There he is

Norway | Anno 2018

 

Friday 20 July | Smeerenburgfjorden – Ytre Norskøya – Moffen

Saturday 21 July | Ice Edge – Karl XII-øya

Sunday 22 July | Phippsøya – Sorgfjorden

 

 

Friday 20 July | Smeerenburgfjorden – Ytre Norskøya – Moffen

Just before midnight, we lift the anchor. We continue further north, eventually making a wide turn southward into the Smeerenburgfjorden. As the islands of Amsterdamøya and Danskøya pass by the window, we remain unaware, asleep.

With names like these, it’s not hard to guess which nations have been active in this area

With names like these, it’s not hard to guess which nations have been active in this area. The name Smeerenburg also leaves little to the imagination. This was the site of large blubber-processing facilities run by the Dutch.

Our love is alive, and so we begin, foolishly layin’ our hearts on the table, stumblin’ in, softly plays over the intercom. It’s half-past seven, and Bettina has enlisted Chris Norman and Suzi Quatro to wake us with this catchy tune. Her calm morning greeting smoothly transitions into a barrage of numbers. Ship coordinates, outside temperature, wind speed, … she leaves nothing out. But it’s all a bit lost on our sleepy minds.

Meanwhile, we have entered the Bjørnfjorden, a small inlet at the very end of the Smeerenburgfjorden. Bjørnfjorden means Bear Fjord, but no bears are in sight. Spotting a polar bear is the ultimate dream of any true Svalbard traveller. Ideally, a photogenic mother bear with two playful cubs. Preferably in a cute pose on a snow-white ice floe, with a deep blue sky to complete the picture.

Whether we’ll see any polar bears at all remains uncertain. Catching seals is how they make their living, and they typically do this on the ice. But with the warming climate, that ice is melting faster and faster, shrinking the polar bear's natural habitat.

 

Smeerenburgfjorden

Thousands of small ice floes drift gently seaward, close to the shore. As harmless as they may seem, they are the reason we aren’t anchoring here. Some of these ice chunks are large enough to damage the Sea Spirit’s rudder or propeller. So, it’s important to avoid them in time. If your anchor is fixed to the seabed, that’s not possible. The solution is dynamic positioning, which allows the Sea Spirit to maintain enough manoeuverability.

 

The zodiacs are ready to go

The zodiacs are ready to go. Just before nine, ten of the twelve zodiacs are launched. They float like motionless satellites with their zodiac drivers on the sea-green water behind the Sea Spirit, ready to take on 106 passengers. We have a zodiac cruise on the schedule – we’re going to get up close and personal with the glacier wall of the Smeerenburgbreen.

 

Smeerenburgfjorden

Under a cloudy sky, the zodiacs speed off one by one into the cold. Meanwhile, the sailors of the Sea Spirit have other tasks. They’ve lowered one of the four lifeboats into the water. It’s getting a thorough check-up, with all systems being meticulously inspected.

 

Smeerenburgbreen

A glacier doesn’t just appear out of nowhere, Sergey lectures, standing in the zodiac, as we approach the glacier front within just a few hundred meters. Four conditions must be met: sufficient precipitation in the form of snow, temperatures below freezing, favourable wind direction, and suitable landscape formations.

 

Smeerenburgbreen

Layer by layer, snow accumulates on the glacier. This leads to increasing pressure on the underlying layers. First, the snow is compressed into firn, and then into ice. While loose snow still contains 90% air, firn has only 20 to 30%, and in ice, air bubbles make up less than 20% of the volume. It takes a very long time for that air to be expelled. The more air that is pushed out of the ice, the bluer the ice becomes. Blue ice, therefore, is old ice.

Blue ice, therefore, is old ice

On the distant slopes, you can clearly see a transition between the dark, moss-covered mountain peaks and their pale lower flanks. The ice mass of the Smeerenburgbreen once extended to that line.

 

Glacier front, glaucous gulls on ice floe

Carefully, Sergey manoeuvers our zodiac to within a few hundred meters of the glacier wall. Completely surrounded by ice floes, we notice the gentle crackling of the melting ice. These are tiny air bubbles, releasing themselves with soft pops from their centuries-old prison. Occasionally, the head of a true seal surfaces briefly.

 

Glaucous gull

Little auk

From one of these ice floes, a glaucous gull calmly surveys the surroundings. Its yellow bill with a red spot underneath and its pale pink legs make it easily recognizable. This is one of the largest gulls, and like the great skua, it is a formidable predator. It feeds on fish, crustaceans, and mollusks, but also on chicks and even adult seabirds.

 

Fascinated by the ice

Getting any closer to the glacier is not permitted. Recently, the Smeerenburgbreen has receded significantly, so much so that the glacier front is now in relatively shallow water. Ice calving can collide with the seabed at quite high speeds. The energy released can cause the ice to explode, and fragments have been observed being thrown up to 480 meters away.

Fragments have been observed being thrown up to 480 meters away

Therefore, 500 meters is considered a safe distance for the zodiacs. Sergey has a simple rule of thumb for determining our distance from the glacier. As long as the height of the glacier wall is less than the height of his extended thumb at arm's length, we are safe. Although Sergey is trained as a historian, he clearly has a good grasp of a bit of trigonometry. His estimation proves accurate, provided the glacier wall is at least sixty meters high.

 

Nothing or no one can diminish this natural force – except for climate change

A glacier that finds its way downward is not a smooth, homogeneous mass. Irregularities in the bedrock cause mechanical stresses in the ice, resulting in cracks, known as crevasses. Yet, it is precisely this rugged texture that leaves such a fascinating impression. With its pockmarked palette of blue, grey, and white, the glacier wall rises boldly many dozens of meters above our tiny zodiacs.

Nothing or no one can diminish this natural force – except for climate change. We rarely see it, but we constantly hear it – ice calving. Sergey murmurs that this seems to be happening more frequently nowadays. It might be a subjective impression, but it’s also a prevailing feeling.

 

 

It begins to drizzle. Mist obscures the upper half of the glacier from view. This is not unusual. Yet Sergey routinely checks his GPS coordinates. Even in clear weather, he has experienced fog rolling in so quickly that he couldn’t see the front of his own zodiac, let alone the Sea Spirit. Navigating carefully with GPS then becomes the only option, along with relying on the precision of the Sea Spirit's dynamic positioning.

 

 

At half-past ten, we climb back aboard. Half an hour later, we start heading north, leaving the Smeerenburgfjorden. Ice floes regularly bump against the bow with dull thuds.

Just before three, we anchor off Nordvestøyane, a small archipelago in the far northwest corner of Svalbard. On the foredeck, a sailor hoists the anchor ball to signal to other ships that the Sea Spirit is momentarily unable to manoeuver.

 

Ytre Norskøya

Ytre Norskøya, the Outer Norwegian Island, is the island that interests us here. Despite its name, it was not Norwegians but Dutch who settled here at the beginning of the 17th century. A sheltered bay and a wide beach were all that whalers needed at that time to set their sights on an island. Soon, they had nine blubber-processing facilities set up, some with two blubber kettles each.

Soon, they had nine blubber-processing facilities set up, some with two blubber kettles each

A steep hill rises 150 meters above the surroundings. It served as an ideal lookout point for spotting the spout of bowhead whales. This spot was therefore named Zeeuwsche Uytkyk or Zeelandic Viewpoint. A cairn, a small stone mound visible from afar, still stands there today.

It is no coincidence that it was Zeelandic whalers who established their base here. All Dutch whalers were united in the Noordse Compagnie, the Nordic Company, but within that whaling cartel, there was significant rivalry among the member cities. The Amsterdam merchants were adamant that their Zeelandic partners should not settle in Smeerenburg. As a result, the Zeelanders were forced to move to Ytre Norskøya.

