West coast of Spitsbergen, Svalbard
We have made good progress up the west coast of Spitsbergen, the main island of Svalbard, after sailing round Sørkapp, the southernmost tip. But the sore point for us was the amount of pack ice, which had completely blocked Hornsund, and summarily scuppered Plan A. So we turned the pack ice itself into Plan B, and with hawk-eyed naturalists up in the crows-nest, and wide-eyed passengers agog down below, we waited to see what the ice might bring us. It is ice that defines the High Arctic, and we have now spent three days with it, every moment bringing new experiences. Pack ice is formed when the sea itself freezes. As it spreads through the winter, strong winds and currents herd, corral then finally crush the ice into a multiple pile-up of broken floes and jumbled plates. Looking across the field of pack ice, we could see the wreckage of a several winters’ collisions, some plates so buckled that the ice had reared up like the hoods of crashed cars. Scanning through this battlefield, the search for bears was made more difficult by lumps of tawny ice where the algal-coated underside of ice had been flipped bottom up. As we skirted the seaward edge of the pack off Hornsund, we were suddenly aware of black heads bobbing up among the white ice floes. Seals! Some dove at once, others suddenly surged forward like Olympic swimmers, and a few groups took off at speed, leaping clear of the water like dolphins. This behaviour identifies them at once as harp seals, a new species for us, and an Arctic specialist which spends its entire life at sea, pupping on ice floes, and feeding far out into the cold ocean. Squadrons of Brünnich’s guillemots swept in from the sea, heading for inland cliffs. Small groups of little auks whirred low over the waves like tubby bees, while dusky northern fulmars, wingtips brushing the water, swept across our bows. We waited, we watched, and we waited… Ice, water, birds. White, grey, black.
Then the galvanizing cry: “Bear!” Alone on a floe, head up over a bloodstained harp seal carcass, an annoyed polar bear glared at us. He had only just started on a well-earned blubber breakfast and was not expecting anyone to drop in! He stood his ground until we drifted closer, then he grabbed the seal and dragged it to the far side of the floe. Quiet excitement from a hundred thrilled adventurers as we rolled gently on the swell. The ”Icebear” is the Arctic’s greatest predator, over 1000lb of canny carnivore which can out-think most every other creature in its habitat, including careless humans. Last night we came upon a lone polar bear swimming out at sea, 34 nautical miles from the nearest land. Today we see our sixth bear doing what they do best: killing to survive. Watching this display of strength and implacable willpower reminds us that we are puny strangers in one of the most hostile environments on earth, the kingdom of the Icebear.
We have made good progress up the west coast of Spitsbergen, the main island of Svalbard, after sailing round Sørkapp, the southernmost tip. But the sore point for us was the amount of pack ice, which had completely blocked Hornsund, and summarily scuppered Plan A. So we turned the pack ice itself into Plan B, and with hawk-eyed naturalists up in the crows-nest, and wide-eyed passengers agog down below, we waited to see what the ice might bring us. It is ice that defines the High Arctic, and we have now spent three days with it, every moment bringing new experiences. Pack ice is formed when the sea itself freezes. As it spreads through the winter, strong winds and currents herd, corral then finally crush the ice into a multiple pile-up of broken floes and jumbled plates. Looking across the field of pack ice, we could see the wreckage of a several winters’ collisions, some plates so buckled that the ice had reared up like the hoods of crashed cars. Scanning through this battlefield, the search for bears was made more difficult by lumps of tawny ice where the algal-coated underside of ice had been flipped bottom up. As we skirted the seaward edge of the pack off Hornsund, we were suddenly aware of black heads bobbing up among the white ice floes. Seals! Some dove at once, others suddenly surged forward like Olympic swimmers, and a few groups took off at speed, leaping clear of the water like dolphins. This behaviour identifies them at once as harp seals, a new species for us, and an Arctic specialist which spends its entire life at sea, pupping on ice floes, and feeding far out into the cold ocean. Squadrons of Brünnich’s guillemots swept in from the sea, heading for inland cliffs. Small groups of little auks whirred low over the waves like tubby bees, while dusky northern fulmars, wingtips brushing the water, swept across our bows. We waited, we watched, and we waited… Ice, water, birds. White, grey, black.
Then the galvanizing cry: “Bear!” Alone on a floe, head up over a bloodstained harp seal carcass, an annoyed polar bear glared at us. He had only just started on a well-earned blubber breakfast and was not expecting anyone to drop in! He stood his ground until we drifted closer, then he grabbed the seal and dragged it to the far side of the floe. Quiet excitement from a hundred thrilled adventurers as we rolled gently on the swell. The ”Icebear” is the Arctic’s greatest predator, over 1000lb of canny carnivore which can out-think most every other creature in its habitat, including careless humans. Last night we came upon a lone polar bear swimming out at sea, 34 nautical miles from the nearest land. Today we see our sixth bear doing what they do best: killing to survive. Watching this display of strength and implacable willpower reminds us that we are puny strangers in one of the most hostile environments on earth, the kingdom of the Icebear.
