Better pull your hood over your head now

Norway | Anno 2018

 

Monday, July 23 | Kinnvika – Palanderbukta

Tuesday, July 24 | Alkefjellet – Wahlbergøya – Bråsvellbreen

 

 

Monday, July 23 | Kinnvika – Palanderbukta

It's five in the morning when the Sea Spirit encounters rough seas. We can feel it immediately, even in bed. However, when we arrive off the coast of Nordaustlandet, the weather is sunny with just a few clouds. This means we crossed the Hinlopen Strait eastward overnight to try our luck again at Storsteinhalvøya.

We enter Murchisonfjorden, which is more of a wide bay than a deep fjord. Flattened mountains surround the inlet. If Barentsz had approached Svalbard from this side back in the day, the archipelago would undoubtedly have been named Platbergen instead of Spitsbergen – Flat Mountains instead of Sharp Mountains.

If Barentsz had approached Svalbard from this side back, the archipelago would undoubtedly have been named Platbergen instead of Spitsbergen

Kinnvika is our destination, a small inlet at the northern entrance to the fjord. No traces of whalers or fur hunters are found here, but scientists have left their mark. Quite recently, during the International Geophysical Year of 1957-1958, a Swedish-Finnish research expedition settled here.

But first, we head eastward with the zodiacs. Perhaps we can observe some wildlife along the rocky coast. Five zodiacs set out at nine o'clock.

 

On our way to Kinnvika

However, for one of them, the journey comes to an abrupt end. A small crack in the fuel line is the culprit; the engine draws in oxygen and completely fails. Ryan tows the unfortunate group back to the Sea Spirit.

A strong, chilly wind howls at us from the east as the zodiacs bounce over the water. With our parkas tightly fastened, we huddle closer together. And these aren't even particularly harsh conditions – no high waves in this sheltered bay, no rain, just a bit of fog to the west.

You can't help but think how it must have been for the whalers back then

You can't help but think how it must have been for the whalers back then. Six of them in their boat, usually on the open sea, often in rain and wind. The harpooner at the front, the helmsman at the back, and the four rowers in between. Once they spotted a whale, they had to get as close as possible so the harpooner could do his job.

If the harpoon embedded itself in the whale's skin with its barbs, that was just the beginning of a hellish ordeal. The wounded giant wouldn’t surrender without a fight and would promptly dive deep. The goal now was to wear him out. He couldn’t escape anymore, as the line attached to the harpoon ensured that. Almost defenceless, the boat would dance on the waves behind the whale, while the line unwound at a furious pace from the reel. If the line jammed, the boat would be unavoidably dragged into the depths. If the helmsman couldn’t align the boat with the whale’s escape direction, the boat could capsize. In either case, the crew stood little chance in the icy water.

In either case, the crew stood little chance in the icy water

But they weren't alone. The other boats would now enter the scene. Every time the whale was forced to surface for air, the harpooners would seize their chance. Eventually, blood loss and the string of boats he had to drag along would prove fatal. Exhausted, he would float to the surface, where the rowers would finish him off with their lances. It's no surprise that in all this violence, sometimes not just the whale lost its life.

 

Common eiders

In our zodiacs, things are much calmer. Perhaps a bit too calm, as there's little to be seen of the hoped-for wildlife. We only spot a few common eiders on the beach and some Brünnich's guillemots over the water.

 

Brünnich's guillemot

Just before ten, Eduardo drops us off on the pebble beach. We are greeted by two dozen kerosene barrels on wooden pallets – a depot of the sysselmann. If helicopters need to carry out rescue operations in this area, they can rely on this fuel supply.

 

Emergency stock of the Sysselmann

The landscape is extremely desolate, a desert-like tundra with nothing but stones and rocks on the bare slopes. Any form of vegetation is almost impossible to find without a magnifying glass.

 

Kinnvika

Further up, we find the scientific station that the Swedes and Finns built in 1957. It turns out to be a fairly large base, with about ten silver-grey wooden buildings, each located a few dozen meters apart. This measure was intended to prevent a fire from spreading from one building to another. The woodwork has withstood the test of time quite well. The huts were last used during the International Polar Year of 2007–2008, when scientists from ten countries conducted research from here, including studies on the nearby Vestfonna ice cap on Nord­aust­landet.

 

Like everything in and around these buildings, this board is legally protected

Swedish-Finnish scientific station (1957)

The doors open for us, and we’re allowed to take a look inside. For example, the sauna, where wood and round stones are ready for use. The Swedes and Finns clearly had their priorities straight, as this was one of the first buildings they constructed back in the day. This must be the northernmost sauna in the world.

 

Sauna

The largest building served as the living quarters, with a long hallway and rooms on either side – a dozen in total. It’s pitch dark inside, but the flashlights reveal mostly empty rooms, empty tables, and empty shelves – save for a few supply boxes and some small items. This is a stark contrast to the well-preserved historic polar bases in Antarctica, where everything still looks as if the inhabitants left just yesterday.

The sauna was one of the first buildings they constructed back in the day

In the kitchen, a message is written in white chalk on the green chalkboard: Leave this place in as good order as it was when we left, penned by the famous Swedish glaciologist Valter Schytt on August 27, 1966. He added a postscript: P.S. There is more wood in the sauna house, for the benefit of any cold travellers in need. Like everything in and around these buildings, this board is legally protected. Hats off to everyone who has visited or worked in this room over the past half-century and left the chalkboard untouched.

Outside, some rusty equipment recalls a once-glorious past – the skeleton of an amphibious vehicle, a few metal sleds, and a trailer with rubber tires.

 

Witnesses to an illustrious past

Higher up, on one of those flat mountains, Sanna is waiting for us. With the rifle slung loosely over her shoulder, she explains how the landscape tells its own history.

 

Fossil beaches from the last ice age

Take the marine terraces we're overlooking, for example. In fact, these are fossil beaches like the ones we came to know on Phippsøya. They were formed after the last ice age ended 11 700 years ago. The ice melted, causing sea levels to rise. More and more land became submerged.

But because that land was no longer weighed down by a heavy layer of ice, it began to slowly rebound. Much slower, of course, than the rising water, but little by little, the rising land caught up with the water. This caused the sea level to drop again, exposing those beaches. Nowadays, little Svalbard has more or less reached its normal level. Scandinavia, on the other hand, with its much larger landmass, is still rebounding.