Blubber-processing facilities are accompanied by graves, as we now know. There are as many as 165, making it one of the largest cemeteries in Svalbard. This is quite a high number, considering the settlement was in use for only half a century – from 1619 to 1670. Most deaths were due to scurvy or work accidents.

Blubber-processing facilities are accompanied by graves, as we now know

Our expedition staff, meanwhile, has not wasted any time. By half-past three, our small group of about twenty enthusiastic individuals wades across the rocks onto the beach, ready to climb up to the Utkiken, the former lookout post of the Zeelanders.

Vadim, with his rifle over his shoulder, explains that it will be a short but steep climb. All graves are protected but scattered around. We must be cautious along the way, he emphasizes. We should also avoid trampling on the fragile moss as much as possible.

 

With each step, water hisses out from beneath our soles

 

We now move gradually upward alongside the cliffs through the soggy tundra. With each step, water hisses out from beneath our soles. The beautiful colours of tiny flowers and lush green moss capture our attention everywhere.

Even against the rock face, it’s a lush display of green. With so many birds nesting on the ledges, it’s not uncommon for guano to fall down. This guano is rich in minerals – potassium, phosphorus, nitrogen – and plants thrive on it.

 

Utkiken

Along the eastern end of the cliff face, we climb steeply upward. It’s a bit of puffing and sweating, but the proverbial reward is within reach. As we stand beside the highest cairn just after half-past five, we are surrounded by a radiant panorama. The view is spectacular, with clouds not obstructing our sight. Rugged, barren islands fill half the horizon; Vadim names them one by one – Spitsbergen to the east, Indre Norskøya to the south, Klovningen to the west. Down in the tundra, the graves are clearly visible – dozens of elongated stone heaps, spaced at regular intervals, neatly aligned with the coast.

 

Utkiken – Cairn

To the north stretches the seemingly endless Arctic Ocean. The Sea Spirit floats like a tiny toy boat on the water. Only eleven hundred kilometres of water and ice separate us from the geographic North Pole. That’s actually the best place in the world to build a house, Vadim jokes, since all your windows face south.

Indeed, this is a perfect vantage point for spotting whales. Although whaling is now banned, Vadim notes that Norway and Iceland are still active in commercial whaling.

As for Norway, two companies have licenses to hunt minke whales, one of the smaller baleen whales. This is intended solely for domestic consumption, as exporting whale meat is strictly prohibited. Vadim sometimes joins barbecues in Longyearbyen on his free weekends, where whale meat is often on the grill.

And Japan? They seem largely indifferent to the uproar. Whales are hunted there only for scientific purposes, they claim without blinking in Tokyo.

 

Utkiken – Ytre Norskøya

Vadim also has a compelling story about Indre Norskøya, the Inner Norwegian Island. This island, just to the south of us, is said to have played a minor role in the unfortunate expedition of Andrée.

You have to be quite mad to try that, many thought then and still think now

Despite his French name, Salomon August Andrée was actually Swedish. At the end of the 19th century, he conceived the idea of flying over the North Pole from Spitsbergen in a balloon and landing in Alaska. Not with a zeppelin, as Amundsen and Nobile would attempt thirty years later, but with a classic hot-air balloon – which is almost uncontrollable.

You have to be quite mad to try that, many thought then and still think now. But national emotions were running high at the time, Vadim explains. The Norwegians already had a polar hero in Fridtjof Nansen. He had crossed the vast Greenland on foot and had followed the Arctic drift with a ship. The Swedes didn’t want to be left behind.

In June 1896, Andrée and his team were ready to depart from Danskøya, an island near Smeerenburg. But things did not go well for them. The wind stubbornly blew from the north for two months straight. In August, they returned to Sweden without having achieved their goal.

Only eleven hundred kilometres of water and ice separate us from the geographic North Pole

Utkiken – Klovningen

Alfred Nobel, their main sponsor, was willing to finance a second attempt. And perseverance pays off. On 11 July 1897, the Örnen – The Eagle – took off with Andrée, Frænkel, and Strindberg on board.

To maintain some control over the balloon's route, Andrée had devised a concept involving heavy ropes hanging from the gondola. By dragging these ropes over the ice, they could influence the direction of flight to a limited extent, somewhat like the rudder of a ship.

But to their dismay, the ground crew saw that two of the three ropes came loose shortly after take-off. The balloon must have been nearly uncontrollable from the start. Nothing more was heard from the crew thereafter.

 

Graves of whalers

It was not until 33 years later, on the island of Kvitøya in the northeast corner of Svalbard, that a boat and three corpses were discovered. Logbooks, diaries, and photographic material quickly clarified the situation. Within ten hours of take-off, the ill-fated team had encountered a severe storm. Persistent rain had also led to ice forming on the balloon. They had been forced to land on the pack ice.

Down in the tundra, the graves are clearly visible – dozens of elongated stone heaps, spaced at regular intervals, neatly aligned with the coast

But they were prepared. They had brought three sledges, a boat, and a three-month food supply. Additionally, they had set up several supply depots – one on Franz Josef Land and three in the north of Spitsbergen. They were not without hope.

However, it was far from easy to drag the sledges across the rough, constantly shifting ice and face encounters with polar bears. It took them more than two months to reach Kvitøya. They were dead two weeks later. The cause of their sudden death remained uncertain for a long time. Today, eating contaminated polar bear meat is considered the most plausible explanation.

 

 

What does all this have to do with Indre Norskøya? According to the myth, Strindberg threw a golden necklace, given to him by his young fiancée Anna with a lock of her hair in it, overboard above Indre Norskøya. This island was reportedly the last piece of Spitsbergen the crew saw during their ill-fated flight. They must have already realized that their mission was doomed to fail. Vadim tells us that an expedition in the 1980s tried to find the necklace, but it was in vain.

According to the myth, Strindberg threw a golden necklace, given to him by his young fiancée Anna with a lock of her hair in it, overboard above Indre Norskøya

However, an article in Svenska Öden & Äventyr in 2015 leaves no ambiguity – Anna’s necklace was found on Kvitøya, not anywhere else. So, the romantic story is nothing more than a tall tale.

 

 

We descend back to the beach along the cliff face. Little auks cluster on the ledges and in the rock crevices. These small black birds, with their short, stubby beaks and white bellies, make a considerable racket. It is a breeding colony, one of about two hundred in Svalbard, collectively hosting around a million breeding pairs.

 

Little auks

Eggs only appear at the end of June, one per pair. Incubation lasts just over four weeks, and another three weeks later, the young auks fledge and set out on their own. The parents leave the colony as well.

This is bad news for the Arctic foxes roaming the slopes, as they now have to search for other food sources, such as lemmings.

Only about three percent of Arctic foxes have this distinctive blueish coat in winter

Vadim even spotted a blue fox earlier. This is quite rare, as only about three percent of Arctic foxes have this distinctive blueish coat in winter. A blue fox is born among white siblings and is not a separate subspecies. However, blue foxes prefer rocky coasts like these to the snow and ice favoured by their white counterparts.

Meanwhile, the little auks continuously flit back and forth. Their tiny wings flap rapidly, as they provide minimal lift relative to their body weight. This requires a lot of energy, so the little auks must forage intensely. Their diet mainly consists of amphipods, but they also eat other crustaceans, phytoplankton, and small fish.

 

Little auks

Each day, two adult little auks with a chick consume at least 313 grams of food. While this might not seem like much at first glance, calculations have shown that a colony of 70,000 birds can collectively haul 29.9 tons of food from the sea daily.

It was certainly not straightforward to bury bodies in a wooden coffin on this treeless archipelago

Graves of whalers

Back on the tundra, a few isolated graves, far from the cemetery, quickly catch our attention. They consist of nothing more than some loose planks between the rocks. They must have once formed a coffin, but the contents are no longer visible. Except for a set of planks covered by heavy stones, which seems to contain a recognizable skull. It was certainly not straightforward to bury bodies in a wooden coffin on this treeless archipelago.

