Russebukta, Edgeøya, Svalbard
Fog…miles and miles of swirling, swaddling fog. We have been exploring the ice edge where the cold breath of the Barents Sea frosts the eastern seaboard of the Svalbard archipelago. We should not be surprised: Svalbard lies at the junction of the cold currents streaming out from the polar ocean, and the warm, moist, northbound plume of the Gulf Stream. It is the Atlantic breathing out on a cold morning; you can see its breath on the air in these roiling clouds of cold mist. Past the southern headland of Edgeøya, we turned north to find a landing, and as we paused at Russebukta, God poked a hole in the fog and sent down one of his own private sunbeams.
Our toughened team of stormtroopers were manning the Zodiacs in minutes, and butted in through a choppy sea to land on polished dolerite rocks where a huge stranded log lay beached. We fanned out in tight, wary teams and scanned the ground. (picture) Tundra. Snowclad hills wreathed in streamers of mist. Scattered rocks tattooed with lichens. An Arctic paradise: pristine and untrodden. As we relaxed, and our focus sharpened, the scene came alive: the ground spangled with yellow cinquefoil, the spiky heads of lousewort like miniature pagodas, the carpet canopy of polar willow flowering in the hollows under our feet. Tame red phalaropes trotted around the mossy pools oblivious to our presence. On the shores of a large lake scalloped by the wind, a tight flock of molting pink-footed geese jogged off into the distance to avoid us. On a lakeside spit we spotted that gem of the arctic, the King Eider. Sunshine, summer and the full cast of characters around us, an arctic garden of Eden…
Our reverie was rudely broken by the radio, “Polar Bear, Polar Bear! Coming towards you along the beach!” Game over: we closed ranks, scanned the safest route back and set off at a brisk march. We could see him coming at a fast lope along the beach crest: a young, hungry, unpredictable animal who had intercepted our scent and was tracking us upwind. Tom Smith tried a shout: it did not deter him. The bear found a goose carcass to chew, which gave us time for an orderly withdrawal. This is when the blessing of radio, outboard and Zodiac becomes real: in 15 rapid minutes we had shifted from tourist to evacuee. It is a stark reminder that in the Kingdom of the Icebear we rank alongside the lemming.
In the afternoon we landed further up the coast to stroll over tundra and beach comb for fossils. Three tame reindeer provided a brief cabaret. After supper we put down Zodiacs to try and find walrus, but the wind was rising and the sea with it. We turned tail and fled back to the mother ship to review the whole play we had just starred in: polar explorers meet polar bear. Explorers win bear. Bear loses explorers. All are reunited in a grand digital finale. To a sitting ovation, the curtains of fog close over the final act of the day’s unforgettable drama.
Fog…miles and miles of swirling, swaddling fog. We have been exploring the ice edge where the cold breath of the Barents Sea frosts the eastern seaboard of the Svalbard archipelago. We should not be surprised: Svalbard lies at the junction of the cold currents streaming out from the polar ocean, and the warm, moist, northbound plume of the Gulf Stream. It is the Atlantic breathing out on a cold morning; you can see its breath on the air in these roiling clouds of cold mist. Past the southern headland of Edgeøya, we turned north to find a landing, and as we paused at Russebukta, God poked a hole in the fog and sent down one of his own private sunbeams.
Our toughened team of stormtroopers were manning the Zodiacs in minutes, and butted in through a choppy sea to land on polished dolerite rocks where a huge stranded log lay beached. We fanned out in tight, wary teams and scanned the ground. (picture) Tundra. Snowclad hills wreathed in streamers of mist. Scattered rocks tattooed with lichens. An Arctic paradise: pristine and untrodden. As we relaxed, and our focus sharpened, the scene came alive: the ground spangled with yellow cinquefoil, the spiky heads of lousewort like miniature pagodas, the carpet canopy of polar willow flowering in the hollows under our feet. Tame red phalaropes trotted around the mossy pools oblivious to our presence. On the shores of a large lake scalloped by the wind, a tight flock of molting pink-footed geese jogged off into the distance to avoid us. On a lakeside spit we spotted that gem of the arctic, the King Eider. Sunshine, summer and the full cast of characters around us, an arctic garden of Eden…
Our reverie was rudely broken by the radio, “Polar Bear, Polar Bear! Coming towards you along the beach!” Game over: we closed ranks, scanned the safest route back and set off at a brisk march. We could see him coming at a fast lope along the beach crest: a young, hungry, unpredictable animal who had intercepted our scent and was tracking us upwind. Tom Smith tried a shout: it did not deter him. The bear found a goose carcass to chew, which gave us time for an orderly withdrawal. This is when the blessing of radio, outboard and Zodiac becomes real: in 15 rapid minutes we had shifted from tourist to evacuee. It is a stark reminder that in the Kingdom of the Icebear we rank alongside the lemming.
In the afternoon we landed further up the coast to stroll over tundra and beach comb for fossils. Three tame reindeer provided a brief cabaret. After supper we put down Zodiacs to try and find walrus, but the wind was rising and the sea with it. We turned tail and fled back to the mother ship to review the whole play we had just starred in: polar explorers meet polar bear. Explorers win bear. Bear loses explorers. All are reunited in a grand digital finale. To a sitting ovation, the curtains of fog close over the final act of the day’s unforgettable drama.