The rocks we see here are soft, sedimentary rocks, a kind of limestone actually. Countless vertical cracks crumble the rocks. It almost looks as if a giant hand has tried to slice the limestone into discs. These cracks form when water seeps into the rock, freezes, and expands.

It almost looks as if a giant hand has tried to slice the limestone into discs

Erosion by water and frost

Part of a reindeer antler

A piece of reindeer antler lies lost among the rocks. Below, we also saw a bleached spine lying around. The fact that they are almost completely covered in lichens indicates that they have been here for a very long time.

On Nordaustlandet, it is much colder than on the western islands. There is no trace of the warm Gulf Stream here, but the icy cold eastern sea currents are all the more present. As a result, you’ll hardly find any flowers or plants. So, reindeer are also scarce, as there is nothing here for them to graze on.

As everywhere else in Svalbard, we are dealing with permafrost here. In winter, the ground is frozen; in summer, only a thin top layer, about a meter thick, thaws. The rest, a layer between three hundred and five hundred meters thick, remains frozen all year round. Rainwater and melting snow have nowhere to go, making the top layer soggy, almost swampy. You can easily sink into it, but don't worry, Sanna assures us – you'll never sink deeper than a meter.

 

 

Near such a soggy area, expedition leader Ryan is keeping watch. We ask him about the weapons they carry. He’s happy to explain. They are Winchesters and Marlins, specifically of calibre .45‑70. Experts will know that means using bullets with a diameter of 0,458 inches, each loaded with 70 grains of black powder. Or, in other words, bullets of 11,6 mm with a deadly load of 4,55 grams.

To illustrate, Ryan pulls out a sample. It’s indeed a massive bullet, about the thickness of a finger and roughly 10 cm long. And you need to shoot at least two of these into the chest of a polar bear to kill it.

However, let one thing be clear – killing a polar bear is strictly prohibited, Ryan immediately adds. You are only allowed to shoot a polar bear in lawful self-defence. And that doesn’t apply if, for example, a polar bear is wandering past you at a distance of fifty meters.

 

 

If the polar bear, however, starts showing unhealthy interest in you, you should first try to scare it away with a few warning shots. To do this, our armed guides are equipped not only with a rifle but also with a flare gun.

If you are forced to kill a polar bear, you’ll have to explain it to the sysselmann afterward

If the polar bear launches an attack, then it’s shoot to kill as soon as it gets closer than thirty meters, says Ryan. But it has to happen quickly. Even at half its top speed – 20 km/h – a polar bear can cover thirty meters in less than six seconds. Moreover, it usually takes two direct hits to bring it down. Aim for the chest, not the head, because that’s too risky.

A hefty dose of composure, familiarity with the weapon, and good aim are the least you need under such circumstances, to put it mildly. Training and preparation are absolute requirements. The sysselmann closely monitors this. And if you are forced to kill a polar bear, you’ll have to explain it to her afterward.

 

Murchisonfjorden

 

Shortly after eleven, the Sea Spirit continues its journey. We're now heading south through the wide Hinlopen Strait, which separates Spitsbergen and Nordaustlandet, the two largest islands of Svalbard. Occasionally, to port, we catch a glimpse of Vestfonna, one of the famous ice caps on Nordaustlandet. To starboard, it's an erosion phenomenon that fascinates us. A black layer of dolerite lies protectively over a mesa of softer rock. Horizontal sediment layers, ranging in colour from ochre yellow to reddish brown, are cut by straight erosion gullies, with a few patches of snow on top – a fascinating still life of line and colour.

 

Mesa with top layer of dolorite

We’re in for a journey of about eighty kilometres. More than enough time to learn about polar bears in the lounge, as we don't know much about them yet. This is right up the alley of Eduardo, our Peruvian marine mammal specialist.

He describes the white-yellow carnivore without hesitation as a magnificent example of natural evolution. Like all modern predators, bears evolved from the Miacidae – a group of small, weasel-like or dog-like carnivores that appeared around 60 million years ago, shortly after the dinosaurs disappeared.

About a million years ago, the polar bear is believed to have evolved from the grizzly

One of those predators was the brown bear or grizzly. About a million years ago, the polar bear is believed to have evolved from it. A typical case of allopatric evolution, according to Eduardo. It sounds like a nasty disease, but it’s not. It simply means that brown bears in the Arctic became geographically isolated from the others and were forced to adapt to their new environment.

And those adaptations are no small feat. For example, the polar bear developed webbing on its forepaws to swim better, while it learned to use its hind paws like a rudder. It can’t retract its claws, which hook into the ice like spikes. The soles of its feet have small bumps that provide better grip on slippery surfaces.

The skin of the polar bear remained black, allowing it to absorb even the smallest amount of sunlight

Its brown fur turned white to blend in better with snow and ice. However, its skin remained black, allowing it to absorb even the smallest amount of sunlight. Interestingly, the only parts of its body where this black skin is exposed are the nose and lips. The rest of its body appears white due to long hairs, which aren’t actually white but transparent and hollow. These hollows allow the polar bear to trap air, providing excellent insulation. The effectiveness of this insulation is evident in infrared photos, where the polar bear is almost invisible in the icy landscape.

The round, flappy ears of the brown bear gave way to small, pointed ears to minimize heat loss. And because a polar bear sometimes needs to catch prey under the snow, it developed a significantly longer neck than the stocky brown bear. This is much to the dismay of scientists, as it makes it difficult to attach a collar with a transmitter to a male polar bear – It just slips right off. However, it works fine with females.

All these adaptations have made the polar bear a distinct species from the brown bear. This was confirmed when a polar bear jawbone was found, dating back about 130 000 years. Comparing its teeth with those of its contemporary, the cave bear, reveals sharp teeth in the former and molars in the latter – a carnivore versus a herbivore.

There have been cases of fertile offspring from a polar bear and a grizzly

Still, the distinction shouldn’t be exaggerated. There have been cases of fertile offspring from a polar bear and a grizzly. With a grin, Eduardo calls them pizzlies.

Nevertheless, the modern polar bear has become the largest of all bears. It relies on the presence of sea ice and hunts beyond the tidal line. For scientists, this is enough to classify it not as a land mammal but as a marine mammal – alongside whales, dolphins, seals, sea lions, and otters.