We don’t have much time for philosophical musings. Once back on the Sea Spirit, things must move quickly. The Captain’s Welcome Cocktail is scheduled for half past six. Naturally, Captain Oleg is the star of the show. For the occasion, he has donned a white shirt and a tie. A jacket and cap would be too formal for this Ukrainian.

He has been the one in charge onboard for six years now. He still lovingly refers to the Sea Spirit as a ship with a soul, a lady of the golden age – launched in 1991. The feeling he experiences when sailing with the Sea Spirit is, he says, akin to the panic we would feel if we were to sit behind the wheel of a Ferrari.

Add to that a fantastic crew, a delightful mix of 18 nationalities, all skilled and motivated, and the picture is complete. One by one, he introduces the leaders. From the hotel manager to the communications officer, from the doctor to the chef, he jokes about each one, praising them to the skies. It’s a performance he undoubtedly puts on every ten days, to the delight of a constantly changing audience.

 

Captain Oleg

80° 00’ 00” N

But there's still work to be done, both for Captain Oleg and for us. The Sea Spirit steadily continues its course northeast at 9 knots – 17 km/h. The magical 80th parallel is approaching. The bridge is filled with onlookers, everyone has their eyes fixed on the digital meters. It's a countdown, just like celebrating New Year's Eve in Times Square. At 10:09 pm, the moment finally arrives. The meter reads 80° 00’ 00” N.

 

Moffen

A few minutes later, we reach Moffen. It's a small island as flat as a pancake, in fact, little more than a ring-shaped sand beach around a brackish lagoon. The Dutch named it Moffen to tease their German sailor colleagues, as moffen is an insulting name for Germans – or so the legend goes. More likely, the name refers to the shape of the island, which resembles a muff, a tube-shaped hand warmer where you can insert your hands from both sides to keep them warm.

 

Moffen – Walruses

The island's flatness is a boon for the walruses. Hauling their bulky bodies onto land here is no trouble at all. For the recovery of the walrus population, Moffen has been, and still is, of immeasurable importance. You're almost guaranteed to find walruses there.

And indeed, that's the case now. Packed closely together in a shapeless, brown mass where the individuals are barely distinguishable from one another, about two dozen walruses are luxuriating in a doze. Occasionally, a head lifts, with ivory tusks menacingly piercing the air, and a sleepy eye suspiciously scans the horizon.

But they quickly relax – they have nothing to fear from us. They likely know this from experience. Going ashore is strictly prohibited; we can't even approach the island closer than five hundred meters.

Even if we wanted to ignore that ban, the shallow coastal waters make it impossible to get closer anyway. The walruses appreciate this as well. They primarily feed on molluscs and shellfish, which they locate with their sensitive whiskers. They then root out their prey from the seabed with their teeth and suck them up with their strong lips.

 

They regularly inspect the Sea Spirit with a healthy dose of suspicion in their small eyes

 

Fortunately, some walruses venture further out into the open sea to forage. There, they can dive as deep as 80 to 90 meters if necessary. Occasionally, their heads appear above water, revealing their bristly whiskers, and sometimes even their impressive tusks. They regularly inspect the Sea Spirit with a healthy dose of suspicion in their small eyes.

 

These walruses are too warm in this water – yes, too warm – and increase blood flow under their skin to release more heat

 

Some individuals seem to have a pinkish, pockmarked neck, in contrast to the smooth, cinnamon-brown coat you'd expect. But this is only temporary, as Eduardo, our Peruvian marine mammal expert, will later explain. These walruses are too warm in this water – yes, too warm – and increase blood flow under their skin to release more heat.

Blushing is essentially their way of sweating. Admittedly, we ourselves are blushing a bit too from the heat, but that’s more due to the glühwein they generously serve on the aft deck.

 

 

Tomorrow will be a true expedition day, Ryan explains. The Sea Spirit will sail due north until we reach the edge of the polar ice, at least figuratively. Travelling at a speed of 13 knots – 24 km/h – it will take six hours to get there overnight. Meanwhile, the predictions can begin. How far will we get – 81° N? 81° 30’ N? Maybe even 82° N?

We’re resolutely turning our backs on Svalbard, albeit temporarily. Not far from here, about thirty kilometres to the south, lies Wijdefjorden. At 108 km, it's the longest fjord in Svalbard. It was there that the Dutchwoman Heleen van der Laan spent the winter in 1988.

It's a story of isolation and enforced togetherness, of repulsion and attraction

She had given up her job as a cook's assistant on the cruise ship Plancius on a whim of adventure. Her wanderings eventually brought her to a trapper's hut in Austfjordneset. There, she spent the long, dark polar night with fur trapper Nils, as temperatures outside dropped to minus forty. It's a story of isolation and enforced togetherness, of repulsion and attraction, which the Belgian film director Stijn Coninx adapted into the 1998 film Light.

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Saturday 21 July | Ice Edge – Karl XII-øya

Half past seven. The Sea Spirit is peacefully drifting among the ice floes at 81° 33’ 59” N, only 938 km from the North Pole. The sea is almost mirror-like, with no waves, just a gentle, almost imperceptible swell. As far as we can see, the water's surface is covered with ice floes, large and small.

In the fog, it can be quite dangerous to navigate a zodiac through the fast-moving pack ice

81° 33’ 59” N

 

But we cannot see far, as there is a thick fog. The wind that could disperse the mist is absent. On the starboard side, a few seals briefly make an appearance.

 

 

On the bridge, both pillars are adorned in yellow, red, and black. While the order might be incorrect – it should be black, yellow, red – but it is a beautiful reminder that many in Belgium are celebrating their national holiday today. The receptionists and stewards have done their best. The national colours welcome us everywhere – in the corridors, at the reception, in the restaurant, in the lounge, in the club.

 

Belgian national holiday

Ryan might have suggested a zodiac excursion, but for now, the conditions are far from ideal. In the fog, it can be quite dangerous to navigate a zodiac through the fast-moving pack ice. So, we slowly sail eastward along the edge of the drifting ice, searching for a place where wind and sun might have created some clarity. Ice floes constantly bump against the bow, but the ice-strengthened hull of the Sea Spirit doesn't budge.

It is an inhospitable world, this far North, even hostile to humans, but above all, it is enchanting in its desolate beauty. This polar region is also known as the Arctic. However, it should not be confused with Arctica, the supercontinent that existed here 2.5 billion years ago.

But as for the precise boundaries of the Arctic, there is no real consensus, Louis Beyens, an emeritus professor from the University of Antwerp, explains to us in the lounge. And he should know, as he has compiled a hefty encyclopaedia on the Arctic.

 

 

This interest arose from his passion for unicellular organisms. He prefers to study them in extreme conditions, such as in Greenland or Svalbard. And it doesn't stop at simply drilling into the ice or lifting a few stones to see what's underneath. For example, Louis doesn't hesitate to mercilessly aim his infrared emitters at patches of tundra. Those poor unicellular organisms have no idea what's happening and think that the polar day has suddenly become much longer or that climate change has gone wild. And that's exactly what interests Louis – how do unicellular organisms respond to that?

There are no penguins in the Arctic, though it was a close call

Back to the boundary of the Arctic. Often, the Arctic Circle is considered the southern edge of the polar region, an imaginary line at 66° 34’ N. North of that line, the sun does not set for at least one day each year. But beyond that simple fact, it doesn’t have much significance, says Louis; it’s an purely astronomical concept without a direct link to the local situation. The Arctic Circle passes through places like Scandinavia and Siberia. There’s no noticeable difference in the fauna and flora when you cross this imaginary line.

