe it.

We had found the chum.

My feet were completely numb, but I didn’t care. The moment the sled stopped, I jumped out and ran toward the shelter, my only thought being to warm my frozen legs.

Stepping into Another World

I burst into the chum, and for a moment, it felt like I had died and gone to heaven.

The inside was warm, cozy, alive.

The chum was a large conical teepee, with wooden boards lining the ground and thick reindeer furs spread across the floor. In the center sat a small iron stove, its fire blazing, filling the tent with a deep, radiant warmth.

For the first time in hours, I breathed without pain.

Inside the chum sat the Nenet mother, daughter, and son. They watched as I entered, their expressions neutral, unmoved by my dramatic entrance.

I greeted them, but they simply stared at me, unfazed. It wasn’t hostility—it was just their way.

I would later learn that while Nenets aren’t outwardly expressive or overly friendly, they are incredibly caring in their own way—a quiet, reserved kind of warmth.

For now, I didn’t care. I collapsed beside the fire, peeling off my boots, coat, and gloves, pushing my bare feet as close to the flames as I could without setting them on fire.

A Final Toast to Survival

One by one, the rest of the group arrived and settled in. Another bottle of vodka appeared, and the Nenets and Edward laughed into the night, speaking in Russian.

Kent and I were largely ignored, but we didn’t mind.

We were warm. We were safe.

I slipped into my thermal sleeping bag, feeling the warmth seep back into my frozen limbs.

The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep was the crackling of the fire, the soft murmur of conversation, and the realization that I had just survived one of the craziest nights of my life.

The wood stove inside the chuum and one of the reindeer herding Samoyed dogs

Nenet boy by the lantern used to light the chuum at night. The family had a small generator they used for a short period of time in the afternoon every day to power electronics- an Ipad with video games, a phone with music, but most of the time because of the shortage of fuel they would use kerosene lanterns to light the inside of the chuum. 

A Night of Arctic Torment: The Fire Dies in the Chum

Sometime in the night, I woke up freezing.

Not just cold, but bone-shattering, air-slicing, hypothermic freezing.

I opened my eyes, and immediately, I knew something was wrong. The warmth of the blazing fire I had fallen asleep next to was gone. The chum—once a cozy refuge—had transformed into a sub-zero icebox.

I inhaled, and it felt like my lungs were filled with needles.

For a moment, I lay still, stunned.

Why had they let the fire go out?

I had gone to sleep without my coat, snow pants, or hat, fully expecting the fire to keep us warm through the night. It never even crossed my mind that the Nenets would let it die.

And yet, here I was—wrapped in a thin sleeping bag, suffocating on frozen air, unable to find my clothing in the darkness.

A Night of Pure Misery

I checked my watch. Midnight.

The sun wouldn’t rise until 10 AM.

That meant ten more hours of this brutal cold.

I strained my ears, hoping for signs of life.

Nothing.

Just the deep, rhythmic snoring of the Nenets, seemingly unbothered by the arctic chill that had settled over their home.

I curled into a tight ball inside my sleeping bag, desperate to conserve what little warmth I had left. I tried to ignore the fact that my feet were numb again, the same creeping frostbite I had fought off earlier now returning with a vengeance.

Then, out of nowhere, two small bodies wriggled their way into my sleeping bag.

Samoyed puppies.

These little Arctic-bred reindeer herding dogs, sensing my struggle, had somehow decided that I needed saving.

For the rest of the night, I tossed and turned, trying to generate heat, pressing my frozen feet against the warm bodies of the pups, burying my face inside my sleeping bag to insulate my breath.

But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the cold.

The Long-Awaited Fire

At 8 AM, I finally heard movement.

Some of the Nenet women stirred, rustling around the chum with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this routine a thousand times before.

And then—finally—the sound of logs being tossed into the iron stove.

A spark. A flame. The crackling birth of heat.

The fire roared back to life, pushing away the deathly chill that had consumed the night.

Kent and I crawled to the fire like starving men finding food, stretching out our frozen limbs, soaking in the heat.

And then came the tea.

A simple, steaming cup of hot tea, made from freshly boiled snow.

I took a sip, and in that moment, nothing in the world had ever tasted so good.

Lesson learned:

When living with the Nenets, never trust the fire to last the night.

Breakfast inside the chuum

Nenet Boy in his Malitsa

Dressed for Survival: My First Day in a Nenet Camp

Despite everything—the freezing night, the numbing cold, the near-death experience in the sled—there was one promise our Nenet host actually kept:

He had reindeer clothing waiting for us.

And I never took it off for the remainder of my stay.

The Lifesaving Malitsa

The Malitsa, the traditional Nenet reindeer hide coat, was unlike anything I had ever worn before. It fit like a straitjacket, stiff and completely inflexible, with a tight collar that clamped around my neck.

