Diskobutka (Edgeoya Island), Svalbard
Vessels at sea are dynamic platforms upon which motion and unease are virtual constants. They also almost all come with smells and sounds alien to a terrestrial existence. They are the domain of the seafarer and the occasional traveler. Even for the seasoned expedition traveler an uneven floor, creaking hallways, and unusual g-forces are the norm, but also elements that one can grow rather quickly accustomed to. The experience of mal-de-mar for sailors touching port after a spell at sea is well documented. That is because their bodies had been reprogrammed by time and familiarity to the rhythm of the oceans - the pulse of a life aquatic. At nearly the halfway point of our sojourn most of us grown used to the National Geographic Endeavour's watery gate - the obvious penchant for unsettling shifts of her steel bulk upon a liquid medium. After all, we were in the far north, a harsh and forbidding realm of unpredictable weather, stinging cold, and tempestuous seas that grant folly no reprieve. The previous night however passed as if we were all on terra firma, the spell broken only by the even-tempered hum of engines. A high pressure cell was over the northern archipelago, and we sailed through the midnight sun upon a millpond stretch of ocean.
Upon waking, one could surmise that the pick had been dropped. There was nary a breath of wind and the waters of Storfjord, the great bay between Spitsbergen and Svalbard's eastern islands, were so calm they took on the sheen of liquid mercury. The sky was a warm and enveloping blue. To the west the ice-covered peaks of Spitsbergen cut an unbroken profile as far as the eye could see. To the east the light-brown, mesa-like ramparts of Edgeoya loomed benignly a few miles in front of our vessel. Flat, bleach-white floes of unconsolidated pack lay between the ship and shore. This was an inviting sight indeed. The day was sizing up to be a stunner.
The birds whirled in profusion in the distance. It was obvious that the avian life here was exceptional, not for numbers of species, but for the sheer numbers of kittiwakes that were thriving in the seasonal portal of Arctic rebirth. A short walk from the beach across the alluvial flats the cliffs began to rise in a textbook example of lightly-metamorphosed sedimentary layering. A small river from glacial and ice field melt-water had carved a deep, vertical canyon in the mountain's southwest slope. These cliffs, perhaps a hundred meters high or so and made of shale and slate, provide a perfect nesting site for kittiwakes. Here thousands of birds, after traveling thousands of miles north from their winter grounds in Europe and the Mediterranean, come to build temporary homes and raise their brood. The cacophony was almost deafening in the center of the alcove.
Mild easterly winds that had come up in the late morning and early afternoon had driven the pack ice farther to the west and consolidated the floes in roughly an eight-tenths concentration - textbook habitat for polar bears - plenty of footing for bears with just enough breaks between the floes for hunting seals. In short time the announcement came from the Captain himself. He was hushed and pointed, "Ladies and gentlemen we have a polar bear on a kill. I repeat - we have a polar bear on a kill. This will be the final announcement." The message was clear - something special was taking place outside. Once again we choked the forward sections, both inside and out, of the National Geographic Endeavour. The air was still, the sky blue, and the sun shined brightly. Perhaps a quarter mile away we watched as a big bear, perhaps more than one-thousand pounds, was tearing strips of blubber off a rather large kill. Very slowly our vessel began to bridge the space separating us and the bear, gently easing between large ice floes until we were perhaps a just a couple hundred meters from the stage where the scene was being played out. Even through naked eyes the bear appeared to be a titan - husky and fat, limbs like pier pilings, shoulders like a musk ox. His neck was as thick as a man's torso, and his paws as large as snow shoes. He was using his power to dispatch with ease, what at close range appeared to be, a large bearded seal. Protective of his catch the bear occasionally stood over the dead seal and stared defiantly at our ship, raising his head, sniffing the air and snorting with challenging contempt. Satisfied of our minimal threat he returned to his meal, using paws and teeth to methodically reduce the seal to manageable chunks which could be choked down. Before long, sated, he ambled off a short ways to the back edge of the floe, his gait ponderous and sluggish with satisfaction, and then promptly collapsed on to a pile of snow. It was his time to rest.
Leaving the bear in peace the captain backed off the ship, re-directed course, and steamed slowly out of the pack into the heart of Storfjord. Somewhere during our evening repast the ship slowed significantly. The dining room began to liven with speculation. From all quarters all anyone could see was endless water punctuated by the occasional growler - no blows, no bears, and no rafts of birds. Then our ship came to a complete halt. Theories and questions were tossed about. Then an announcement from EL Tom Ritchie, "Ladies and gentlemen time to come out on deck; we have something special to see." Our interest had been piqued. Emerging from the ship's hold it was clear why we were stopped dead in the water. Captain Kruess had nosed the National Geographic Endeavour right up to an impressive iceberg. Tall and stately, shot through with bolts of aqua blue and streaked with black sediment, it dominated the scene before us and commanded our full attention until it was time to move on.
Vessels at sea are dynamic platforms upon which motion and unease are virtual constants. They also almost all come with smells and sounds alien to a terrestrial existence. They are the domain of the seafarer and the occasional traveler. Even for the seasoned expedition traveler an uneven floor, creaking hallways, and unusual g-forces are the norm, but also elements that one can grow rather quickly accustomed to. The experience of mal-de-mar for sailors touching port after a spell at sea is well documented. That is because their bodies had been reprogrammed by time and familiarity to the rhythm of the oceans - the pulse of a life aquatic. At nearly the halfway point of our sojourn most of us grown used to the National Geographic Endeavour's watery gate - the obvious penchant for unsettling shifts of her steel bulk upon a liquid medium. After all, we were in the far north, a harsh and forbidding realm of unpredictable weather, stinging cold, and tempestuous seas that grant folly no reprieve. The previous night however passed as if we were all on terra firma, the spell broken only by the even-tempered hum of engines. A high pressure cell was over the northern archipelago, and we sailed through the midnight sun upon a millpond stretch of ocean.