What about the tree line? It has the advantage of marking a clear landscape feature – trees or no trees. But it still has a significant drawback: at sea, it’s useless.

 

 

The best approach, therefore, seems to be the July isotherm of 10 °C, the imaginary line that connects places where the average temperature in July is 10 °C. On land, this line closely aligns with the tree line. It has another advantage – it shifts as the Arctic shrinks due to global warming.

It's well known that there are no penguins in the Arctic, though it was a close call. Once, there was the great auk, a large bird that had lost the ability to fly and physically resembled a penguin. Not that the great auk was related to penguins, but with its short wings and legs set far back, it was an excellent diver and swimmer. In the Arctic, it occupied the same ecological niche that penguins do in Antarctica. The great auk is likely the only species for which we know the exact day it went extinct – on 3 June 1844, the last known pair was killed.

The great auk is likely the only species for which we know the exact day it went extinct

The cold in the Arctic is directly related to its position on the globe. Often, the sun doesn't even rise above the horizon. When it does, it stays quite low. This means that the sun's rays have to travel a long way through the atmosphere, losing a lot of energy along the way. When they finally reach the Earth's surface, the oblique angle of the sunlight spreads it over a large area, reducing its warming effect. Additionally, snow and ice reflect a portion of the sunlight back into space. Due to their white colour, they have a high albedo, a high reflectivity.

No matter how cold it is here, the sea ice we see floating on the water outside doesn't form overnight, Louis reminds us. First of all, seawater is salty, so it only freezes at – 1.8 °C (28.8 °F). Moreover, seawater is constantly churned by wind and currents. Ice can only begin to form at the surface when the water is cold down to several hundred meters deep.

 

 

On the sea surface, fine ice crystals gradually form, freezing together into a thin, transparent ice layer. From that point on, ice only grows underneath. Above, you get a smooth ice surface.

More often, wind and waves disrupt the process and prevent the formation of that smooth ice layer

But that’s rarely the norm. More often, wind and waves disrupt the process and prevent the formation of that smooth ice layer. The ice crystals then clump together into pancake ice, small round pieces of ice ranging from 10 cm to 1 m. These gradually grow into ice floes, which eventually clump together into an ice field. However, ice field isn't the right word. It’s a rough ice landscape, full of ridges and grooves, with ridges of ice floes sometimes reaching several meters high. Below, the situation is even more extreme, with peaks ranging from 10 to 25 meters deep, and sometimes even more.

During ice formation, the salt is expelled from the water. That salt can accumulate in tiny brine pockets within the ice, or it can escape from the ice’s underside. The increasing salt content makes the water beneath the ice heavier, causing it to sink to the depths.

At first glance, this might seem like a minor detail. But no, this process is fundamentally important for our planet’s heat balance. That water carries dissolved oxygen down with it – a crucial factor for many organisms that live in complete darkness. The water also takes carbon dioxide down into the depths, thereby removing this greenhouse gas from the atmosphere – a welcome effect in these times of global warming.

And, last but not least, Louis emphasizes, this cold, salty water sinking to the depths – both in Arctic and Antarctic waters – drives the thermohaline circulation. Oops, we didn't see that one coming. The story is starting to get difficult.

 

This cold, salty water sinking to the depths – both in Arctic and Antarctic waters – drives the thermohaline circulation

No, it's not that difficult, Louis continues gently. The thermohaline circulation is simply a global system of ocean currents that redistributes solar heat. Cold ocean currents absorb heat, while warm currents release it. It's clear that this system is of vital importance for our global heat balance. Deep underwater, buoys continuously measure the temperature and salinity of the oceans. Periodically, they surface to transmit their data.

Another current, but this time in the ice, is the Transpolar Drift. As early as 1884, the Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen became convinced of its existence. This was because the remains of the Jeannette, an American exploration ship, were found on the southern coast of Greenland. This would be unremarkable except for the fact that the ship had sunk three years earlier in the East Siberian Sea – on the opposite side of the North Pole. The only explanation was that the wreck of the Jeannette had been carried by the ice from East Siberia across the North Pole to Greenland. The Transpolar Drift would also explain another mystery: how logs from Siberia ended up in the pack ice off the coast of Greenland.

 

 

Nansen wouldn't be Nansen if he didn't try to prove his conjecture. To him, it was crystal clear what needed to be done. He would allow himself to be frozen in with a ship at the spot where the Jeannette had sunk and let the Transpolar Drift carry him along. Along the way, he would also be the first to reach the geographic North Pole – a nice bonus.

Many thought you had to be quite mad to attempt such a thing, then and now

Many thought you had to be quite mad to attempt such a thing, then and now. But Nansen stood firm. He had a ship built specifically for this expedition, the Fram, made of the hardest oak. This ship had no keel but instead a rounded hull reinforced by a series of crossbeams. If the ice were to trap the Fram, the ice wouldn't crush the ship but would slowly push it upwards. At least, that was the theory.

With a six-year supply of food and an eight-year supply of fuel on board, the Fram left the port of Kristiania – modern-day Oslo – on 24 June 1893. Three months later, in the East Siberian Sea, it happened. On 25 September the ice seized the ship. The rudder and propeller were retracted. The Fram behaved exactly as expected and did not budge.

 

 

So far, so good. For months, the ship drifted in all possible directions, often even back south. It wasn't until January that the slow drift northward began, and by March, they reached 80° N – at this very moment, even we ourselves on the Sea Spirit are closer to the pole. Moreover, it became clear that the Fram would miss the geographic North Pole by several degrees.

Once again, it was crystal clear to Nansen what he had to do – get out and continue on foot. But it wasn’t until 14 March 1895, that he set out with Johansen, two sleds, two kayaks, and six dogs, while the rest of the crew stayed behind on the Fram.

Three weeks later, at 86° 13’ N, they had to abandon their attempt, still over 400 km from the pole. The harsh terrain slowed their progress too much. If they stubbornly continued, their food supply would not last for the return journey.

“You are Nansen, aren't you?” was all the man managed to say – clearly a question with a strong Stanley Livingstone vibe

Finding the Fram again would be nearly impossible. That they knew beforehand. So, they set their course for Franz Josef Land, an archipelago for which there were no decent maps. Partly on foot and partly by kayak, they managed to reach one of the islands. But the polar winter was approaching. Their only option now was to overwinter for a third time. They endured eight months in their underground hut. Hunger was not their greatest enemy – boredom was. They had literally nothing to do.

It wasn't until 19 May 1896, that they could continue their journey – without any idea of where they were headed. But what would be unthinkable in a film script became reality on 17 June. Completely unexpectedly, Nansen encountered the British explorer Jackson. You are Nansen, aren't you? was all the man could manage to say after some hesitation – clearly a question with a strong Stanley Livingstone vibe.

 

 

All's well that ends well. In August, Nansen and Johansen arrived in the Norwegian town of Vardø. Just a few days later, the Fram made its appearance in Tromsø with the rest of the crew.

Meanwhile, our Sea Spirit continues to sail eastward at a leisurely 3 knots (6 km/h) through the ice floes. With dull thuds, the ice floes continuously bump against the ice-reinforced bow, then crunch against other floes. Every now and then, a northern fulmar or a little auk glides by. This is small potatoes compared to what Nansen endured for three years.

 

Orange-yellow, this is how staff member Eduardo describes the colour of this drift ice

Orange-yellow, this is how staff member Eduardo describes the drift ice during his lecture. It’s not the colour of the ice itself that he is referring to, but the colour code used on ice charts to show the distribution of sea ice. Norwegian ice charts are the best, he insists. Land-fast ice is coloured grey and rated 10 out of 10 for its density. Open water, on the other hand, is shown in blue and rated 0 out of 10, indicating it is completely ice-free. Orange-yellow falls somewhere in between, with a density rating of 4 to 7 out of 10.