But function outweighed comfort here.

The Malitsa was lined with thick reindeer fur, covering not just my torso and arms, but extending down into leggings that wrapped over my boots and gloves. The moment I put it on, I felt a wave of warmth that no amount of modern winter gear could replicate.

Still, it had its downsides.

The reindeer fur shed constantly—stray hairs found their way into my eyes, throat, and tea. Drinking anything became a game of trying to avoid a mouthful of floating fur.

Beneath the Malitsa, I layered two fleeces, snow pants, long underwear, and wool socks. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I was finally warm.

And after nearly freezing to death, I vowed never to remove this lifesaving layer again.

Stepping Out into the Tundra

Now properly dressed, I decided to step outside the chum and explore the camp in daylight for the first time.

Getting out, however, was an ordeal in itself.

The exit of the chum was nothing more than a thick flap of reindeer hide, designed to form a seal around the entrance to keep the cold out.

It was low to the ground—only about four feet high—meaning I had to bend low and carefully push my way through.

I quickly learned that this was a serious responsibility—one I seemed incapable of doing correctly.

The Nenet mother, who barely spoke to me otherwise, never failed to let me know when I did it wrong.

Apparently, if the flap wasn’t properly resealed, the already freezing interior of the chum could drop another 20 degrees.

No matter how hard I tried, I seemed incapable of mastering this “exit strategy.” Every time I fumbled the flap, I’d hear a sharp scolding in Nenet—words I couldn’t understand, but whose tone needed no translation.

A Surreal Landscape of Reindeer and Snow

The moment I stepped outside, the full reality of where I was hit me.

The cold bit into my face instantly—even with my Malitsa on, my exposed skin stung.

At times, I wore a ski mask to protect my face, but there was no real escape. The cold still lashed at my eyes. And no matter what, I still had to breathe.

Breathing in -50°F air felt like inhaling shards of glass. Each breath burned, searing my throat and lungs.

But despite all that—it was breathtaking.

The snow stretched endlessly in every direction, dazzling white under the bright Arctic sun. The sky was a deep, crisp blue, so clear it felt like you could see forever.

Surrounding the three chums of our camp were hundreds of reindeer—about 200 in total, their thick fur coats shielding them from the brutal cold as they wandered between the tents.

It was a surreal, alien world—one I had only seen in documentaries, now living in firsthand.

The Harsh Realities of Life Here

As I took in the beauty of the camp, a sobering truth emerged.

In the chum next to us, a young couple lived with their newborn baby. They shared their home with an elderly man, a quiet figure who seemed to move with the weight of decades in this harsh land.

I later learned that someone from their family had recently committed suicide.

The Nenets have one of the highest suicide rates in the world—a tragic reality of life in this isolated, brutal environment.

Despite their deep connection to the land, modern pressures have crept into their world. The younger generation faces a conflict between tradition and modernity, and for many, the struggle proves too much to bear.

I stood there, watching the reindeer calmly grazing, feeling the biting wind against my face, and realizing just how extreme life here really was.

For the Nenets, this was home.

For me, it was a glimpse into a world few outsiders would ever see—a world as beautiful as it was merciless.

Me in my malitsa in front of the chuum

Walking on Reindeer Feet

Despite the unforgiving cold, my feet stayed warm—something I hadn’t experienced since arriving in the Arctic.

I wasn’t wearing boots anymore. I didn’t need them.

The reindeer hide leggings completely encased my legs and feet, insulating them in a way that modern winter gear never could. It felt as if my feet had transformed into giant, padded bear paws, thick and cushioned against the snow.

With every step, they made a soft, squishing sound, compressing into the ice beneath me, absorbing the impact, spreading the pressure evenly like the snowshoes of the natural world.

It was an odd sensation—heavy, yet strangely light.

The Nenets had perfected this design over thousands of years, and now, I could finally understand why. There was no better footwear for this landscape.

I took a few more steps, reveling in the newfound warmth and comfort, stomping through the Arctic like a tundra beast, fully embracing the raw, untamed wilderness that stretched out before me.

For the first time since arriving, I wasn’t just fighting to survive.

I was learning how to live in the Arctic.

The chuums at sunset

The Chums: Ingenious Homes of the Arctic Nomads

The chums were a wonderful sight to behold—simple yet ingeniously crafted to withstand the brutal Arctic conditions.

Made from thick reindeer hide, they were supported by carefully placed tree logs, forming a conical shape similar to North American teepees. But unlike their distant counterparts, the Nenets had a unique structural addition: the reindeer sled was leaned against the back of the chum, reinforcing the frame against the relentless Siberian winds.

