Hornsund, Spitsbergen, Svalbard Archipelago
Wind can waft across the waters and touch our cheeks with a gentle breeze or it can frost our fingers with frigid blasts. It can blow the fog away and batter birds so they make no headway. And it can do all this in the space of only a day.
Morning on the clock found us once again off of the west coast of the island of Spitsbergen, in Norway’s remote Arctic archipelago. Gray clouds hung overhead turning the ice dotted waters to a deep charcoal. Strangely enough the island itself seemed to glow with sunlight dancing across the mountain peaks and slipping easily down glaciated valleys. A light wind snatched at the sea but it seemed to have strength enough solely to pucker the surface like one pulling against a bowl covered tightly with plastic wrap. In a game of hide-and-seek the waters hid in the lee of floating floes and here the surface remained mirror calm. Kittiwakes and northern fulmars frantically followed our vessel snatching at planktonic creatures driven to the surface in our wake.
An hour later we were inside the fjord of Hornsund and the world was a different place. The wind was winning the battle with the waves snatching their tops and whipping the seas into a froth. Little auks and guillemots were buffeted, their tiny wings whirling like those of frenzied bees as they maneuvered towards their nesting cliffs. On the bow we leaned forward as far as we could go and yet remained in an upright stance, weightless and ready to fly. Ice-chewed mountain peaks caught low hanging clouds tearing the edges to tatters, the shreds gathering the light here and there, alternately glowing or appearing as dark as smoke. Snow rippled down the mountain flanks, an abstract painting in black and white. A hint of palest blue emanated from deeply crevassed rivers of ice.
Deeper into the fjord we went past Burgerbutka to peer into Samarinvägen. Tiny blows and rolling white backs of beluga whales led us close to shore. The land beyond their playground seemed to beckon us to come so we dropped our Zodiacs and explored a place known as Treskelen. Rocky sedimentary ledges emerged from blanketing morainal debris, revealing secreted fossils from seas of long ago. Lichens and mosses carpeted unsorted rocks and gravels carried from the island’s heart and tiny alpine flowers colored the land with cream, purple and white. Most of the terrain was undulating, carved into hillocks and valleys by eroding meltwater streams. Where the sediments were soft and water logged, polar bear paws had left a trail, a gentle reminder to remain vigilant in the land where he is king. Another resident was less subtle in its claim to its domain. The Arctic skua fears none who dare to tread anywhere near its newly hatched young. If screeching cries and aerial attacks fail to convey the message to go away, it resorts to whining and whimpering and feigning injury. We understood quite clearly and climbed to a ridge above to observe the happy family settle in to a mossy bed.
By tea time the wind was back, our cheeks were red and nipped so returning to the Endeavour was no hardship. In fact the invitation to cruise among the ice, both bergs and bergy bits was enticing in itself. As the hands on the clock say that it is night, we continue to explore and search ice and shore.
Wind can waft across the waters and touch our cheeks with a gentle breeze or it can frost our fingers with frigid blasts. It can blow the fog away and batter birds so they make no headway. And it can do all this in the space of only a day.
Morning on the clock found us once again off of the west coast of the island of Spitsbergen, in Norway’s remote Arctic archipelago. Gray clouds hung overhead turning the ice dotted waters to a deep charcoal. Strangely enough the island itself seemed to glow with sunlight dancing across the mountain peaks and slipping easily down glaciated valleys. A light wind snatched at the sea but it seemed to have strength enough solely to pucker the surface like one pulling against a bowl covered tightly with plastic wrap. In a game of hide-and-seek the waters hid in the lee of floating floes and here the surface remained mirror calm. Kittiwakes and northern fulmars frantically followed our vessel snatching at planktonic creatures driven to the surface in our wake.
An hour later we were inside the fjord of Hornsund and the world was a different place. The wind was winning the battle with the waves snatching their tops and whipping the seas into a froth. Little auks and guillemots were buffeted, their tiny wings whirling like those of frenzied bees as they maneuvered towards their nesting cliffs. On the bow we leaned forward as far as we could go and yet remained in an upright stance, weightless and ready to fly. Ice-chewed mountain peaks caught low hanging clouds tearing the edges to tatters, the shreds gathering the light here and there, alternately glowing or appearing as dark as smoke. Snow rippled down the mountain flanks, an abstract painting in black and white. A hint of palest blue emanated from deeply crevassed rivers of ice.
Deeper into the fjord we went past Burgerbutka to peer into Samarinvägen. Tiny blows and rolling white backs of beluga whales led us close to shore. The land beyond their playground seemed to beckon us to come so we dropped our Zodiacs and explored a place known as Treskelen. Rocky sedimentary ledges emerged from blanketing morainal debris, revealing secreted fossils from seas of long ago. Lichens and mosses carpeted unsorted rocks and gravels carried from the island’s heart and tiny alpine flowers colored the land with cream, purple and white. Most of the terrain was undulating, carved into hillocks and valleys by eroding meltwater streams. Where the sediments were soft and water logged, polar bear paws had left a trail, a gentle reminder to remain vigilant in the land where he is king. Another resident was less subtle in its claim to its domain. The Arctic skua fears none who dare to tread anywhere near its newly hatched young. If screeching cries and aerial attacks fail to convey the message to go away, it resorts to whining and whimpering and feigning injury. We understood quite clearly and climbed to a ridge above to observe the happy family settle in to a mossy bed.
By tea time the wind was back, our cheeks were red and nipped so returning to the Endeavour was no hardship. In fact the invitation to cruise among the ice, both bergs and bergy bits was enticing in itself. As the hands on the clock say that it is night, we continue to explore and search ice and shore.