 

Northern fulmar

Finding a suitable spot for a zodiac cruise seems like a utopia for now. Shortly after noon, the search is called off. We leave the mist and ice behind and set the Sea Spirit’s course southeast, back to Svalbard. Meanwhile, as typical Belgian as it can get, we find ourselves among black-yellow-red flags, enjoying beef stew with fries and endive with ham.

 

Northern fulmar

Yan firmly disagrees with the notion that the Arctic lacks biodiversity. And he should know, as the chairman of WWF Flanders, he has travelled to the region multiple times. This misconception, he explains in the lounge, is partly a matter of perception. We are accustomed to seeing animals in large groups at times when they come together for some reason, such as for breeding. The fact that we haven't encountered such colonies yet doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

To support his argument, Yan takes us to Chukotka, an autonomous district all the way in the east of Siberia – essentially Russia's counterpart to Alaska. It's a volcanic region larger than France but with less than 50,000  inhabitants. Yan overwhelms us with sightings of narwhals and belugas, Laptev Sea walruses and spotted seals, ptarmigans and puffins, Steller's eiders and Ross's gulls – creatures of which we have barely or never heard.

On the starboard side, a fin whale has been sighted at one o’clock. We all rush out of the lounge

Yan makes a point, that much is clear, but he cannot complete his argument. For suddenly, the whale alert sounds. On the starboard side, a fin whale has been sighted at one o’clock. We all rush out of the lounge, grab our parkas and cameras from the cabin, and dash up to deck four.

There is almost no wind, and the sea is nearly flat. Through the silver mirror of the water, we catch sight of the graceful, curved body of the fin whale. It’s a mesmerizing spectacle, although this whale will never display its tail fin as elegantly as humpback whales do. However, we repeatedly see its characteristic dorsal fin, with its hollowed-out rear.

 

Fin whale

This is the second-largest whale in the world – an adult male can grow up to 27 meters long and weigh 70 tons. Only the blue whale surpasses it, according to Andy, our Canadian marine mammal expert.

Like all baleen whales, the fin whale also belongs to the baleen whale family. Fifty to a hundred throat grooves in their skin allow them to open their mouth at a ninety-degree angle. And we really have to imagine that for a moment, emphasizes Andy. The dip net created in this way has a volume equal to that of an American school bus.

In this enormous mouth hang up to eight hundred baleen plates, each 75 cm long. These filter all the edible items from the water before it is expelled. Fin whales primarily feed on fish that swim in schools, like herring or sardines. When you can take a big bite out of such a school, it's a real bonanza. But they also don’t shy away from the tiny shrimp-like creatures called krill.

Their lung volume is three thousand times greater than that of a human. Yet, it takes barely a second to fill those lungs. And only a fraction of a second to exhale 90% of that air. No wonder you can hear and see these spouts from afar.

The dip net created in this way has a volume equal to that of an American school bus

What truly makes fin whales unique is their asymmetrical colour distribution. Their left jaw is dark, and their right jaw is light. This colour difference even extends to the baleen plates inside their mouth. There is no real explanation for this. However, it is noticeable that the fin whale turns onto its right side each time it opens its mouth. Perhaps there is a connection?

 

Brünnich's guillemots

Regularly, Brünnich's guillemots and puffins fly by, but they barely get any attention. Everyone is focused on the whales in the distance. Because now there are two. A minke whale has also surfaced. The white stripes on its flippers are striking, though barely visible from this distance.

Minke whales need to keep a sharp eye out for orcas, as they have a taste for minke whales

The minke whale is the runt of the baleen whale family—it doesn’t grow longer than 10 meters or weigh more than 5 tons. With just two to three hundred baleen plates, only 20 to 30 cm long, it manages to survive. It feeds on krill, as well as small fish, squid, and shrimp. It needs to keep a sharp eye out for orcas, though, as they have a taste for minke whales.

Initially, minke whales were hardly hunted by humans. Their small size likely played a role in this. It was only after their larger relatives were significantly depleted that whalers in the 20th century began to take an interest in minke whales. However, unlike most other whale species, they are not currently threatened.

In the far distance, a humpback whale briefly makes an appearance. Even the head of a seal pops above the water for a moment. There’s no longer any doubt that this ocean is teeming with life.

At half-past five, we leave the lively spectacle at the 81st parallel behind us. Karl XII‑øya is our next destination, a tiny speck of an island far northeast of Svalbard. To ensure we're ready for the zodiac cruise later, we decide to have dinner a bit earlier. Flexibility is the norm in the kitchen led by the ever-smiling chef Francis and his team.

At a quarter to eight, the Sea Spirit comes to a halt in the thick fog. Karl XII‑øya should be within reach, but for now, there’s nothing to see. This eerie setting feels like the end of the world. A glance at the instruments shows that we are at 80° 66’ N.

This insignificant Karl XII Island isn’t much to look at. To the north, there’s Kongsberget, a 105-meter-high hill, and to the south, the 30-meter-high Drabanten. Originally, these were two separate islands. Nowadays, they are connected by a pebble beach.

 

The low-hanging mist blends seamlessly into the calm seawater, making it impossible to discern where the sky ends and the sea begins

But there's a strange atmosphere aboard the Sea Spirit. It feels like something is brewing, but what that might be, we can only guess. The expedition staff is quietly making preparations. The seemingly casual determination with which they want to get us into the boats – and thus into the mist – is noticeable. Someone should tell them that in this dense fog, there's absolutely nothing to see.

For the surroundings are nothing but a uniform grey. The low-hanging mist blends seamlessly into the calm seawater, making it impossible to discern where the sky ends and the sea begins.

Yet, three zodiacs with six scouts set out to explore the area. Seconds later, their vague silhouettes dissolve into the mist. By 8:15 pm, the decision is made: Let’s go. There seems to be less mist around the island.

 

Despite the dense mist…

…the zodiacs are launched

A hazy water ballet now unfolds. Six more zodiacs are launched into the water, their drivers waiting silently a short distance from the Sea Spirit, hovering like motionless spectres, ready to pick up their passengers. Emerging one by one from the mist, they navigate carefully to retrieve us. It takes some effort, but shortly after nine, we’re all aboard, and our rubber armada sets off at a brisk pace.

 

Our rubber armada sets off at a brisk pace

 

As the Sea Spirit seems to vanish from the world, the outline of Kongsberget gradually materializes from the mist. Its steep, inaccessible slope is strewn with boulders, with patches of moss clinging to the ledges and even a splash of snow here and there.

The surreal landscape feels like a hidden world emerging from the fog

Kongsberget

We round a rocky point, and suddenly a broad grin spreads across the face of Sanna, our zodiac driver. With a triumphant gleam in her eyes, she directs our gaze upward, clearly pleased with the surprise she managed to keep under wraps.

 

There he is, sprawled out on a small patch of moss – our first polar bear

And there he is, sprawled out on a small patch of moss – our first polar bear. He’s lying on his right side, legs stretched out in front of him. Something seems to have caught his attention as he lifts his head, then rolls onto his back with a delightful nonchalance, paws up in the air, his long, furry belly fully exposed. After a moment, he calmly shifts to lie on his belly, resting his head on his front paws, gazing in our direction with a steady, unbothered look. His eyes seem to linger on the source of those strange smells and sounds emanating from our direction.

 

 

Experts quickly identify the bear as a male. While his primary sexual characteristics aren't immediately visible, the scars on his nose suggest he's already had a few confrontations with other males.

 

 

He’s not fully fed yet, indicating he still needs to gain strength before he’s ready to endure another harsh polar winter. His preferred habitat, the sea ice, lies dozens of kilometres to the north, but that’s not an insurmountable challenge for polar bears, known for their exceptional swimming abilities.

