| Island in the snow
 If you want
to do more than just dream of a white Christmas then there’s only
one place to head for. MALCOLM ROGERS has his timbers suitably shivered
in the far north.
You’re north of nearly everywhere once you reach Svalbard. The Archipelago
is about 600 miles beyond Norway, and comfortably inside the Arctic Circle.
The sort of place where, if it’s twenty degrees below zero, it’s
turned out nice again.
Here, above latitude 80 degrees north, the winter temperatures can sink
to minus 46. Which is why, when I announced my summer holiday plans to
my friends, I was greeted with slack-jawed incomprehension. Unmoved by
my descriptions of polar bear, reindeer, and whale, they were even less
persuaded by my declaration that the temperatures in summer are around
the four degree mark, overcast, but with sunny spells spreading to most
places by the afternoon.
Svalbard is some six hours flying time from Dublin - but you’ll
not find any direct flights. In fact you’ll change aircraft four
times before finding yourself on the final approach round the southerly
side of Spitzbergen, past Mount Misery, to finally land at Longyearbyen
Airport.
My first impression peering out from the Nissen hut which serves as the
airport terminal, was that I’d never seen anywhere more desolate.
Grey rock, snow and endless ice. It looked like the raw materials from
which scenery is made.
Our ship was anchored in the harbour of Longyearbyen, a small mining town
with desultory row of houses and a hotel bearing the first intimation
of the nature of this forbidding country. A notice announced: “Always
carry a weapon when travelling outside the settlements.”
THE BEAR FACTS
On an Arctic cruise the possibility of an encounter with the alpha predator
in the area, the polar bear, is the main attraction. Managing to combine
aggressive glamour and cuddliness together in one elegant package, Ursus
maritimus is the world’s largest carnivore, the strongest animal,
bar none, on the planet.
But bear hunting, even for the benign purpose of taking a snap to impress
your friends, is a hazardous business. How hazardous I hadn’t realised
till one of the expedition leaders gave us the, er, bear essentials. “If
a polar bear attacks your kayak,” he told us, “one of two
things happen. Either you die, or you both die.” Polar bears, you
see, are in thrall to the Atkins diet, and will eat any meat - from
seal to Homo sapiens. So when we ventured on land, we were accompanied
by rifle-toting guides lest any of Svalbard’s 3000 bears made an
impromptu appearance.
Our guide explained to us that on shore, should we happen to disturb a
slumbering bear, a snap decision would be made on tactics. “We might
even ask you to take your clothes off as we head back for the dinghies
- that might just delay the bear long enough for us to make our
getaway.” After hearing all this, the state of my underpants would
have stopped any bear in its tracks.
Finally, we were checked aboard our robust inflatable, and although the
temperature was a comfortable five degrees, the wind was so vicious I
got the kind of ice cream headache I hadn’t had since I was a kid.
But before getting underway we had to have our “man overboard”
drill. I’m proud to say I was appointed Chief Pointer. If someone
fell overboard, it was my sole job to keep pointing at the unfortunate
person in the water. I even had an Assistant Pointer, in case I fell in
as well, while pointing. I’m delighted to report that our duties
were redundant during the entire trip.
THE COLD HARD FACTS
You want ice when you come to the Arctic, and you surely get it. Pack
ice, nunataks, floes, growlers, bergs, - and glaciers that all look
like Munch’s Scream oozing down the mountain.
Each day, weather permitting, our boat, a former Russian research ship
called the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, anchored off one of Svalbard’s
fjords, the dinghies were launched, and we landed on the tundra. With
three pairs of socks, five layers of pullovers and coat, two pairs of
trousers, waterproof boots and Arctic fur hut, it could seem mild enough.
We’d examine the sphagnum moss which the reindeer were chomping,
and we’d often spot a snow bunting bobbing along through the lichens,
Svalbard’s sole songbird.
Then it was off to the Polish Research Station, the most northerly permanently
inhabited place on Earth. The Polish scientists were delighted to show
us round their station, even introducing us to their friendly husky dogs.
One, who took a shine to yours truly, I promptly christened Spot of the
Antarctic. I shouldn’t have tried to explain the joke to our Polish
hosts.