Upon waking, one could surmise that the pick had been dropped. There was nary a breath of wind and the waters of Storfjord, the great bay between Spitsbergen and Svalbard's eastern islands, were so calm they took on the sheen of liquid mercury. The sky was a warm and enveloping blue. To the west the ice-covered peaks of Spitsbergen cut an unbroken profile as far as the eye could see. To the east the light-brown, mesa-like ramparts of Edgeoya loomed benignly a few miles in front of our vessel. Flat, bleach-white floes of unconsolidated pack lay between the ship and shore. This was an inviting sight indeed. The day was sizing up to be a stunner.
The birds whirled in profusion in the distance. It was obvious that the avian life here was exceptional, not for numbers of species, but for the sheer numbers of kittiwakes that were thriving in the seasonal portal of Arctic rebirth. A short walk from the beach across the alluvial flats the cliffs began to rise in a textbook example of lightly-metamorphosed sedimentary layering. A small river from glacial and ice field melt-water had carved a deep, vertical canyon in the mountain's southwest slope. These cliffs, perhaps a hundred meters high or so and made of shale and slate, provide a perfect nesting site for kittiwakes. Here thousands of birds, after traveling thousands of miles north from their winter grounds in Europe and the Mediterranean, come to build temporary homes and raise their brood. The cacophony was almost deafening in the center of the alcove.
Mild easterly winds that had come up in the late morning and early afternoon had driven the pack ice farther to the west and consolidated the floes in roughly an eight-tenths concentration - textbook habitat for polar bears - plenty of footing for bears with just enough breaks between the floes for hunting seals. In short time the announcement came from the Captain himself. He was hushed and pointed, "Ladies and gentlemen we have a polar bear on a kill. I repeat - we have a polar bear on a kill. This will be the final announcement." The message was clear - something special was taking place outside. Once again we choked the forward sections, both inside and out, of the National Geographic Endeavour. The air was still, the sky blue, and the sun shined brightly. Perhaps a quarter mile away we watched as a big bear, perhaps more than one-thousand pounds, was tearing strips of blubber off a rather large kill. Very slowly our vessel began to bridge the space separating us and the bear, gently easing between large ice floes until we were perhaps a just a couple hundred meters from the stage where the scene was being played out. Even through naked eyes the bear appeared to be a titan - husky and fat, limbs like pier pilings, shoulders like a musk ox. His neck was as thick as a man's torso, and his paws as large as snow shoes. He was using his power to dispatch with ease, what at close range appeared to be, a large bearded seal. Protective of his catch the bear occasionally stood over the dead seal and stared defiantly at our ship, raising his head, sniffing the air and snorting with challenging contempt. Satisfied of our minimal threat he returned to his meal, using paws and teeth to methodically reduce the seal to manageable chunks which could be choked down. Before long, sated, he ambled off a short ways to the back edge of the floe, his gait ponderous and sluggish with satisfaction, and then promptly collapsed on to a pile of snow. It was his time to rest.
Leaving the bear in peace the captain backed off the ship, re-directed course, and steamed slowly out of the pack into the heart of Storfjord. Somewhere during our evening repast the ship slowed significantly. The dining room began to liven with speculation. From all quarters all anyone could see was endless water punctuated by the occasional growler - no blows, no bears, and no rafts of birds. Then our ship came to a complete halt. Theories and questions were tossed about. Then an announcement from EL Tom Ritchie, "Ladies and gentlemen time to come out on deck; we have something special to see." Our interest had been piqued. Emerging from the ship's hold it was clear why we were stopped dead in the water. Captain Kruess had nosed the National Geographic Endeavour right up to an impressive iceberg. Tall and stately, shot through with bolts of aqua blue and streaked with black sediment, it dominated the scene before us and commanded our full attention until it was time to move on.
The Arctic is a realm of extremes, which harbors surprises. In the heart of the midnight sun a wildlife sighting can come at any time. Rare occurrences come without warning and are shared by those willing to forgo rest and stay the night. As our day drifted into the sultry-lit ambience of the still, late-night hours one more announcement came from the bridge, "Ladies and Gentlemen we have another bear." Our ship had come to rest deep within a field of unbroken, first-year pack ice. In the distance a telltale creamy, off-white ball of fur began to move. He remained stationary for some time, apparently uninterested in the steel, blue and white behemoth that shared his stretch of pack. We observed patiently. Then after a spell he began to stride slowly towards our ship. At first he moved with trepidation, stopping periodically to crane his neck and taste the air. Then he picked up his pace and walked with more purpose, all-the-while looking in our direction, continuing to lift his head and gauge the scents wafting from our ship. At a couple hundred meters off our port side he began to move towards us, shifting his great weight uneasily from side to side as he walked, frequently stopping and raising one paw like a cat suddenly on the alert - the moves of a hunter. Eventually he was under the bow of our ship, and for a time moved from one side of the ship to the other, often stopping and looking up at the horde of parka-clad creatures following him with camera lenses and interest. Memory cards were filled and expectations duly fulfilled. Before long he walked off into the Arctic twilight. Our time with him was an evolution of slow and awed discovery.