The mist isn't as dense as expected, making a circuit around Karl XII‑øya feasible. Perhaps there’s more to see.

And indeed, we soon spot something: a few common eiders waddling around on a rocky beach. The males are particularly striking with their black-and-white plumage and a green patch on their necks. They favour such rocky islands for nesting since Arctic foxes have a hard time reaching them there. Mussels are their favourite dish, for which they dive up to ten meters into the sea.

As we approach the low pebble beach between the two hills – so low you could almost see right over it – something catches our eye. There, sprawled out among the rocks, is polar bear number two. Even Sanna is surprised by this unexpected encounter.

 

His high cuddle factor makes it easy to forget that this is the largest land predator on Earth

Half hidden behind a rock, the bear rests its head on a boulder, eyes more often closed than open, watching us with an air of indifferent laziness. As if to emphasize his disinterest, he adds a leisurely yawn. His high cuddle factor is almost misleading as it snuggles up like a white pup between the rocks, making it easy to forget that this is the largest land predator on Earth. An adult male polar bear is powerful enough to swat a two-ton beluga whale out of the water with a single paw.

And that’s that – two polar bears spotted, leaving us overjoyed. Our little fleet rounds the southern tip of Karl XII‑øya, passing the Drabanten hill, and then heads along the west coast back to the Sea Spirit.

 

 

As we pass the pebble beach, we catch a glimpse of the second polar bear’s head just peeking above the rocks on the other side. Then, the unexpected happens. Over the gentle sound of the waves, a loud noise suddenly breaks the tranquillity – a camera tripod crashing onto the hard floor of a zodiac.

Now, bear number two is intrigued. Slowly, it rises, surveys the area, and then begins to descend the pebble beach to investigate. We’re stunned. This is what they call bear luck.

 

 

Barely thirty meters away from us he stands there, proudly, a killing machine on legs, with his snout raised, sniffing out all these strange new scents

 

 

He scans the sea’s surface. If there had been just one zodiac, he might have considered striking. But attacking a fleet of nine zodiacs is something even a polar bear would think twice about.

 

Yet, the bear doesn’t seem to perceive us as a threat. We’re more of a curiosity, something he can’t quite figure out

 

Yet, the bear doesn’t seem to perceive us as a threat. We’re more of a curiosity, something he can’t quite figure out.

Calmly, the bear sits down, yawns, and briefly reveals his grey-blue tongue. Then, he lies down, licks his front paws clean, rests his head, and closes his eyes. He knows he’s untouchable. And rightly so.

As the mist thickens, we head back to find the Sea Spirit. Surprisingly, it’s not difficult to locate. By the time we climb aboard, it’s already a quarter to eleven.

 

 

The distinction between day and night fades away in the mists of the polar day. That's what happens when you have so many sensational experiences to discuss in the bar.

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Sunday 22 July | Phippsøya – Sorgfjorden

When we wake up, there's no sign of fog or mist. A steel-blue sky arches over the fabulous bay, with a radiant sun taking centre stage. We've anchored off the island of Phippsøya, as we hear over the intercom. Specifically, we're in the bay of Isflakbukta. Outside, it's 5° C (41 °F).

 

Isflakbukta

This means that during the night, we travelled about 80 kilometres due west. Phippsøya is the largest of the nine islands that make up Sjuøyane, which means Seven Islands – apparently the original namesake had not counted his islands correctly.

This is the northernmost part of Svalbard, and therefore of Norway, and even of Europe, just 1,033 kilometres from the geographic North Pole. That's more than a thousand kilometres closer than the famous Nordkapp on mainland Norway.

The archipelago’s relatively good accessibility this far north is thanks to the warm Gulf Stream, which just barely reaches here with its final breath. But even the Gulf Stream can't prevent the islands from being surrounded by ice for ten to twelve months each year.

This is the northernmost part of Svalbard, and therefore of Norway, and even of Europe

Phippsøya got its peculiar name from the British explorer Constantine Phipps. In 1773, his attempt to sail east via the Arctic was blocked by ice. With great difficulty, he managed to free his ships from the ice and land here.

Among those on board of his ship – thanks to the influence of a powerful uncle – was an ambitious fourteen-year-old boy. He fancied the idea of taking down one of the polar bears that frequently appeared nearby; the pelt would undoubtedly make a splendid gift for his father.

But at the critical moment, his musket failed him. Yet he survived this incident, mainly due to the chasm that separated him from the polar bear. Though he first considered still attacking the bear with the butt of his gun. The name of that young fellow? Horatio Nelson.

Whether Napoleon could have carried out his invasion of Great Britain had things turned out differently here in the Arctic remains an open question. Regardless, one of the smaller islands in the archipelago has since been named Nelsonøya in his honour.

At a quarter to nine, the first kayakers disembark. The water in Isflakbukta is almost mirror-like. Thin wisps of clouds hang high in the sky, but they don't pose the slightest challenge to the blazing sun.

 

Often, a layer of white clouds hangs over the mountains, like a teapot cosy over a pot

An hour later, we also set foot on Phippsøya. Immediately noticeable is the large amount of driftwood washed up on the beach, which must have come from Siberia. Brown seaweeds have been smashed onto the pebbles by the waves and are turning increasingly pale as they dry out. In the distance, the familiar silhouette of the Sea Spirit floats on a sparkling mirror of seawater.

The bay is surrounded by flattened mountains of gneiss and granite – looking like giant hats. Often, a layer of white clouds hangs over them, like a teapot cosy over a pot. Louis knows all about this phenomenon.

Fifteen grams of water vapour, that's how much a kilogram of air can hold at 20 °C (68 °F), he explains. At 0 °C (32 °F), it’s only four grams. The colder the air, the less water vapour it can hold. When moist sea air is driven up a mountain slope by the wind, it cools down. Consequently the water vapour then partly condenses into clouds This happens once a certain temperature is reached, and therefore at a certain height. That’s why we often see a perfectly horizontal underside of these clouds.

If we think that the cloud just hangs there calmly, we are mistaken. Inside, it’s a very dynamic process. New air is constantly being introduced from the sea side, which creates new water vapour at the bottom of the cloud. On the land side, the cloud is pushed downward, causing water droplets to evaporate from the bottom. If the sun has enough opportunity to warm up the mountain, the overall temperature will increase and the cloud will gradually dissipate.

 

Life has evidently not been kind to him, as he has only one tusk left

Walrus

Walruses often rest on the beach of Isflakbukta, sometimes even dozens at a time. In the shallow bay, they scour the seabed for shellfish. But today, they're absent, except for one. It’s a male, lying stretched out on the beach, completely indifferent to our activities. Life has evidently not been kind to him, as he has only one tusk left.

 

Paw prints of polar bear

Skull of polar bear

Polar bears also sometimes roam this beach. Evidence of their presence is plentiful – recent paw prints in the sand, large droppings among the moss, and higher up on the tundra, a bleached skull with upper jaw and impressive canines. Even that shapeless, almost unrecognizable mass at the waterline must have once been a proud polar bear. Now, only a dirty, long-haired white rug remains, having spent too long in the water.

But we are safe, as the expedition team has set up a perimeter. In three directions, a team member keeps watch – Ryan to the east, Vadim to the north, and Andy to the west.

In a few days, a polar bear will wound a German staff member on this beach before two others can shoot him

Little do we know that this coming Saturday, some scouts from the cruise ship M/S Bremen will unexpectedly encounter a polar bear on this very beach during their landing preparations. Shots from signal pistols will not deter the bear. On the contrary, he will injure a German staff member before two others can shoot him. The injured staff member will be flown to Tromsø in Norway and, fortunately, will be able to recount the incident.