It was an elegant, practical design, perfected over generations of migration across the tundra.

Ready to Move at a Moment’s Notice

One of the most fascinating things about the Nenets’ way of life is how mobile it is.

A family could completely disassemble a chum in just 30 minutes, pack everything onto their sleds, and move to a new location with their entire camp and herd in tow.

During our stay, we didn’t know if we’d experience a migration firsthand. The Nenets rarely discussed their movements in advance—it was a fluid decision, dictated by weather, herd behavior, and instinct.

Since we were only visitors, we tried to be as unobtrusive as possible—observing, learning, and staying out of their way.

But if they chose to move, we were prepared to help pack the camp and travel with them, even if it meant spending hours exposed to the merciless Arctic cold once again.

We had come to immerse ourselves in their world, and that meant embracing whatever came next—no matter how extreme.

Nenet boy in front of a chuum

Chuums reinforced by the sledges 

A Santa Claus Moment in the Arctic

Just when I thought our experience in the Siberian Arctic couldn’t get any more surreal, something straight out of a fairy tale happened.

Out of nowhere, in the distance, a lone figure appeared on the horizon—a Nenet man gliding across the tundra in a sled pulled by reindeer.

It was the closest thing I will ever experience to a real-life Santa Claus.

The reindeer trotted effortlessly through the snow, their thick coats blending into the white expanse of the tundra as they pulled the sled with a natural grace. The man himself—wrapped in thick layers of reindeer fur, with only his weathered face exposed—looked like he had been traveling for days.

Yet, as soon as he arrived at our camp, he climbed off his sled, walked right up to me, and with a big smile, shook my hand.

There was no introduction, no formality—just an immediate sense of camaraderie.

Unexpected Visitors in the Middle of Nowhere

During our stay, we learned that this was normal.

Almost every day, random Nenets would arrive unannounced, traveling across the tundra as if it were a vast open highway.

They wouldn’t stay long—just a few hours—but in that short time, they would:

• Pop into a chum, warm up by the fire
• Eat some reindeer meat, usually boiled or dried
• Finish off a bottle of vodka
• And then, just as quickly as they had appeared, they would disappear back into the Arctic wilderness.

To them, the tundra was not an isolated void but a network of nomadic pathways—a place where you could drop in, share a drink, and be on your way.

For us, each visit was a reminder of just how different life was out here.

The Nenets were nomads in the truest sense—never staying still for too long, always moving, always connected to the land.

And we were merely passing through their world.

A Nenet man who came out of nowhere being pulled by his reindeer to visit us

One of the only Nenets I saw wearing an Arctic Fox Hood

The Rhythms of Daily Life in the Nenet Camp

Life in the Nenet camp was a well-oiled machine, with clear divisions of labor between men and women—each playing a role vital to survival in the unforgiving Arctic.

The Men: Guardians of the Reindeer

The men were the herders. Their primary responsibility was tending to their precious reindeer, the very foundation of Nenet life and survival.

• Every day, the men would lead the reindeer out into the tundra in search of suitable grazing land.
• They moved with deep knowledge of the land, guiding the herd through snow-covered plains, always tracking the best pasture hidden beneath layers of ice and frost.
• Their bond with the animals was undeniable—the Nenets and their reindeer have lived in harmony for generations, each dependent on the other for survival.

The Women: Masters of the Chum

The women were responsible for keeping the chums running smoothly, ensuring that daily life remained functional and warm, even in the face of brutal Arctic conditions.

Inside the chum, I watched them:

• Cooking reindeer meat, preparing meals that sustained the entire family.
• Sewing and repairing clothing, working with reindeer hides to ensure their families remained protected from the bitter cold.
• Tending to the fire, their most precious resource.

But perhaps most surprising to me—

They also chopped the firewood.

In a land so devoid of trees, I had assumed firewood would be abundant within the camps. But wood was a luxury here.

The Preciousness of Firewood in the Arctic

The logs that burned in the stove had not come from the tundra—they were brought from the distant taiga forests, hundreds of miles away.

Because of its scarcity, firewood was used sparingly, and almost exclusively for cooking rather than warmth.

Every log was cut into small slices, maximizing its use, squeezing as much efficiency from each piece as possible.

Suddenly, I understood why the fire had been left to die in the middle of the night.

There was never enough wood to waste.

This was a world where every resource mattered, where everything had to last—and even something as simple as a fire required careful thought and rationing.

For the Nenets, nothing was taken for granted.

For me, it was another reminder of just how fragile survival could be in one of the harshest places on Earth.

Stella, the Nenet mom cutting firewood

Nenet father of the chuum where we stayed

The Arctic’s Unforgiving Rule: Keep Your Malitsa Dry

Survival in the Siberian tundra is not just about staying warm—it’s about staying dry.