To the north east of the Archipelago the weather was noticeably colder
and the meaning of the word Svalbard became ever clearer: “Land
With Frozen Shores”. Out in the dinghies we would steer within twenty
five metres of the towering ice sheets, but no photographs could do justice
to the intensity of the colours of this extraordinary landscape. The mountains,
jet black in the summer, were a startling contrast to the glaciers which
were an extraordinary kaleidoscope of white, blue, turquoise, aquamarine.
And it’s silent.
Except when a huge chunk of ice the size of Cave Hill drops off the glacier
and tumbles into the Arctic Ocean. Then the ice heaves, and blocks of
ice as big as articulated lorries re-arrange themselves. Just as quickly,
all is silent again.
Wildlife abounds up here in the so-called blue latitudes. The polar bears
proved elusive, however - but we did get one very clear view of
a mother and cub sleeping off a seal meal. That’s one of the great
advantages of being a meat eater - you can spend most of the time asleep.
Northern right whales, Beluga whales and fin whales all congregate up
here, and we would regularly spot a few ‘blowing’ off the
ship’s bow. Birds there were by the million - little auks,
gulls, Atlantic puffins, Arctic skuas. The latter you can watch chasing
gulls through the air till the latter vomit up their food, which the skuas
then promptly scoff. Now that’s as baroque a feeding habit as you
could come up with.
GOING WITH THE FLOE
A cruise to the Arctic regions gives you a small taste of what it must
be like to serve before the mast. For this is no Caribbean cruise -
which cater for the newly weds and nearly deads as one crew member succinctly
put it.
On day four of our Arctic voyage a Force 10 storm began blowing, and several
breakfasts unexpectedly re-appeared. The storm continued for three days
with little respite. Despite several Cruel Sea-type destroyer turns in
an attempt to avoid the worst of the storm, still the boat rocked from
side to side. Early in the morning of day 6 (about 4.00 am), and about
16 miles west of the island of Kvitya, we encountered thick ice. By now
the ship was performing a stately slalom around behemoths of ice, smacking
with pistol cracks against the smaller ice chunks.
The captain put his helm over, and we turned around.
Cabin fever set in. We were in one of the most inhospitable parts of the
world, and while the ship was warm and comfortable, entertainment opportunities
were few - there’s only so many lectures you can listen to
on the mating habits of the little auk. By now the sea water was slapping
the portholes of the bar (way up on the fifth floor) the only place to
sit out an Arctic storm.
In an effort to rally the troops there seemed only one option. At the
risk of reinforcing the stereotype of being Entertainers to the World,
the Irishcontingent (myself, Kate from Dublin and Chris from Kilcullen)
organised a céilí-cum-international concert. The ship was
abuzz with excitement. And not just because someone misheard the words
“a band on ship”.
Thus it was that later that night - or broad daylight, as the midnight
sun still hung low in the sky - a surreal experience unfolded: Kate,
along with an assorted troupe of Australian and New Zealand dancers (Céilí
Minogue seemed their obvious name) performing the Siege of Ennis in the
bar as icebergs drifted by the window.
It did the trick, the storm abated. In the early hours of the morning
we moored under the shelter of the Brasvellebreen ice shelf, where a flotilla
of bearded seals kept us company. Only the sound of a hopelessly out of
tune version of The Mountains of Mourne (amended to Mountains of Svalbard)
disturbed the deep Arctic silence.
In 1908, when Philip Brocklehurst came home from the Antarctic, he brought
back his own toes as a souvenir. In a jar. Of course, that was in the
early days of Polar exploration, because Philip was part of Ernest Shackleton’s
expedition. Today, you’re unlikely to have to bring your own toes
back from the Arctic as a keepsake - indeed should you want to buy
a memento the Akademik Sergey has a fine souvenir shop on board.
As it happens I bought no souvenirs - but I took home treasures.
MALCOLM ROGERS travelled to Svalbard with Peregrine Tours.
Tel: 01635 872 300. Email: linda@peregrineadventures.co.uk
www.peregrineadventures.co.uk
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