An adult male can weigh up to 800 kilograms and still reach speeds of up to 40 km/h on land. In water, it can swim at a maximum of 10 km/h. That might not seem fast until you compare it to the current world record for the 100-meter freestyle swimming event – 7,6 km/h.

Its keen sense of smell allows it to detect a seal from more than a kilometre and a half away, or from up to a meter under the snow

Its keen sense of smell allows it to detect a seal from more than a kilometre and a half away, or from up to a meter under the snow – thanks to the fact that loose snow can contain up to 90 % air.

A polar bear prefers to be on solid ice, an iceberg, or a glacier. But you can also find them on pack ice or rocks. We witnessed this during our first encounter on Karl XII-øya. You can actually find them all across the Arctic. They are even found in James Bay in Canada, at approximately the same latitude as London. But they need to be cautious because if the ambient temperature rises above 10°C, a polar bear can overheat.

A female with a transmitter once swam through the Bering Sea for nine days, covering 700 km before reaching sea ice

Covering vast distances is no challenge for a polar bear. A female with a transmitter once swam through the Bering Sea for nine days, covering 700 km before reaching sea ice. She then swam another 1 800 km to reach land.

Sixty percent of all polar bears live in Canada. Alaska, Greenland, and Siberia also have large populations. In the Barents Sea, the number of polar bears is estimated to be between 2 500 and 3 000. In Svalbard, you'll mostly find them on the eastern islands, the area where the Sea Spirit is currently located.

But even modern polar bears are evolving. Some subpopulations are developing different feeding habits, hunting methods, and living patterns. Today, scientists distinguish four different ecotypes within polar bears.

Research shows that cubs in the same litter can have different fathers

Mating with more than one female is something a polar bear certainly enjoys. But winning a female's favour requires some effort from our white Casanova. Eduardo shows us a video that highlights this. Research also shows that cubs in the same litter can have different fathers.

Another fascinating aspect, Eduardo explains, is the polar bear’s reproductive cycle. They mate between March and May. However, the female has no interest in being pregnant, giving birth, or raising a cub at that time. Summer is her prime hunting season, where she obsesses over gathering food and almost doubles her weight. Even if the egg is fertilized, the female simply halts its development for a few months – a phenomenon known as embryonic diapause.

Even if the egg is fertilized, the female simply halts its development for a few months

Only in September, when the sea ice has shrunk to its minimum and there’s almost nothing left to hunt, does she resume the embryo’s development. The cubs will then be born just in time, sometime in November or December.

In the meantime, the female has already started digging her snow den. Once the den is ready, she retreats into it for five months. This spares her from wasting energy searching for food that is scarce. It’s not a true hibernation but more of a winter rest. Her heart rate nearly halves, but her body temperature doesn’t drop.

The cubs stay under the mother’s care for two to three years. The father will not be seen again. A wise polar bear mother will even avoid contact with adult males, as they won’t hesitate to kill young cubs.

A wise polar bear mother will even avoid contact with adult males, as they won’t hesitate to kill young cubs

In the Arctic, the polar bear stands unchallenged at the top of the food chain. Anything in its path is potential prey – walruses, seals, reindeer, little auks, humans, and more. However, it must be cautious with walruses, as their long tusks can deliver dangerous blows.

But the polar bear’s favourite prey is the ringed seal. This seal is present year-round, is small and harmless, and contains a lot of fat. The ringed seal is the only seal capable of keeping a breathing hole open in the ice. This allows it to search under the sea ice for Arctic cod and crab while still surfacing for air. The polar bear knows this. That’s why you’ll often see a polar bear patiently waiting by such a hole for hours on end.

A polar bear certainly won’t pass up carrion either. If a whale carcass washes ashore, it’s a small feast for a polar bear. In fact, it’s the only situation where you might see several adult males peacefully feasting side by side. Occasionally, a polar bear will even eat grass – as if it were an ordinary brown bear.

The Inuit faced the polar bear with nothing more than a bow and arrow

For centuries, the Inuit hunted polar bears. But they did so sparingly and with respect for the animal, Eduardo explains, solely for their own subsistence. They faced the bear with nothing more than a bow and arrow. They kept the teeth as talismans, used the fur for clothing, and consumed the meat and organs as food – except for the liver, which they avoided. The liver is toxic due to its high vitamin A content.

However, when people started hunting polar bears with guns, the situation changed dramatically. The top predator became an endangered species. This only ended in 1973 with the signing of the Agreement on the Conservation of Polar Bears.

Is the danger now gone? Not at all. Human presence continues to put increasing pressure on the population, and global warming isn’t helping either. The polar bear’s natural habitat is shrinking, making it increasingly difficult for them to build up enough fat reserves for the polar winter, Eduardo concludes.

 

Palanderbukta

It’s nearing four o'clock as we enter Palanderbukta, a deep inlet on the southern side of the Wahlenbergfjorden. More and more ice floes are now drifting towards us from the bay. From experience, we know this means we're closing in on glaciers. Indeed, a massive ice cap, the Vegafonna, is coming into view on the southwestern tip of Nordaustlandet.

Ice caps like this one are usually much larger than glaciers and move much more slowly because they sit on flatter terrain. You won't find deep crevasses here, but there are harmless streams of meltwater, making it an ideal place for a safe hike. And that’s exactly what we’re about to do.

Both carry rifles slung over their shoulders – just in case something unexpected emerges from the distant fog

Climbing over the moraine to reach the ice will be the hardest part of the journey, Ryan predicts. He leads the way while Sanna brings up the rear of our small group. Both carry rifles slung over their shoulders – just in case something unexpected emerges from the distant fog.

 

Palanderdalen, Palanderbreen (right)

We ascend along the narrow gully of Palanderdalen, gradually making our way up the slope. The landscape is barren, a desolate expanse of rocks that could easily be mistaken for the surface of the moon. But some reindeer droppings hint that this area is not as lifeless as it seems. Now and then, Ryan picks up a rock with a fossil imprint.

 

Palanderbukta

Palanderbreen

Even here, amid the infertile stone, a small flower manages to thrive. This is no coincidence – the Svalbard poppy is one of the champions of the Arctic. It ranks impressively as the second most northerly flowering plant.