The Nenets taught me a crucial lesson about the malitsa, their thick reindeer-hide coat that had saved me from the brutal cold:

“If you are outside for a long time and active, you must hang your malitsa to dry afterward.”

At first, this seemed like a minor detail. But in the Arctic, small mistakes can be deadly.

Why Drying the Malitsa Was a Matter of Life and Death

The inside of the malitsa is lined with thick, insulating reindeer fur. When worn for extended periods while working, sweat builds up, dampening the leather and fur from the inside.

If the coat isn’t dried properly, that moisture can freeze—turning the very clothing meant to protect you into an ice-cold death trap.

The Nenets never risked it.

• Every time they returned from the tundra, they would immediately hang their malitsas over the fire when it was lit for cooking.
• They knew that even a little moisture could mean losing the life-saving insulation that kept them alive in -50°F or colder.

For me, this wasn’t a daily concern—I was never outside long enough for my malitsa to sweat through.

But for the Nenets—who spent hours out on the tundra herding reindeer, exposed to the winds and cold—this simple act of drying their malitsas was just another instinct for survival.

One more reminder that every single aspect of their daily life was about one thing—beating the cold.

Hanging the malitsa up to dry

The Sacred Bond: The Nenets and Their Reindeer

The Nenets’ relationship with their reindeer is not just one of utility—it is a deep, symbiotic connection, woven into every aspect of their existence.

Their livelihood, diet, clothing, and even currency revolve around these animals.

• Their coats are made of reindeer hide, providing unparalleled insulation against the Arctic cold.
• Their sleds are pulled by reindeer, making migration possible.
• Their meals often consist of reindeer meat, a vital source of nourishment in the tundra.
• Their survival depends entirely on the health and movement of their herds.

Yet, despite eating them, they revere and treat their reindeer well—a relationship built on respect rather than exploitation.

The First Glimpse of the Herd

On our first day, I had seen a few reindeer lingering around the camp, their thick fur shielding them from the bitter cold.

But it wasn’t until the second day that I saw the true scale of the herd.

The Nenets are constantly on the move, guiding their massive reindeer herds across the tundra in search of new grazing lands.

Even in the depths of winter, when nutrients in the frozen grass are scarce, the reindeer dig beneath the snow, unearthing just enough hidden vegetation to sustain themselves.

To keep them fed and strong, the Nenets must cover vast distances, traversing the Arctic’s desolate landscapes in a never-ending cycle of migration.

Their entire way of life is dictated by the needs of their reindeer—a rhythm that has remained unchanged for centuries.

Standing there, watching hundreds of reindeer dot the endless white tundra, I finally understood:

This wasn’t just a herd.

It was the lifeblood of an entire culture.

Scene of the herd in the distance when they were arriving

Herd

Hand feeding a reindeer

Bull reindeer

Nenet boy, who I watched separating the herd

Masters of the Herd: Watching the Nenets Work

The Nenets’ relationship with their reindeer is not just about survival—it is an art, a science, and a way of life perfected over generations.

Their herds are constantly being separated, and while I didn’t understand all the reasons behind it, I picked up on some key patterns:

• Rival males must be kept apart to prevent aggressive fights.
• Certain reindeer are taken to market, destined for trade or sale.
• Others are led deeper into the tundra to graze on whatever little vegetation they could find beneath the snow.

Watching the Nenets at work was mesmerizing.

Sorting the Herd in the Arctic Cold

Despite the freezing conditions, they moved with calm precision, effortlessly guiding the massive reindeer herd across the tundra, separating them one by one like seasoned professionals.

There were no fences, no pens, no high-tech equipment—just deep knowledge, intuition, and skill.

The Nenets understood their animals completely, moving through the swirling snow, using simple calls, gestures, and ropes to divide the herd.

For them, this was just another day of work.

For me, it was an awe-inspiring display of control and expertise in one of the harshest environments on Earth.

Standing there, watching them maneuver through the chaos, I realized that this was something few outsiders had ever witnessed.

This wasn’t just herding.

This was a living tradition, passed down from generation to generation, an unbreakable bond between man, animal, and the land.

Catching a reindeer with a lasso made of reindeer hide

Catching a reindeer with a lasso made of reindeer hide

Reindeer Round-up

Lasso Hold on a reindeer

The herd sorrounding the chuum

Reindeer separated to pull a sled

The Sacred Reindeer: The Most Revered Members of the Herd

Among the hundreds of reindeer in a Nenet herd, a few hold a special place—they are sacred.

Unlike the others, these chosen reindeer are treated with care and reverence, standing apart from the rest in a way that even an outsider like me could sense.

Every Nenet family selects a few reindeer to hold in higher regard—and these animals live a life of privilege compared to the rest of the herd.