 

Hans Merckoll's hut (1936)

Matchbox ready for use by frostbitten traveller

Sleeping area

But today, things are quieter here. The wooden hut built by inspector Hans Merckoll during an expedition in 1936 still stands almost intact. It is now part of a network of emergency huts maintained by the sysselmann, the governor of Svalbard. But as the partially torn poster on the wall, translated into Norwegian, Russian, English, and German, advises: You are allowed to take shelter here if necessary, but clean up before you leave.

Inside, we find some basic amenities: a bunk bed, a stove, an oil lamp, a table, toilet paper, and some matches sticking partially out of the box so they are ready for use by the frostbitten traveller with half-frozen fingers.

 

Phippsøya

Higher up, the sandy beach quickly transitions into soggy tundra. We climb further up among the boulders. Crystal-clear water trickles down here and there. Green moss and tiny plants, never more than ten centimetres high, have established themselves everywhere on the rocky slope. Their survival in this harsh environment is largely due to the bird droppings that seabirds regularly deposit here.

 

 

 

 

A notable feature is the fossil beach ridge we are now looking down on. Louis estimates it to be 150 to 200 years old. Such a beach ridge forms when seawater carries sediment and deposits it on the shore. Gradually, a ridge develops parallel to the shoreline. This is nothing unusual; it happens all over the world.

However, in Svalbard – and elsewhere in the high Arctic – there is an additional phenomenon. In the past, these islands were covered by glaciers for long periods. The immense ice mass pressed the land downward. Now that the islands have been freed from this load, they are slowly rebounding upwards – up to six metres per century. As a result, the sea seems to retreat. A beach plain emerges, and the original, fossilized beach ridge finds itself surprisingly far inland.

At the shoreline, the waves can now begin building a new beach ridge. Sometimes several beach ridges form one after the other, with terraced sand plains in between. On these terraces, one can sometimes find fossilized whale jaws, kilometres away from the sea.

 

Moraine

Creationists, on the other hand, have a completely different perspective. For them, the existence of fossilized beach ridges is clear evidence of a Biblical flood that once swept across the Earth.

 

Isflakbukta

We continue to enjoy the magnificent view. The mountains on the east side of the bay bask confidently in the sun, while those on the west side are gradually enveloped by mist. Just before noon, we are back aboard the Sea Spirit, sipping our mint tea.

We now head directly south. We are only about twenty-five kilometres from our next destination, Chermsideøya. However, sailors prefer to express such distances in nautical miles, which in this case is approximately 13.5 nautical miles. A nautical mile corresponds exactly to one minute of arc along a meridian. So, if you travel sixty nautical miles directly north, you would approach the North Pole by one degree.

 

Coastline of Nordaustlandet

But as we approach the coastline of Nordaustlandet, the second largest island in Svalbard, a glaring white band appears on the horizon as far as the eye can see. It looks like a meter-thick layer of ice on the water, but it is not. It is mist.

 

It looks like a meter-thick layer of ice on the water, but it is not. It is mist

Shortly after two o'clock, the verdict is in. Not entirely unexpectedly, the landing on Chermsideøya is cancelled because the area is completely shrouded in mist. So, Plan B is pulled out, and we immediately set off for Storsteinhalvøya, a peninsula in the northwest corner of Nordaustlandet.

That means another seventy kilometres or so of sailing. Ample time to delve into a serious issue. For example, climate change and its causes, something we’re confronted with almost daily here. So, we all head to the lounge.

By climate, scientists like Louis mean the average weather at a specific place over a period of thirty years. Naturally, this climate is not the same everywhere. Around 1900, a certain Köp­pen came up with a system to classify climates based on precipitation and temperature. This system is still broadly used to this day.

The primary player in the field of climate is, of course, the sun. It is the sun that mostly warms the regions around the equator while leaving the areas around the poles somewhat cold. This imbalance in the earth's atmosphere gives rise to convective currents in the air that try to restore balance – resulting in winds, rain showers, storms, and hurricanes.

But it’s not just about the solar radiation that reaches the earth; it’s also about the radiation that leaves the earth. The difference between the two is called the radiation balance. If this radiation balance is positive, the earth warms up. And that’s precisely what’s been happening for almost twelve thousand years now. The end of the ice ages ushered in a prolonged period of warming.

Why is this happening? First, there’s the sun again, which is more fickle than you might think, according to Louis. Dark spots regularly appear on the sun’s surface, aptly named sunspots. These disappear over time, but there is a regularity to this. Every eleven years, the number of sunspots peaks. This eleven-year cycle appears to coincide with a cyclical evolution of the earth’s temperature.

It’s ironic, though, that Barentsz and his crew chose perhaps the worst conceivable period to explore the Arctic Ocean

But there’s more. From the 15th to the 19th century, there was a period when the average temperature in Western Europe was one to two degrees lower than it is today. The many snow landscapes by Pieter Bruegel the Elder from that time come to mind. This period is called the Little Ice Age, although it had nothing to do with the real ice ages. The winters were colder and lasted longer, glaciers extended further, the Alps were covered in snow, but there were no immense ice sheets.

Well, during that period, almost no sunspots were observed on the sun’s disk. We know this thanks to Johannes Fabricius. In 1610, as a student in Leiden, he learned about the telescope, which had just been invented. Back home in northern Germany's Osteel, he set to work with it. He projected the sun’s disk onto a piece of paper, and voilà, he could neatly track the evolution of the sunspots. His observations have been preserved.

Since the 1960s, the average temperature on Svalbard has risen by two degrees. That’s quite a lot. Yet, the effect of the Little Ice Age still hasn’t entirely disappeared. Because in the first centuries CE, Svalbard must have been almost ice-free. It’s ironic, though, that Barentsz and his crew chose perhaps the worst conceivable period to explore the Arctic Ocean.

But there are other astronomical factors that influence the climate. For instance, the earth is sometimes a bit closer to the sun in its elliptical orbit and sometimes a bit further away. The earth's axis also wobbles a bit – scientists call this precession and nutation. All these cycles ensure that solar heat is distributed over the earth's surface in different ways at different times. The longest of these cycles even lasts a hundred thousand years.

In addition, there are countless factors on earth that play a role in warming. They are often interconnected in complex ways and can amplify each other.

If the permafrost partially thaws, more methane gas and CO₂ would be released – the notorious greenhouse gases

Take snow and ice, for example. Because of their white colour, they have a high albedo. This means they reflect a lot of solar radiation back into space. However, if it gets a bit warmer, a bit more snow and ice will melt. Less solar radiation will be reflected, making it even warmer. And so on.

Moreover, the melting of sea ice exposes more water. Water can absorb a lot of heat. As a result, it will take longer for sea ice to form again in the winter.

If the permafrost partially thaws, more methane gas and CO₂ would be released – the notorious greenhouse gases. They don’t cause the temperature rise, Louis emphasizes, but they do amplify it.

Incoming solar rays are unaffected by greenhouse gases. However, once these rays are reflected by the earth, their wavelength becomes slightly longer. Greenhouse gases then no longer allow these rays to pass through. The solar radiation is thus trapped in the atmosphere, warming it up.

Volcanic activity, on the other hand, seems to promote a decrease in temperature. It brings new material to the surface that can absorb more CO₂.

But it can also be more extreme. In 1815, the Tambora volcano erupted in Indonesia. It must have been an enormous explosion, the largest ever observed by humans. The average global temperature dropped by 0.7 °C (1.3 °F). For many months, sunlight was partially blocked by volcanic dust in the atmosphere, resulting in significant cooling.

In short, global warming is a completely natural phenomenon. The question is to what extent humans are amplifying this process

In short, global warming is a completely natural phenomenon. The question is to what extent humans are amplifying this process. And whether we risk crossing certain tipping points – points where changes can no longer be reversed.

This is not a problem for nature – nature always finds a new balance. But whether humanity can also adapt to this new balance is not always certain. The consequences of a temperature rise for ecosystems, public health, coastlines, etc., can be enormous.