The Svalbard poppy even manages to follow the path of the sun, as long as there are no clouds, of course

Its white petals indicate that the sun shines relatively little here. Not a surprising conclusion, but it has its reasons. When there is enough sunlight, the Svalbard poppy produces yellow pigments. Yellow petals allow the plant to absorb more sunlight, leading to a higher temperature in the flower, which in turn promotes the ripening of seeds. When the sun is scarce, the poppy prefers to conserve its limited energy for essential growth processes.

 

Svalbard poppy

This resilient plant has an incredible ability to follow the sun's path, as long as there are no clouds, of course. It owes this to a growth hormone that is only present on the shaded side of the stem. Sunlight inhibits the formation of this hormone, causing the flower to tilt towards the sun like a tiny satellite dish. This concentrates all the sunlight into the heart of the flower, once again promoting seed ripening. And the Svalbard poppy needs all the help it can get, as summers here are brief. Moreover, insects are inclined to linger in such warm little pockets, which enhances pollination. It’s no surprise that the Svalbard poppy has been named the 'national' flower of Svalbard.

 

 

From a 140-meter-high ridge, we now gaze down at the edge of the ice cap. Further to the east, we see the jagged glacier front of the Palanderbreen, and even further, the Ericabreen. Below in the Palanderbukta, the Sea Spirit bobs like a tiny toy boat in this immense landscape. To the west, we can just make out the Hinlopenstretet on the other side of the ridge.

 

Palanderbukta, Ericabreen (in the back on the right)

A chilly wind blows towards us from across the ice cap. There's no snow here anymore, glaciologist Sanna explains – what we see is purely ice, albeit soft ice, making it relatively easy to walk on. If we were to climb higher, we would eventually encounter fresh snow. Glaciers rely on a constant supply of snow. If the snow doesn't survive the summer, it's bad news for the glacier, as it will begin to shrink. In fact, this is already happening to nearly all the glaciers on Svalbard.

 

 

Occasionally, a glacier might feature a moulin, or glacial mill. These are deep, cylindrical holes where a meltwater channel has carved its way through the ice. The meltwater plunges straight down like in a whirlpool, with carried stones gradually grinding the cylinder walls wider.

For the Inuit, such a moulin can sometimes be a source of amusement

For the Inuit, such a moulin can sometimes be a source of amusement, Ryan adds, though he would describe it more as an extreme sport. They stretch a net above the moulin to catch them, then slide two to three hundred meters down the channel with the meltwater until they tumble into the net. The Inuit once invited Ryan to join in the sport, but he politely and firmly declined.

 

 

Tonight, our adventure will be much more subdued. This part of the ice cap is considered safe, even for amateurs like us. Still, we must follow strict instructions. From this point on, we walk in a straight line behind Ryan, stepping exactly in his footprints and carefully avoiding any suspicious spots he also avoids. Should Ryan suddenly vanish into the snow, we are to turn around immediately and return to the Sea Spirit, retracing our own steps with care.

We ascend the ice cap, weaving between small meltwater channels. Crystal-clear ice water rushes downward, while higher up, mists begin to appear, blending almost seamlessly with the ice, with no clear boundary between them. The cool wind subtly drives the mist down the slope.

 

Ryan and Sanna are well aware that the weather here can change rapidly, and the mists keep closing in

 

Around us, the air also grows mistier. Grey clouds now envelop the low mountain peaks surrounding the bay. But beneath them, the Palanderbukta remains clear and radiant in all its glory. Further east, the raw beauty of the Palanderbreen glacier stands out, its grey-blue, crumbly surface dotted with ice towers, hollows, and crevasses. The glacier’s front reaches all the way into the waters of Palanderbukta. A moment of silence feels necessary to fully appreciate this magnificent scenery.

 

 

Ryan and Sanna are well aware that the weather here can change rapidly, and the mists keep closing in. Therefore, they decide it's best to start the descent. It seems Vadim has already done so. Down in the flat area of the moraine, we see his group heading towards the zodiacs. Eduardo’s group, on the other hand, is still cautiously making its way up the ice cap in the distance.

 

 

Soon, we find ourselves back in the moonlike landscape. This time, it's the purple mountain saxifrage that catches our attention with its lush, purple-red flowers. Although the plant does not live up to its Dutch name steenbreek – it cannot break stones, although Pliny the Elder thought it could – it is nevertheless one of the big shots of the Arctic. It can be found throughout the Arctic region, and in Greenland, it has been spotted as far north as 83° 40’ N, just 700 km from the geographic North Pole. This makes the purple mountain saxifrage unequivocally the northernmost flowering plant in the world.

 

Purple mountain saxifrage

Svalbard poppy

The mist is spreading more greedily over the ice cap now. Eduardo's group seems to have disappeared into the void. They can no longer see the ship, and other landmarks are lacking, as we learn via the walkie-talkie. Slightly concerned, Ryan turns back while we continue to descend towards the bay. He doesn’t need to climb very far before Eduardo’s group comes into view. This means they now have a reference point to maintain the correct direction. Gradually, they emerge from the mist on the slope.

 

 

It’s not yet the end of the day. At half past nine, our tireless expedition staff once again herds us into the zodiacs, and we embrace this enthusiastic push with great pleasure. An evening cruise will take us along the front of the Ericabreen glacier, located at the far end of the Palanderbukta.

It is an immense wall, shaped by unbridled natural forces

Ericabreen

Ericabreen

Navigating between the ice floes, Sanna steers our zodiac towards the glacier. Where we earlier looked down upon the crumbling glacier tongue of the Palanderbreen, we now gaze up at the jagged front of the Ericabreen.

 

 

It is an immense wall, shaped by unbridled natural forces. Gigantic blocks of ice, weighing many tons, lean against each other at odd angles. It’s a bizarre mix of the fairy-tale blue of ancient ice and the unsightly mud-brown of sediment in the more recent ice layers. No more clear water rushing through meltwater channels here. Instead, a continuous flow of murky brown meltwater gushes wildly from the base of the glacier, as if a faucet deep beneath the glacier has been opened wide.

 

A continuous flow of murky brown meltwater gushes wildly from the base of the Ericabreen

An black-legged kittiwake floats unconcernedly on the water. The commotion of the six zodiacs seems to have no effect on it. The bearded seal resting on an ice floe, however, appears affected. Being curious, it lifts its head and glances over its shoulder in our direction. We maintain a respectful distance, but this doesn’t seem to reassure it. Waddling to the edge of the floe, it slides into the water.