The Sacred Reindeer: Treated Like Family

• Unlike the working reindeer, which are used for transport or eventually slaughtered for meat, these sacred ones are coddled, protected, and cherished.
• As young calves, some are even allowed to sleep inside the chum, nestled in the warmth of the fire, sharing space with the family.
• They are never eaten until the very end of their natural lives, only when it is absolutely certain that death is near.

Watching this tradition unfold, I could see that to the Nenets, these animals were not just livestock—they were part of something greater, something almost spiritual.

Even though the Nenets rely on reindeer for survival, there is a line between necessity and reverence, and these sacred reindeer exist in that space—not just as animals, but as living symbols of their way of life.

Sacred reindeer

Nenet boy showing me the sacred reindeer

Surviving the Arctic Routine: A Week Among the Nenets

Later in the day, the Nenets extended an invitation—they asked if I wanted to join them in the tundra to take the reindeer grazing.

For a brief moment, I was tempted.

It was an opportunity to experience their nomadic life firsthand, to witness how they navigated the endless frozen wilderness with their herd.

But I knew better.

Turning Down the Tundra Trek

There was no doubt that this journey would mean spending hours upon hours in the relentless cold, far beyond what my body was conditioned for.

The Nenets were built for this world—they moved through the tundra with effortless resilience, while I would be a burden, an outsider slowing them down.

So, I declined—not out of fear, but out of respect for their way of life and an awareness of my own limits.

Instead, Kent, Edward, and I stayed back in the chum, huddled in the small space that had become our home for the week.

The Grueling Routine of Arctic Survival

In total, we stayed with the Nenets for a week, and while we barely did anything physically demanding, it was one of the most physically grueling experiences of my life.

The days were long, slow, and unforgiving.

• The sun barely made an appearance, rising around 10 AM and disappearing by 2 PM.
• There was nowhere to go—beyond the camp, the land stretched endlessly, and if you walked too far, the blowing snow could reduce visibility to nothing, leaving you disoriented and lost.
• We would try to read to pass the time, but the cold made it nearly impossible—my fingers would go numb, too stiff to turn the pages of my book.

The Nenets’ Ritual: Vodka and Survival

Despite the harshness of the environment, there was one part of the day I looked forward to—breakfast.

Not because of the food, but because it marked the end of the long, brutal night.

Every morning, a small fire was lit in the stove, bringing a brief and much-needed reprieve from the freezing darkness.

And with the fire came the daily ritual of vodka.

The Nenets believed that vodka warmed them up, gave them courage, and fueled them for the harsh day ahead—and they drank a lot of it.

• At least one bottle for breakfast.
• Two or three more for dinner.
• More if the men weren’t gone all day.

Once a bottle was opened, tundra rules dictated that it had to be finished.

The first time I saw this ritual unfold, I realized:

For the Nenets, vodka wasn’t just a drink—it was a necessity, a coping mechanism, and part of their culture.

So while the men would venture out into the endless Arctic cold, braving the elements with their reindeer, we stayed behind, enduring the long, slow hours in the chum, each day blending into the next.

By the end of the week, I had a newfound respect for their endurance, their ability to exist in a world so harsh, so isolating, and so unyielding.

And despite my love for adventure, I knew—I was only a visitor in this world.

For the Nenets, this was life.

Breakfast in the chuum 

The Realities of Arctic Life: Eating, Freezing, and the Struggles of Using the Toilet in the Tundra

Life in the Nenet camp was about endurance, adaptation, and survival. Every small task—whether eating, staying warm, or relieving oneself—required adjustments to the brutal Arctic environment.

Eating Like a Nenet: A Simple Yet Necessary Diet

Our meals were basic, dictated by necessity rather than choice:

• Frozen fish – eaten raw, sliced straight from the icy flesh.
• Reindeer meat – boiled over the fire, rich in fat and nutrients.
• Cookies – a rare, sugary indulgence that broke the monotony.
• Tea – always hot, always comforting.
• Oatmeal packets – something I had brought from home, a small luxury in an otherwise stark diet.

One thing we never drank was cold water—it simply wasn’t an option.

All of our water came from melted snow, and it had to be boiled first before it was safe to drink.

The fire in the chum was only lit twice a day—once for breakfast and once for dinner.

That meant:

• Mornings brought relief, as the fire flickered to life, cutting through the freezing air.
• Afternoons were long and cold, with the fire out and the temperature inside the chum dropping drastically.
• Dinner was my second favorite time of day, because the fire burned longer, making the chum feel warm, almost cozy—a temporary escape from the tundra’s grip.

The Arctic Night Sky: A Missed Opportunity

At night, after the fire had burned hot, I sometimes forced myself to step outside, braving the cold to witness the spectacle above.

