On the summit of a snow-covered hill, two men sit on a patch of lichen, their backs against their snowmobiles. They are wearing thick padded clothing and hats with ear covers. One is scanning the valley with binoculars, the other is checking their drone. “We’ve got a speaker on it to play various calls. Thermal imaging helps. The dogs do the rest.” The younger of the two men, Elvjin, pours out tots of strong coffee for everyone. “The main job at this time of year is to keep the herd up here where we can see them,” he says. “When they start calving, the danger from bears, wolverines and eagles increases. We need to see them.”

If I had a mental picture of reindeer herding before arriving here in the mountains of western Sweden, it certainly did not involve drones and thermal imaging. But that is the aim of this trip: to see an authentic and little-known European way of life, which for centuries suffered repression and abuse, only to be swiftly cannibalised into tourist-trap Santa experiences – all sleigh bells and traditional embroidery.

Elvijn’s father, Peter, who has brought me up here on his snowmobile, laughs: “We do have our traditions, but reindeer herding is a tough business. We use any modern tools we can.” And it really is a business: reindeer meat is highly prized all over Scandinavia.

Peter was brought up in the 1960s by grandparents who had lived in tipis and could remember times when the use of the Sami language was punished. In the 19th century, Christian missionaries would march into Sami summer camps, break the shamanic drums and build churches on the sites. That kind of history leaves deep scars; there’s a thoughtful caution that still kicks in when some aspects of Sami culture come up.

Fortunately, Peter and his wife Helena have devised this bold attempt to build a tour that gives visitors an authentic picture of modern Sami life. Together with the income from a small shop selling beautifully made handicrafts, they can subsidise Elvijn to guard the reindeer herd full-time, something he loves doing. “Most Sami have reindeer, but they can’t afford to spend the time looking after them.”

The vast group of 800 animals below us is actually a cooperatively owned herd belonging to the entire community of Grövelsjön, a village in the province of Dalarna, close to the Norwegian border. Each animal has an ear mark that identifies its rightful owner. When it comes to herd size, Peter’s expression becomes rueful. “Officially, the government allows us 2,700 reindeer, but actual numbers are hard to know. We slaughter around 700 every year, but lose more than 10% to predators.”

Wildlife concerns are just another factor that make reindeer herding contentious. “Would you like to see all bears eradicated?” I ask.

Peter shakes his head. “I think with modern technology we can just remove the bears that prey on reindeer.” As far as wolves go, however, he is implacable. “Wolves and reindeer cannot live in the same place.” Poor old wolves.

Peter and his reindeer herd. Photograph: Kevin Rushby

Then, along the horizon, appears a long line of reindeer. The sun emerges bringing some warmth, and one of the dogs jumps into the driver’s seat of the snowmobile. It’s a precious moment, and Peter responds. He rolls on to a patch of moss and, lying there, grinning at the sky, begins a strange yodelling chant. This repetitive improvised incantation is a joik, a traditional Sami song.

We leave Elvijn and head across the hilltops to reach a simple wooden cabin from which Peter scans the surrounding countryside with binoculars, eventually spotting reindeer heading our way. He struggles, however, to explain their position to me. “It’s so much easier in Sami,” he laughs. “Our language is made for this environment. For example, we have several words for different types of snow-free areas that are covered in moss.”

Now I see the herd, picking its way down a slope. “At this time of year, the reindeer get the urge to walk west,” Peter tells me. “It’s an instinct to turn their noses into the wind, better to smell predators.” The herdsmen’s job becomes a fight against that instinct, which includes putting out sacks of food, as we do.

The handmade knife and coffee cup of Peter, the writer’s guide

Once the herd is fed, we take the snowmobiles down into a wooded valley, the path leading to a clearing where there are a few old wooden cabins. “It was once a farm run by a woman whose husband had deserted her,” says Helena. “Despite that, no divorce was allowed, even when she appealed to the king. Those were tough times for women.”

Inside the beautiful handmade cabin is a magnificent old cooking range, which we light. As the sun sets, the cold comes down. Helena brews coffee that is served unsweetened and black. Despite the ready adoption of modern conveniences, the knives and wooden cups are exquisite handmade items, clearly much valued. Peter drops scraps of cheese and reindeer biltong in his coffee. “That’s how we do it.” Cheese marinaded in coffee tastes pretty good. What did they drink before coffee? Helena rushes outside and returns with some lichen that she brews up as tea. After tasting it, I can understand why they adopted coffee.

A long rolling discussion ensues, punctuated by eating and drinking. I’m fascinated by the fact that Peter was born in a tipi, but now uses drones. He recalls many old practices that have died out. “My grandfather would take a reindeer on the train to Stockholm,” he says. “He came to this area in 1930 after the government reversed a policy of eradicating reindeer herding. The whole family came on skis, driving the herd, and they lived here in tipis for a long time.”

In 1955, Peter’s father was spotted as a talented skier. Having never even seen a large town, he found himself taking part in two Winter Olympics, visiting Italy and the USA. Such experiences, however, never distracted from the main business of life: reindeer. As I listen, I sense how the family’s year is still governed by the unchanging requirements of the herd. “We even have a pet reindeer,” says Helena, explaining how Loovis, an orphaned calf, became a household fixture.

Peter and Helena go off to sleep in another cabin and I have the place to myself, watching the fire burn low and thinking about the bears they told me about, hibernating in a snow cave not half a mile away.

The writer outside a Sami herder’s tipi

The next day, we go to meet Peter’s brother Thomas, who looks after Loovis and a small herd of semi-domesticated animals that are used to encourage the main herd to be less wary of humans. Loovis is certainly not afraid. She trots over, and the others soon follow. We walk with them through the forest, then dig a snow bench and light a fire, drinking coffee while the reindeer forage for lichen. It is a profoundly simple, yet intensely enjoyable, experience.

My final night is in a tipi, alone in the forest, wrapped in two down sleeping bags with a log burner humming away next to me. I leave the canvas door slightly open to watch the stars, but soon fall deeply asleep. At some point in the small hours I wake, replenish the log burner and for a minute sit outside under the miracle of the stars, feeling privileged to have had this glimpse into modern and ancient Sami life.

The trip was provided by Visit Dalarna. Rail transport to Mora was provided by Interrail (a seven days in one month pass is £339 adults/£255 for 12-27s); then by bus to Grövelsjön*. A range of Sami experiences can be booked through Renbiten; the Sami Tipi Mujjies stay, including dinner, breakfast and all equipment, is £475 a night for two*