Occasionally, it surfaces to take a look, its head with the mournful eyes and long whiskers just above the water

Bearded seal

Black-legged kittiwake

Bearded seal

Occasionally, it surfaces to take a look, its head with the mournful eyes and long whiskers just above the water. The zodiacs ensure that it doesn’t feel trapped – there’s always a way out to open sea. However, a moment of miscalculation occurs when it unsuspectingly raises its head between two zodiacs, just a few meters away from both boats. It takes the bearded seal only a fraction of a second to realize this and with a big splash, it dives back underwater.

 

Bickering black-legged kittiwakes

Black guillemot

Two black guillemots drift calmly past a small, azure-blue iceberg. Their silhouettes are jet-black, except for their bright white wings. We cannot see their red legs or red throat, not even when they dive underwater in search of food – mainly fish and crustaceans. Black guillemots can also be found further south. They even have breeding colonies in Ireland and Scotland.

 

Black-legged kittiwake

The proverbial tip of the iceberg is reserved for a photogenic black-legged kittiwake. This is a true seabird; unlike many other gulls, you will almost exclusively find it at sea outside the breeding season.

Then a second black-legged kittiwake arrives. He also finds the tip of the iceberg a nice spot to stay. Naturally, this causes a commotion, as the first kittiwake is unwilling to move. Reluctantly, the second kittiwake looks for a lower spot.

Reclining comfortably on its private ice floe, a bearded seal, watches us closely. However, it shows no sign of diving underwater. Apparently, it feels more at ease than its counterpart earlier.

Sometimes, a young seal is already in moult at birth – leaving part of its coat in the womb of the mother

Lucky for us, because it is an impressive sight as it lies there, two to two and a half meters long, weighing between two hundred and three hundred sixty kilograms. The long, pale whiskers from which it gets its name contrast sharply with its dark skin. These whiskers help it to locate prey on the seabed – bivalves, crustaceans, and echinoderms. The reddish-brown colour of its snout is a result of this, undoubtedly from rummaging in iron-oxide-rich earth.

Its front flippers are also very noticeable. They look like two enormous shovels. These come in handy when it stirs up the seabed.

 

Reclining comfortably on its private ice floe, a bearded seal, watches us closely

Its enormous size doesn’t prevent polar bears from putting bearded seal on the menu. But orcas and even walruses also enjoy a seal snack. It’s no surprise, then, that they are constantly on guard.

Like polar bears, bearded seals also undergo a period of embryonic diapause. Delaying birth by about three months is routine. The young are born only after the winter, in April or May. As a result, the young may sometimes be moulting at birth – leaving part of their fur behind in the womb of the mother.

For the third evening in a row, it’s nearly eleven o’clock by the time we check in on the Sea Spirit. But we hardly realize it. The constant daylight of the polar day completely disrupts our sense of time.

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Tuesday, July 24 | Alkefjellet – Wahlbergøya – Bråsvellbreen

Alkefjellet is something we've been looking forward to for days. As the name suggests – Cliff of Auks – it’s a sheer rock face where auks feel at home. More specifically, it’s Brünnich's guillemot that dominates here. It wouldn’t be so special if it weren’t for the fact that there aren’t hundreds or thousands of individuals, but sixty thousand breeding pairs. Including chicks, almost two hundred thousand Brünnich's guillemots reside on this kilometres-long cliff. Add to that a smattering of black guillemots, black-legged kittiwakes, and glaucous gulls, and the spectacle is guaranteed. Alkefjellet can rightfully claim to be the longest and highest bird cliff in the Arctic.

Alkefjellet can rightfully claim to be the longest and highest bird cliff in the Arctic

Alkefjellet

Even during breakfast, we already can see Alkefjellet in the distance. That means we’ve crossed the Hinlopen Strait again tonight, this time from east to west. The cliff face is located on the east coast of Spitsbergen, the largest island of Svalbard.

 

Black-legged kittiwake

Brünnich's guillemot

At nine o'clock, nine zodiacs head towards the southern end of Alkefjellet. From there, we’ll travel a few kilometres north just below the coast, while the Sea Spirit follows us a bit further out to sea. This will make a difference when we have to return to the ship over the choppy sea later. With a wind force of four, it’s on the edge of what a zodiac can handle. Moreover, it looks like it might start drizzling, but that won’t dampen the fun in the slightest.

 

 

It’s true that the birds steal the show at Alkefjellet, but the cliff face itself is a phenomenon too. Rising more than a hundred meters straight up from sea level, it’s an impressive sight. At the very top, we can spot patches of snow – small glaciers originating from the Odinjøkulen ice cap, which covers a large part of the Lomfjordhalvøya peninsula.

Even the glaciers of the Odinjøkulen can’t wear down this hard rock, which is why the cliff face remains so imposing

Alkefjellet, Odinjøkulen

The formation of this natural wonder dates back about one hundred to one hundred fifty million years, during the time of the dinosaurs. At that time, hot magma must have risen from deep within the Earth through fractures in limestone rocks, reaching close to the surface. There, it cooled into dolerite, a very hard rock. Geologists refer to this as a dolerite intrusion into limestone.

Where the molten magma came into direct contact with the limestone, the latter was transformed into marble, another hard rock. Erosion eventually wore away the limestone, leaving the dolerite exposed. Even the glaciers of the Odinjøkulen can’t wear down this hard rock, which is why the cliff face remains so imposing.

 

Brünnich's guillemots

Although dolerite may not form the striking hexagonal columns of basalt, the colossal pillars we’re observing are quite impressive. The Brünnich's guillemots find them impressive too, but for different reasons. The numerous ledges on the cliff face provide them with safe nesting sites, high and dry, well out of reach of predators – provided they don’t have wings. This keeps arctic foxes at bay, among others. Even birds of prey struggle to steal a chick or an egg with so many adult birds around.

 

 

However, a Brünnich's guillemot’s nest is not particularly elaborate. They lay their eggs openly on the narrow ledges. Fortunately, evolution has favoured them with increasingly pear-shaped eggs. This shape prevents the eggs from rolling off the ledge easily. Nonetheless, it does happen every now and then, giving the arctic foxes an occasional treat.

 

Brünnich's guillemots apply the same breeding technique as king penguins and emperor penguins

Brünnich's guillemots

Even when there is still snow or ice, Brünnich's guillemots will lay their eggs directly on top of it. They then turn the egg regularly to prevent it from cooling unevenly. They incubate the eggs by rolling them on their feet and pressing them against a bare patch of skin on their belly – the brood patch. This technique is also used by king penguins and emperor penguins. It’s fascinating to see such similarities between penguins and auks, a phenomenon known by biologists as convergent evolution.

