Some of the best happenings on polar cruises are unscheduled, and never make the brochures. Here is one of them. We were party of thirty or more guests and staff, landed by Zodiac in a bay under a towering limestone cliff. The cliff was alive with sea-bird nests; the scree slopes below were green with Arctic vegetation, some in full flower. Others had been there before us: we were visiting the remains of a 250-year-old hut built by Pomor hunters, with a nearby grave.
As our lecturer was telling us of Pomors, somebody spotted an Arctic fox about 40 yards away, probably patrolling the cliffs in search of dead or dying chicks. Terrier-sized, in gray and white summer fur, he blended remarkably well with his background. We stood quietly, hoping for a picture.
The fox spotted us, sat on his haunches, scratched his head, and lay down to study us better. Gradually he edged forward: this was a new thing in his territory that needed investigation. First he walked up to Peter, one of our naturalists, examining him from a few yards away. Then he circled to where several of us had left camera bags, and checked through them. Moments later along came his mate, who joined him just a few yards from where half a dozen of us were standing. She too examined our bags, both taking their time, both ignoring us completely. Then they trotted off together, probably disappointed that our belongings included nothing for hungry foxes.
Our naturalists judged that they were probably young adults. An hour or so later came a much younger one, half-grown and far less sure of the world. She too walked within three or four yards of us, sniffing and circling, before hurrying off in search of more profitable prey.