The stars in the Arctic were unlike anything I had ever seen—sharp, impossibly bright, spread across the sky in a way that made the tundra below feel even more isolated, even more endless.

I wanted to take some night photography, to capture this rare, untouched beauty.

But the cold drained my patience.

The thought of fumbling with camera settings, adjusting the tripod, and standing still for long exposures while my fingers numbed within seconds?

Not worth it.

And then I heard something that made me regret not arriving a day earlier.

The Nenets told me that the night before I arrived, they had witnessed one of the most incredible northern lights shows they had ever seen.

I had missed it by a single day.

I could only imagine what it must have looked like—green and purple curtains of light swirling across the Arctic sky, undisturbed by any artificial glow, stretching across the tundra in a way few people ever get to witness.

I sighed, knowing that in a place like this, you don’t get second chances.

The Arctic Bathroom Struggles: A Battle Against Wind and Wildlife

Using the toilet in the tundra was an ordeal.

For urination, the method was straightforward but still required careful execution:

• There was no designated toilet area. There was simply a “men’s side” and a “women’s side” of the camp.
• The malitsa was difficult to remove. The thick, tight-fitting reindeer hide coat wasn’t designed for quick undressing.
• Facing the wind was a mistake. The wind chill was vicious, and even just a few seconds of exposure in the wrong direction could lead to instant regret and frostbite of your nether regions.

I learned this the hard way.

One brief urination session into the wind resulted in mild frostbite on my most sensitive parts.

But the greatest challenge of relieving oneself in the Arctic wasn’t the cold.

It was the reindeer.

The moment they saw someone urinating, they would race toward you, eager to lick up the salt from the urine in the snow.

They were quick, determined, and relentless.

Even if you tried to walk far away, they knew exactly what you were up to and would track you down with an uncanny sense of urgency.

Trying to relieve yourself while being blasted by frostbite-inducing winds, all while dodging antlers from reindeer fighting over your urine, was no simple task.

And if you had to go Number Two, things didn’t get any easier.

This time, the reindeer weren’t interested—but the dogs were.

The camp dogs were always watching. The moment any organic material was left in the tundra, they would rush in to devour it immediately.

I didn’t realize this until after I had let the dogs lick my face for the first few days of the trip.

By the time I put the pieces together, it was too late.

I tried not to think about it.

A World Unlike Any Other

Life in the Arctic was about constant adaptation. Every small task—whether eating, drinking, staying warm, or relieving oneself—required effort, strategy, and the ability to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

By the end of the week, I had a newfound respect for the Nenets, their resilience, and their ability to survive in one of the harshest places on Earth.

For them, this was just life.

For me, it was an adventure I would never forget.

Kent trying to urinate while fighting off reindeer that wanted to lick the urine salts from the snow

Snuggling with the puppies

Afternoons in the Chum: Vodka, Stories, and Arctic Companions

Afternoons were a welcomed break in the long, grueling Arctic days.

With the fire out and the tundra frozen in an eternal stillness, there was little to do except wait for the evening meal, endure the cold, and pass the time in whatever way we could.

It was during these hours that the Nenets men would gather, and a bottle of vodka would make its way around the chum.

Vodka and Stories: A Glimpse into the Nenet World

Only the men drank—the women never touched vodka, a strict cultural divide that I quickly learned to accept without question.

They would pour small shots, toasting to the cold, to the tundra, to survival.

And then the stories would begin.

• Tales of epic migrations, moving their herds across the vast, uncharted Arctic wilderness.
• Encounters with wolves, the eternal rivals of their reindeer.
• Stories of blizzards so fierce that entire camps were lost in the white abyss.
• Moments of triumph and tragedy, spoken in a matter-of-fact tone that reflected a lifetime of hardship and resilience.

Even though I didn’t understand all of their words, Edward translated the best he could, allowing me to catch glimpses of a life I could never fully comprehend.

I listened, sipping just enough vodka to warm my insides, feeling like a welcomed guest in a world few outsiders had ever stepped into.

The Warmest Companions in the Arctic

As the fire flickered and the cold crept back into the chum, I found comfort in an unexpected source—puppies.

The camp’s young Samoyed puppies would snuggle up next to me on my sleeping bag, their warm little bodies pressed against mine, providing a rare sense of comfort in the unforgiving tundra.

But as soon as the fire went out, they would wriggle their way inside my sleeping bag, burrowing in for warmth.

By the time I drifted off to sleep, I had a puppy curled against my chest, another pressed against my legs, and for the first time in days, I felt something close to warmth.

A Life of Ritual and Endurance

These afternoon gatherings, with vodka, stories, and the warmth of dogs, became a rhythm of life in the camp—a ritual that made the endless cold, the isolation, and the hardship feel, just for a moment, bearable.