 

It’s fascinating to see such similarities between penguins and auks, a phenomenon known by biologists as convergent evolution

Aaron, our German geologist, slowly manoeuvers his zodiac along the cliff face. Hundreds of Brünnich's guillemots are packed closely together on the ledges, pointedly turning their backs to us. You can’t really blame them; in this harsh weather, it’s wise to face away from the direction where the wind and rain usually come from.

With their distinctive white stripe on their beaks, Brünnich's guillemots are easy to distinguish from their relatives, the common guillemot and the black guillemot. In Svalbard alone, there are about six million of them, and globally, they number around twenty million. This makes them one of the most common seabirds in the Northern Hemisphere. They aren’t currently threatened, though climate change isn’t doing them any favours.

 

 

Above the cliffs, a wall of snow and ice looms. That’s the edge of the glacier. A few dozen black-legged kittiwakes seem quite at home up there on the snow.

At times, the white snow appears to be stained with red patches. However, this isn’t pollution, nor is it bird droppings. These red patches are caused by microscopic green algae that have taken up residence there. And they must be present in large numbers – at least several tens of thousands per millilitre of snow – to turn the snow such a blood-red colour.

 

Black-legged kittiwakes on the snow

Microscopic green algae turn the snow a blood-red colour

The red hue comes from a pigment these algae produce. This pigment protects them – ironically, because they are in the middle of the snow – from intense sunlight. It also helps them absorb some warmth from the sun, allowing them to melt a tiny amount of the surrounding snow. This small pocket of water is just enough for them to swim in and survive.

Here and there, a meagre stream of clear meltwater trickles from the glacier, cascading over the rocks on its way down. But in some spots, brown water, laden with sediment, gushes out from beneath the glacier. It thunders into the sea, turning the green seawater a chocolate-brown. On the nearby pebble beach, a dozen or so glaucous gulls are gathered.

For Arctic explorers, scurvy grass was a coveted source of vitamin C, used as a remedy against scurvy. Hence its name

Common scurvygrass

We barely see any vegetation until Louis, an emeritus professor from the University of Antwerp, points out a patch of scurvy grass on a slope. With its white flowers, it’s quite a lovely sight. Like many plants in the mustard family, it’s edible, though we’re not exactly tempted to take a bite. However, for Arctic explorers, it was a coveted source of vitamin C, used as a remedy against scurvy. Hence its name.

 

The real spectacle is just beginning, as it turns out. What we saw before was merely a prelude

Better pull your hood over your head now, Aaron grins as we’ve been sailing for about forty-five minutes, because something might fall from the sky here. Uh-oh, that could be a problem. Our mouths drop open in amazement, and we really should keep them closed now. The real spectacle is just beginning, as it turns out. What we saw before was merely a prelude.

Thousands, many thousands of Brünnich's guillemots crowd the narrow ledges. With an incredible racket, they assert that this is their territory. Even the tiniest spots, no matter how insignificant, are occupied. Sometimes, there’s barely enough space for a single bird on a ledge.

 

The spectacle above us looks like a gigantic swarm of mosquitoes

Even the cliffs here are more impressive than before – higher, sharper, rougher, and more weathered. They’re also greener, thanks to the abundance of guano. It seems as if the Brünnich's guillemots have reserved the most beautiful cliffs for themselves. Narrow ravines cut deep into the rock face. Here and there, patches of snow linger in the shadows on the slopes, or moss tints the steep walls dark green. Some dolerite columns even stand apart from the cliff face.

The spectacle above us looks like a gigantic swarm of mosquitoes. Brünnich's guillemots fly back and forth, foraging at sea. The predatory birds—black-legged kittiwakes and glaucous gulls—are also actively participating. They dart through the air at breakneck speed, yet somehow avoid collisions. There are, however, occasional squabbles when two Brünnich's guillemots come too close to each other on the ledges or in the water.

Believe it or not, in about six weeks, these cliffs will be completely deserted. Brünnich's guillemots spend eight to nine months of the year at sea, only coming ashore to breed.

Flying over the sea is no small feat for them. Because Brünnich's guillemots are excellent swimmers, they will dive as deep as 150 meters for food – usually polar cod – if necessary. But they often find their prey closer to the surface or at a depth of 20 to 40 meters.

Their short wings are well-adapted for swimming, but this comes at a cost. Flying is possible, but just barely, especially given their relatively heavy bodies – the heaviest among the guillemots. In fact, scientists have calculated that flying requires more energy relative to body weight for Brünnich's guillemots than for any other bird. Despite this, they fly up to 100 kilometres out to sea to forage, a demanding task when feeding a chick. One must admit penguins in Antarctica had a much better idea – they simply gave up flying long ago.

The icy wind, notorious in the Hinlopen Strait, is howling through, and it's starting to drizzle. But none of that matters to us, so captivated are we by the spectacle.

 

Flying requires more energy relative to body weight for Brünnich's guillemots than for any other bird

And yet, something is missing. We hadn’t even noticed it ourselves, but Ab, our Dutch ornithologist with his trained eye, didn’t miss it. Normally, Brünnich's guillemots start laying eggs in June. By now, chicks should have hatched from those eggs. But along the entire length of the cliffs, not a single chick is to be seen. Even Ab is guessing as to why this is. Could the Brünnich's guillemots find the season too poor for breeding? Or are they simply not ready to lay eggs yet? That could be the case, but if so, they’d better hurry now.

Somehow all the Brünnich's guillemots in a breeding colony manage to lay their eggs around the same date. A month later, all those eggs hatch simultaneously. That’s no simple thing, at least not for the chick. Imagine coming into the world on such a high ledge – that must be quite a shock.

Twelve days to three weeks later, the time has come. The chick must get into the water. There's only one method – you jump and you hope you succeed. It must be a spectacular sight, those gliding flights of the chicks while they are accompanied by both parents. Once in the water, it’s the father who accompanies the chick for six to eight weeks.

 

Along the entire length of the cliffs, not a single chick is to be seen

Only forty percent of the eggs laid result in a chick that safely lands in the sea. That success rate is mainly determined by the experience of the breeding pair – whether they succeed in securing a safe nest in the centre of the colony, whether they succeed in providing enough food, and whether they can effectively guide the chick during that dizzying plunge.