Meanwhile, it turns out that the Sea Spirit has now also passed Storsteinhalvøya by. Once again, mist is the spoiler. Plan C replaces Plan B, and we are heading to Sorgfjorden. This is an inlet on the north eastern corner of Spitsbergen, another thirty kilometres further west.

 

To Storsteinhalvøya on Nordaustlandet?

That also means we are crossing the Hinlopenstretet. This 150-kilometer-long sea strait separates Nordaustlandet and Spitsbergen, the two largest islands of Svalbard. The sea is rougher now. Wind gusts of 30 to 35 knots – 55 to 65 km/h – whip up the waves. There is dense cloud cover, the sun is nowhere to be seen, but visibility remains good.

Wind gusts of 30 to 35 knots – 55 to 65 km/h – whip up the waves

Sorgfjorden, our new destination, is aptly named. In the 17th century, this sheltered bay was very popular with whalers. In the calm waters, they could anchor safely. But there was also a downside. The warm Gulf Stream barely reaches this enclosed area. Drift ice can advance incredibly quickly. Sometimes, ships become trapped before the crew even realizes it.

Thirteen Dutch whalers experienced this firsthand in 1683. They were trapped by the ice, forced to evacuate their ships, and had to leave behind everything they had caught that summer. With great effort, they managed to drag rowing boats over the ice and row their way to Smeerenburg.

Ten years later, it happened again. Louis XIV was seeking territorial expansion and was at odds with just about everyone in Western Europe. We now call this the Nine Years' War.

Even Svalbard was affected. In 1693, four French frigates were sent to the archipelago with orders to sink all enemy ships. They soon encountered forty Dutch whalers in Sorgfjorden. The whalers stood little chance against the French warships, but twenty-six managed to escape. The French only captured eleven whalers with their valuable cargo, while the other three were lost. Since then, the inlet has also been called Treurenburg Bai, meaning Sad Place Bay.

 

Nordaustlandet – Crozierpynten

Flaggstanghaugen

In the meantime, the Sea Spirit has arrived in the calm waters of Sorgfjorden. Just before six, we drop anchor. It’s almost nine o’clock when we set foot on Crozierpynten, a small peninsula on the east side of the fjord, amidst washed-up driftwood.

 

Flaggstanghaugen

The peculiar rock formations of Flaggstanghaugen immediately catch the eye – a small hill barely 31 meters high. As the pink-red slope rises before us, it looks like a giant staircase with strands of snow in between. This is due to the folding of the rock layers, causing them to form an angle of nearly 90° with the ground. Their colour is due to the presence of the red iron oxide hematite.

We climb up the hill over loose rocks. It’s not difficult, but it can be a bit treacherous at times. A misstep is easily made, as it turns out, resulting in a small head injury. The victim is taken back to the Sea Spirit, where the ship’s doctor, Gloria, brings out the needle and thread.

Once again, scattered planks indicate the presence of graves. There are only two here, but across the bay, on Eolusneset, you can find about thirty more. However, these have nothing to do with the naval battle of 1693. They are just ordinary whalers buried here. Across all of Svalbard, a total of about a thousand graves have been located. It gives you pause to think about the conditions in which whalers earned their livelihood.

You could call Svalbard a paradise for geologists, she adds. Almost all geological periods of the last 3.2 billion years are represented here on the surface

At our feet now lies Heclahamna, a small bay of Sorgfjorden. Before us stretches a desolate stone plain. In the distance, the 487-meter-high Heclahuken rises. There is hardly any plant growth, and no wildlife to be seen here. This is not a place you visit for the fauna or flora; you come here for the unique geological scenery. That much is clear.

 

Heclahuken

Because Heclahuken is a name that resonates – at least for geologists. Due to continental drift, Svalbard is slowly moving northward. We already knew that. But this movement has been ongoing for a very long time, our geologist Sanna emphasizes. So long, in fact, that if you go far enough back in time, you'll find present-day Svalbard at the equator. During its long journey northward, Svalbard was confronted with different climate zones time and again, from tropical to polar. Each of those periods left its mark, layer upon layer upon layer.

But things didn't always progress so peacefully. Sometimes, one continent collided with another. Rock layers were then pushed downward and, under the influence of heat and pressure, transformed into metamorphic rock. Along fault lines, magma found its way upward and solidified into granite, an igneous rock.

Well then, Sanna concludes, this specific mixture of metamorphic and igneous rock, several kilometres thick, is what geologists call Hecla Hoek rock, precisely because it is so well observable here. It forms the bedrock of Svalbard.

If you go far enough back in time, you'll find present-day Svalbard at the equator

By the way, even without Heclahuken, you could call Svalbard a paradise for geologists, she adds. Almost all geological periods of the last 3.2 billion years are represented here on the surface. And what's more – if you want to study rock layers, you're hardly hindered by vegetation here.

Down on the pebble beach, we notice the remnants of a few huts. One is still more or less standing, while the others have collapsed like a house of cards. These are the remains of a Swedish-Russian expedition from 1899.

 

Hut of Swedish-Russian expedition (1899)

But geology wasn’t the focus of this expedition at all. Their goal was to measure the meridian arc. On Svalbard, a one-degree arc in kilometres is significantly longer than the same arc length closer to the equator. This difference is due to the flattening of the Earth.

By comparing measurements of the meridian here and closer to the equator, they hoped to obtain very precise data about that flattening. It might seem like a theoretical issue, but there's more to it. For example, the accurate functioning of a GPS relies on extremely precise information about the Earth’s flattening. Without such data, your GPS could be off by several hundred meters.

Without extremely precise information about the Earth’s flattening, your GPS could be off by several hundred meters

However, measuring a meridian arc is easier said than done. It involved erecting a cairn, a stone marker three to four meters high, on a visible high mountain. The position of that cairn was then measured from a great distance. This laborious process was repeated over and over, from Keilhaufjellet in the far south of Svalbard to Vesle Tavleøya in the distant north. They connected a chain of precise observations over an arc of 4° 13’ or 468 km. The Swedes took responsibility for the northern half, while the Russians handled the southern half. It took them five years, as the ice in the Hinlopen Strait was uncooperative.

The expedition didn’t gain much fame, yet it was praised afterward for two reasons. First, it provided a wealth of scientific information. But more importantly, not a single member of the expedition died.

The latter was apparently still not a given at that time. Hans Frænkel, one of the participants, must have been well aware of this, as his brother Knut had already been missing for two years. It was only more than thirty years later that his body would be found on Kvitøya, along with those of the other two members of the ill-fated Andrée balloon expedition of 1897.

 

Not a single member of the expedition died. Apparently, that was still not a given at the time

We stroll back across the pebbles toward the beach. In the distance, the much-discussed Heclahuken rises calmly above the desolate plain. It’s hard to imagine a landscape more barren than this bleak stone desert.

Yet, here and there, a solitary plant bravely pushes through. A moss campion, for example, with its purple flowers on a green, cushion-like mound. Or the delicate stem of the dark-red mountain sorrel.

 

Yet, here and there, a solitary plant bravely pushes through

Mountain avens (dryas octopetala)

Mountain sorrel

Or the mountain avens, with its lovely white petals. This tiny tundra plant, known by its Latin name dryas, lent its name to three geological periods around ten to fifteen thousand years ago because it seemed ubiquitous at that time.

Even animals make an appearance here occasionally. We deduce this from the presence of a reindeer skull, bleaching among the stones.

 

Reindeer skull

It’s almost eleven o'clock again by the time we check back in on the Sea Spirit. We’ve been active for sixteen hours, not just us, but also the members of the expedition staff. Elsewhere, this might be considered a gruelling job, but they don't seem to mind – quite the opposite, in fact.

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Jaak Palmans
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