For the Nenets, this was just another day in the tundra.

For me, it was a glimpse into a life of resilience, tradition, and quiet camaraderie.

A Journey We Couldn’t Take & A Glimpse into Nenet Shamanism

During our stay, we had planned to cross the frozen Sea of Ob—a daunting 8-hour journey by snowmobile—to reach a massive Nenet encampment deep in the taiga.

This camp was said to have:

• Thousands of reindeer, a sight that would have been unimaginable in scale.
• Hundreds of Nenets, living in a network of chuums spread across the taiga.
• Well-preserved Soviet gulag camps, remnants of Stalin’s brutal labor camps, abandoned and frozen in time.

It would have been an incredible experience, an opportunity to witness Nenet life on a grand scale, but the brutal cold made the journey impossible.

A Risk Not Worth Taking

Had we attempted the trip and our snowmobile broke down, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.

In temperatures that could kill a man in minutes, there was no room for error.

So, as disappointing as it was, we had to play it safe.

Instead, we spent our time visiting other Nenets living in nearby chuums, gaining a deeper insight into their way of life.

A Visit to the Shaman’s Chuum

One of the most fascinating visits was to a separate chuum in our camp, where a young Nenet couple lived with their newborn baby and an elderly man who claimed to be a shaman.

The baby was tucked away inside a small wooden basket, lined with thick reindeer fur, ensuring that even in the unforgiving tundra, it remained warm and protected.

When I asked the couple what the baby’s name was, their answer surprised me:

“It has no name yet. It is bad luck to name a baby when it is so young.”

There was also initial hesitation when I asked if I could take a photo of the child.

According to Nenet beliefs, photographs could attract bad spirits to the baby—an unwelcome risk in such a harsh and unforgiving land.

It was yet another glimpse into how deeply spirituality and tradition were woven into their daily lives.

The Sacred Reindeer Sled & A Subject Best Left Alone

Intrigued by the shaman, I attempted to discuss Nenet shamanism with him, eager to learn more about this rare and fading practice.

But I quickly realized that shamanism was not something they discussed openly with outsiders.

Even when I learned that their family had a sacred reindeer sled—a small miniature sled with tiny figures representing their family members—I was met with resistance.

When I asked if I could see it, the shaman abruptly changed the subject.

Eventually, he stated plainly:

“It is not polite to discuss such things.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

Respecting the Unknown

That moment reminded me of something important—some traditions aren’t meant for outsiders.

To the Nenets, shamanism is deeply personal, deeply spiritual, and not something to be openly shared with those who have not grown up with it.

While I wished I could have learned more, I also understood that some mysteries of the tundra are meant to remain mysteries.

Newborn baby in insulated reindeer fur cradle 

A Sled Ride Through the Tundra: A Visit to Another Camp

One day, Kent and I traveled by sled to visit a different chuum camp, where another nomadic Nenet family lived.

Like before, we were pulled by a snowmobile, gliding across the endless frozen tundra.

But gliding isn’t really the right word.

The ride was brutal—a bone-jarring, back-breaking journey over rock-hard ice and uneven snow, with the icy wind slicing into our faces like razors.

No matter how many layers I wore, the cold seeped in, reminding me that in the Arctic, there is no escape from the elements.

A Familiar Scene: Vodka, Raw Fish, and Warm Hospitality

Upon arriving at the new camp, the routine was comfortingly familiar.

We entered the chuum, where the fire crackled softly, giving off just enough warmth to make the cold bearable.

The Nenets welcomed us with open arms, as they always did.

And, as expected, the same timeless rituals of hospitality began:

• Vodka was poured—a necessary fuel for survival and warmth.
• Raw fish was served, sliced frozen and eaten straight from the blade.
• Hot tea and cookies followed, offering a brief taste of comfort.

For a few hours, we sat with them, sharing in their routine, immersed in their world, laughing, toasting, and absorbing their stories.

Dreading the Journey Back to Yarsale

By the time we prepared to leave, I already knew what awaited us.

Another violent, freezing sled ride through the merciless tundra.

As we were pulled back toward our camp, I couldn’t help but think about our final journey ahead—the long ride back to Yarsale later in the week.

I dreaded it.

If a short trip between camps was this painful, I knew that the extended journey back to the village would be pure agony.

But that was life in the tundra.

Everything was cold.
Everything was difficult.
And nothing was comfortable.

Yet, despite the hardship, I knew I would miss this place when I was gone.

Chuum in a Separate Nenet Camp

Surviving the Arctic Blizzard

One day, a bad snowstorm came upon us—an unstoppable force of nature that reminded me just how small and powerless I was in this frozen world.

