Net-leaved Willow (Salix reticulata), Spitsbergen, Norway
Secreted between ice sculpted boulders a garden grows, hidden from view until one strolls upon the land and observes closely where booted feet fall. Two species of trees no taller than one’s toes share the space with colorful flowers just as diminutive. Their flamboyance masks the struggle against dark and snow and ice. Only their stature and locale reveal a difficult life. Over the centuries man too has battled the elements here. Some failed and were left behind in lonely solitude.
Ice gouged away the rock, rounded the river bed and let the sea rush in. Then like a shy artisan it withdrew to observe its creation from the heights cradled in bowl-like cirques or narrower valleys. At the head of Magdalenafjorden the mighty glacier showed its azure face and growled, tossing house-sized portions of itself into the milky deep. Freed, they drifted with tides and currents slowing rolling or rapidly fracturing, wearing away the edges to become sculptural delights. Waggonwaybreen alone still touched the tidal rise while all its former limbs slowly thinned behind rocky morainal mounds. In our Zodiacs we floated among eiders and guillemots that seemed to consider us to be no more than colorful bergy-bits. A tiny arctic fox scampered uphill, its normally surefooted paws slipping on the loose dark slopes. The clatter of a rocky cascade betrayed its hiding place. Nestled in verdant moss beds reindeer rested watching the show. Near the mouth of the fjord a finger of land seemed out of place and thus worthy of exploration. Its name betrayed its past – Gravneset, Grave Point. Almost four centuries ago, the land bustled with activity. English, Dutch and Germans came and went harvesting the oil of massive leviathans. Life was harsh and nutrients sparse and many never left. Decades of footsteps scuffed away the plants. Rain and melting snow washed away the soil. Today little remains but a desolate hill where the only sign of life is nesting terns.
Further north we went, round the northwest corner of Spitsbergen and into Raudfjorden, the red fjord. Here too a thumb of land tried to tickle the opposite shore and it was here at Bruceneset we wandered as giants in a Liliputian woodland. Cycles of freeze and thaw have fractured ancient sandstones into blocks and artful slices, all now decorated with lichens in black and green. Freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, ice crystals form between the particles of soil heaving the solid, the unwanted upwards toward the surface of the land like a boil ready to burst. One last thrust and there appears a new rock or a coffin once buried there. Who was this man, his final resting place disturbed? Or did he rise to once more behold the beauty of the land where glaciers march to meet the sea and in the briefest of summertimes wildflowers color the land?
The midnight sun blazes on. A celebration is underway and the outside decks are crowded. Reaching 80 degrees north latitude is reason enough for jubilation but tonight we revel in excess. Flat and sandy Moffen Island provides a resting place for walrus. More than sixty are piled there in squirming steaming piles and right between two massive groups is a sleeping polar bear! So, it is back to watch and see what’s next and wonder if we will sleep tonight in the land where the night is light.
Secreted between ice sculpted boulders a garden grows, hidden from view until one strolls upon the land and observes closely where booted feet fall. Two species of trees no taller than one’s toes share the space with colorful flowers just as diminutive. Their flamboyance masks the struggle against dark and snow and ice. Only their stature and locale reveal a difficult life. Over the centuries man too has battled the elements here. Some failed and were left behind in lonely solitude.
Ice gouged away the rock, rounded the river bed and let the sea rush in. Then like a shy artisan it withdrew to observe its creation from the heights cradled in bowl-like cirques or narrower valleys. At the head of Magdalenafjorden the mighty glacier showed its azure face and growled, tossing house-sized portions of itself into the milky deep. Freed, they drifted with tides and currents slowing rolling or rapidly fracturing, wearing away the edges to become sculptural delights. Waggonwaybreen alone still touched the tidal rise while all its former limbs slowly thinned behind rocky morainal mounds. In our Zodiacs we floated among eiders and guillemots that seemed to consider us to be no more than colorful bergy-bits. A tiny arctic fox scampered uphill, its normally surefooted paws slipping on the loose dark slopes. The clatter of a rocky cascade betrayed its hiding place. Nestled in verdant moss beds reindeer rested watching the show. Near the mouth of the fjord a finger of land seemed out of place and thus worthy of exploration. Its name betrayed its past – Gravneset, Grave Point. Almost four centuries ago, the land bustled with activity. English, Dutch and Germans came and went harvesting the oil of massive leviathans. Life was harsh and nutrients sparse and many never left. Decades of footsteps scuffed away the plants. Rain and melting snow washed away the soil. Today little remains but a desolate hill where the only sign of life is nesting terns.
Further north we went, round the northwest corner of Spitsbergen and into Raudfjorden, the red fjord. Here too a thumb of land tried to tickle the opposite shore and it was here at Bruceneset we wandered as giants in a Liliputian woodland. Cycles of freeze and thaw have fractured ancient sandstones into blocks and artful slices, all now decorated with lichens in black and green. Freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, ice crystals form between the particles of soil heaving the solid, the unwanted upwards toward the surface of the land like a boil ready to burst. One last thrust and there appears a new rock or a coffin once buried there. Who was this man, his final resting place disturbed? Or did he rise to once more behold the beauty of the land where glaciers march to meet the sea and in the briefest of summertimes wildflowers color the land?
The midnight sun blazes on. A celebration is underway and the outside decks are crowded. Reaching 80 degrees north latitude is reason enough for jubilation but tonight we revel in excess. Flat and sandy Moffen Island provides a resting place for walrus. More than sixty are piled there in squirming steaming piles and right between two massive groups is a sleeping polar bear! So, it is back to watch and see what’s next and wonder if we will sleep tonight in the land where the night is light.