 

Arctic fox looking for prey

Because many of those dives end in disaster. Arctic foxes know this too. On a sloping layer of scree at the foot of the cliffs, we see them at work. There are two of them, and they’re quite young too, as they occasionally play with each other. The guano from the birds on the cliffs has turned the bare scree into a fertile slope, densely covered with grass, moss, and perhaps other plants. The foxes nervously pace back and forth through the greenery, searching for anything that has fallen from the ledges – eggs and careless chicks.

Many of those dives end in disaster. Arctic foxes know this too

But for now, they too are waiting for the first clutches. Once the breeding season is over, they will have to seek out other places. They’ll likely climb through a narrow ravine over one of those long snow tongues to the ice cap.

 

Brünnich's guillemots

Meanwhile, mist has completely taken hold of the glacier and the upper half of the cliffs. It’s still drizzling. A bumpy ride brings us back to the Sea Spirit. Once again, we head east, this time toward Wahlbergøya, the largest island of the Vaigattøyane, an archipelago in the middle of the Hinlopen Strait. It’s not far, at most thirty kilometres. Shortly after two o'clock, we anchor off Ardneset, a peninsula in the southwest corner of Wahlbergøya.

In the dense mist, almost nothing of the island is visible. It’s just a small peninsula we’re overlooking, barely a few meters above sea level. And this is exactly what walruses love. Here, they can haul their heavy bodies ashore with little effort. So there’s a good chance we’ll encounter walruses here.

 

Wahlbergøya

Shortly after three, we land with the zodiacs on the pebble beach. Strands of brown kelp mark the farthest reach of the seawater. There’s no vegetation to be seen on the sandy terrain. The Sea Spirit is also no longer visible in the thick fog.

 

Wahlbergøya – Walruses

But the walruses have kept their promise. About ten males are here as expected. They’re lying at the end of the peninsula. The expedition staff has set up a perimeter of about fifty meters to make sure they’re not disturbed.

They are certainly unperturbed, lying there in the dense mist, a tangled mass of impressive tusks and wrinkled bodies. They’re not exactly beauty queens, with those ugly, thick bumps on their upper bodies and stiff bristles on their surprisingly small heads. But walrus females think otherwise, as those bumps are what make the males attractive in their eyes. Over the years, those bumps become paler, eventually turning pink in the oldest males.

Close together or on top of each other, safe and warm – that’s quality time for these highly social animals. From time to time, one of them lifts its head to inspect our strange company. We don’t seem to pose much of a threat, as the head soon goes back down peacefully. Occasionally, a few Arctic terns fly overhead.

 

Those bumps are what make the males attractive in the eyes of the females

That only males are here dozing off is perfectly normal. You won't find females on Svalbard; they are currently about three hundred kilometres away on Franz Josef Land. They all gather there to give birth to and raise their young.

Walruses belong to the pinnipeds, which we'll learn more about from Eduardo shortly. Essentially, these are land mammals that, over the course of evolution, returned to the sea and transformed their legs into flippers.

Along with walruses, this diverse group also includes eared seals and true seals. Walruses share with eared seals the ability to move relatively easily on land using their limbs. However, like true seals, they propel themselves in the water not with their flippers but with powerful thrusts of their flexible bodies.

Male walruses can grow up to three meters long and weigh as much as two tons. A thick layer of blubber, 10 to 15 centimetres thick, keeps their bodies warm. But it’s their tusks that capture the imagination. Both males and females have them, although the males' are significantly longer.

As for how walruses reproduce, Eduardo admits that little is actually known. The females give birth on the ice, but they mate underwater, which makes it difficult to observe. It is now believed that males do not have harems but rather maintain specific territories where they mate with all the females within that area.

These large creatures have few enemies. They need to be on guard only against polar bears and orcas. Even for these predators, however, taking on an adult walrus is no easy task, as the walrus can strike dangerously with its tusks. Consequently, it’s mainly the calves that they target.

 

It’s the tusks of walruses that capture the imagination

Nowadays, walruses fortunately have nothing to fear from humans. But that wasn’t always the case. At one point, some populations were nearly wiped out because walruses were highly prized for both their blubber and ivory. In fact, walrus ivory was even more valuable than elephant ivory because it is harder.

It's a sobering thought when you hear what took place here in the past. Killing a walrus was no easy task, mainly due to its thick skin, which accounts for about twenty percent of its total body weight. Essentially, these massive animals wear a bulletproof vest about ten centimetres thick.

With true seals, it was different. You could simply give them a hard blow with a wooden club and still keep an undamaged hide. But with walruses, that approach wouldn't work. A strike with a club barely fazes an adult walrus. Even the guns of that time were of little use unless you were lucky enough to hit the walrus in the skull or temple.

The Pomors, a Russian people of hunters and fishermen from the Archangelsk region, were particularly skilled in refining the technique of walrus hunting. They used sharp, metal spearheads up to 70 cm long, mounted on wooden shafts two to three meters long. The key was to hit the walrus in the heart or kidneys. This was possible if you managed to get the walrus to lift itself slightly and turn its head in your direction, exposing the thin skin of its neck – just as a few walruses did when we came ashore.

 

In fact, walrus ivory was even more valuable than elephant ivory because it is harder

The fact that walruses like to huddle together in large groups was a great advantage for walrus hunters. In their rowboats, they would approach the herd as closely as possible without alarming the animals. Once ashore, they had to act quickly. The walruses closest to the sea were killed first. This left the remaining walruses with no escape route. Their natural path to the sea was blocked by a wall of dead bodies. Trying to flee overland was equally hopeless. Waddling on their flippers, they were no match for the hunters, who could then easily kill the desperate animals one by one.

 

 

Meanwhile, the dense mist has completely swallowed up the Sea Spirit. We have no idea where exactly it is. That's not a comforting thought. We’ll have to navigate using GPS to find the ship again, but our zodiac drivers have no trouble with that.

Later, around half past nine, we’re scheduled to visit the Bråsvellbreen, which is reportedly a rather impressive glacier. It’s part of Austfonna, the ice cap that covers most of Nord­aust­landet. With an area of 8 500 square kilometres, it is the largest ice cap in Europe.