The winds picked up suddenly, lashing at our chuum like a living beast, howling through the tundra with a force that shook the very walls of our shelter.

The temperature outside plummeted, the cold piercing through every layer, and for the first time since arriving, I felt an undeniable sense of vulnerability.

A Wall of White Outside

I attempted to step outside, curious to witness the storm firsthand.

But the moment I did, I immediately turned back.

I could barely see more than five feet in front of me. The world had disappeared into a whiteout, a swirling abyss of wind and ice where direction no longer mattered.

Inside the chuum, the walls flapped violently, the reindeer hide straining against the storm’s force.

I sat near the fire, feeling the entire structure shift and groan, convinced there was a strong chance that our shelter would collapse in the night.

The Nenets: Unshaken and Resolute

But while I silently feared for the worst, the Nenets were unshaken.

To them, this was just another night in the tundra.

They continued with their necessary tasks, their expressions unchanged, their routine undisturbed.

The women braved the storm without hesitation, heading outside to dig out the snow that was piling up against the walls of the chuum, threatening to crush us under its weight.

• They inspected the wooden poles, making sure they were holding strong.
• Any poles that had loosened were reinforced immediately.
• They worked tirelessly, moving between the blizzard and the warmth of the chuum, showing no signs of frustration, exhaustion, or even concern.

This was their world—and they knew exactly how to handle it.

The Storm Breaks

The blizzard raged on through the night, the winds relentless, violent, all-consuming.

I lay inside my sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the storm, the wind hammering against the shelter, the voices of the Nenets as they worked in the darkness, never once hesitating.

Then, finally, after hours of fury, the winds began to subside.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a world buried in fresh snow, eerily quiet and still.

I crawled out of my sleeping bag, stretched my sore, frozen limbs, and looked at the Nenets, who went about their morning as if nothing had happened.

For them, it was just another day.

For me, it was a lesson in resilience, in survival, and in the quiet strength of a people who had mastered the tundra in a way I never could.

Nenet mom returning from the cold during the blizzard, where she was helping to reinforce the chuum against the battering winds and snow

Farewell to the Tundra: A Final Night with the Nenets

The Nenet men finally returned, having been gone far longer than they had originally planned.

But there was no explanation, no apology—just the unspoken understanding that in the tundra, time moves differently and nothing ever goes exactly as expected.

That night, we shared one final evening together, passing around bottles of vodka, toasting to our time in the Arctic, to the tundra, to survival.

News from the Outside World

During the day, another group of Nenets arrived, bringing with them a rare update from the outside world.

They had heard on the radio that Hugo Chávez, the president of Venezuela, had died.

To my surprise, they were saddened by the news.

They proclaimed him to be a great man, a leader they admired—a reminder of how far-reaching political figures can be, even in the most remote corners of the world.

Then, upon learning that Kent and I were Americans, one of them asked, half-jokingly:

“Are you here to claim our land for America and raise your flag?”

We all laughed, sharing a moment of lighthearted cultural exchange, a rare instance of humor in a place where daily life was more about survival than politics.

The Journey Back to Yarsale: Vodka and Farewells

We packed our belongings and loaded into the sled one last time, once again being dragged across the frozen tundra by snowmobile.

This time, though, we made several stops along the way, visiting more Nenets scattered across the tundra.

Each visit followed the same pattern:

• Vodka was shared.
• Faces were examined. Some of the Nenets had never seen an American before, outside of the movies.
• Invitations were extended. They welcomed us into their chuums, eager to show us more of their world.

But we had had enough of the cold.

As much as we respected and admired their way of life, it was time to go home.

The Best Shower of My Life

Upon arriving back in Yarsale, we spent one last night in the house where we had first prepared for our Arctic adventure.

There, I had the best warm shower of my life.

Days of frozen air, smoke, reindeer fur, and sweat melted away as the hot water cascaded over me, a luxury I had nearly forgotten.

The Nenet men, however, stayed for only a few hours, ate some food, drank more vodka—but did not shower.

Instead, they simply gathered their supplies and returned to the tundra, disappearing once more into the Arctic wilderness where they belonged.

Back to Civilization

From Yarsale, we hired a 4WD taxi—not a Trekol this time, just a regular off-road vehicle.

It took us along the frozen ice road to Salekhard, where we boarded a flight back to Moscow.

As we lifted off, I looked down at the endless expanse of white below, knowing that I had just left behind one of the most remote, raw, and unforgettable experiences of my life.

The tundra, the reindeer, the silence of the Arctic, the Nenets’ quiet resilience—all of it felt like a dream I had just awakened from.

But unlike a dream, this was real.

And I knew that a part of me would always remain in the tundra.

The adventure was over. But I would never forget it.

Nenet snowmobiles