The ice wall rises ten to thirty-five meters above the seawater, stretching for a distance of 160 kilometres

Bråsvellbreen

From the sea, you can barely see the ice cap itself, which is understandable. It's the glacier front that steals the show. The ice wall rises ten to thirty-five meters above the seawater, stretching for a distance of 160 kilometres. That’s more than the distance between London and Calais as the crow flies. Nowhere in the Northern Hemisphere will you find a longer glacier front. Only the Ross Sea in Antarctica surpasses it globally, with an ice wall 800 kilometres long – a distance comparable to that from Antwerp to Bordeaux.

Glaciers are something our Finnish glaciologist, Sanna, knows all about. She received her training at the University Centre in Longyearbyen, an ideal place for fieldwork. You could often find Sanna on or even inside one of the many glaciers of Svalbard.

As fascinating as they are, glaciers are a fairly common feature on this archipelago, she explains. Sixty percent of the land is covered by glaciers, and a quarter of the coastline consists of glacier fronts.

 

Bråsvellbreen

In fact, these glaciers consist of two major parts. At the top, new snow continuously falls – the accumulation zone. Due to the pressure, this snow is converted into ice, and because of gravity, that ice slowly but surely moves down the slope. At the bottom, that ice then disappears again – the ablation zone. The latter happens partly through melting and partly through calving. Incidentally, calving is more efficient than melting, Sanna notes. At least when it comes to destruction, she quickly adds.

From our perspective, glaciers seem like immense, motionless masses of ice. But that’s just an illusion. In reality, glaciers are constantly in motion. Gradually but inevitably, they slide down the slope. This usually doesn’t happen without a struggle, as there are obstacles on the slope that the glacier must overcome. This causes cracks in the fragile upper layer, known as crevasses or glacier fissures. The lower layer, however, doesn’t suffer from this. The ice there is more viscous in structure – somewhat like honey – and folds easily over the obstacles.

 

From our perspective, glaciers seem like immense, motionless masses of ice. But that’s just an illusion

If the amount of snow falling at the top of the glacier is exactly equal to the amount of ice disappearing at the bottom, then you have a glacier in perfect balance. If more snow falls, the glacier grows. Unfortunately, the opposite is true for the glaciers on Svalbard. Over the last hundred years, they have retreated by one to two kilometres. If more ice disappears than snow accumulates, the glacier is sick, according to Dr. Sanna’s diagnosis.

A phenomenon that makes the glaciers on Svalbard relatively unique is their sudden swelling – known as a surge. Although this phenomenon is not yet fully understood, the basic concept is fairly simple. Due to the permafrost, the glacier ice clings more tightly to the ground. So tightly that the ice mass slides down the slope far too slowly. Snow continues to accumulate at the top, ice continues to disappear at the bottom, but the glacier itself barely moves. The unsuspecting observer primarily notices the retreating glacier front and thinks the glacier is shrinking significantly.

Gradually, this situation becomes untenable. Suddenly, the permafrost loses its grip, and the top-heavy glacier slides down as a whole. Hooray, the glacier is growing again, and quickly too, the unsuspecting observer now thinks. But in reality, the volume of the ice mass remains unchanged.

 

If a glacier front retreats, what is the cause?

Now, you shouldn’t exaggerate the sudden nature of this event. On average, it takes a glacier on Svalbard 50 to 500 years to reach the critical point. The surge itself can also last several years. We know this from the Bråsvellbreen, the glacier we will visit soon. Between 1936 and 1938, its glacier front advanced by a staggering twenty kilometres, or more than 25 meters per day. Quite spectacular, indeed, but you have to be a geologist to call that sudden. In any case, the glacier got its name from it, as brå means abrupt and svell means advance.

Of course, all of this makes it more difficult to evaluate the status of a glacier. If a glacier front retreats, what is the cause? Is it the usual dynamics of a calving tidewater glacier? Is it the cursed global warming? Is it a glacier recovering from a surge? Or is it – perhaps most likely – a complex combination of all these factors?

We are curious if Sanna has ever found herself in dangerous situations during her fieldwork on and in glaciers. No, not really dangerous, she replies cheerfully. Admittedly, she did once break her foot when an ice block fell on it. She also once fell through the ice and was submerged up to her neck in icy water. Completely soaked, she had to find her way out of the glacier on her own. Then she had to ski for an hour through the freezing cold to reach civilization. When she arrived, she could only move like a robot because her clothes had frozen stiff. But dangerous situations? No, she really hasn't come across any, she concludes

The sea is quite calm now, reports Ryan, with a wind speed of about five knots instead of the predicted twenty. That’s quite manageable. Shortly after nine, the Sea Spirit approaches the Bråsvellbreen. There’s no trace of fog anymore.

In reality, it’s not much more than a jagged, grey-blue line on the horizon, as the glacier front gradually reveals itself to us in the distance. We don’t find it very impressive, unless you let the scale of the scene truly sink in. Because those dimensions are immense.

 

The most striking feature is the waterfalls cascading from the top of the glacier front downwards

The sea is very calm, but from the glacier, a sharp, chilly wind blows towards us. Light blue icebergs and white ice floes drift on the water.

The thirty to forty-meter-high front comes more clearly into view. It turns out to be a fairly intact, unbroken ice wall. It looks like a wall of blue-white marble, with the occasional streak of brown sediment. It doesn’t have the tortured appearance full of cavities, crevasses, and jagged spires that we saw in other glaciers.

Occasionally, a bird flies past the ship – northern fulmars, black-legged kittiwakes, black guillemots. A few dozen black-legged kittiwakes have landed on the ice cap.

But the most striking feature is the waterfalls cascading from the top of the glacier front downwards. The longer you look, the more you see. Some are tiny, while others fall in a broad fan of white foam, plunging down dozens of meters and carving out a deep channel. At the top, a small lake of azure-blue meltwater sometimes forms. We can just see it over the edge of the ice cap.

Such lakes on a glacier are not harmless. While the white ice reflects much of the sunlight, meltwater does the opposite – it absorbs a significant amount of solar heat, accelerating the melting process. Sometimes a moulin, or glacier mill, even forms from such a lake. Within a few hours, the meltwater can completely disappear in such case.

 

 

It’s nearly eleven again as the Sea Spirit turns directly south, and we definitively leave Nord­aust­landet, the coldest island of Svalbard, behind.

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Jaak Palmans
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