Leifdefjord and Moffen, northwest tip of Svalbard
After touchdown yesterday in Longyearbyen, the one-horse capital of Svalbard, we came through chilly winds to a warm welcome onboard National Geographic Endeavor. Within the hour, it was gangway up and cast off lines as we sprinted out of the blocks, eager to leave the last signs of civilisation for the Arctic wilderness. Through the night we steamed up the western seaboard, and at 0700 rounded the northwest tip, through pewter seas buzzing with puffins, guillemots and little auks. The long inlet of Leifdefjord reaches deep into the heart of Spitsbergen. It made a fabulous first panorama, swarms of seabirds whirring low over the water like bees returning to the hive, the smooth tundra flats all rust and mustard, ringed by battlements of indigo mountains striped with snow.
The tension built as folk gathered along the rails, scanning, scrutinising and dismissing every white boulder in the landscape. But as we approached Måkeröyane, a group of low domed islands on the south shore, one clean cream blob held our attention; binoculars clenched, telescopes zoomed: "It's moving!" Our first polar bear! It wandered down to the shore, moved among rocks, climbed back onto the tundra and then slumped down. Just as we passed the word, another was seen on the adjacent island. This was a young animal, very lively, loping across the landscape, with a cloud of angry terns above it like white wasps. It was clearly hoping to snaffle half-grown tern chicks, a crunchy snack for a hungry bear. As we turned away we saw our third bear moving steadily along the shore behind, under red sandstone cliffs.
An hour later we had reached the end of the fjord where the giant Monacobreen glacier comes down to the sea, with its younger sisters Emmabreen and Idabreen close by. What a place! We lowered Zodiacs and puttered gently out into an Arctic wonderland: brash ice, floating ice sculptures and electric blue battleships of ice. Behind it all were the jagged battlements of the glacier. Suddenly with a bang and a cloud of spray, part of the glacier face collapsed, sending out a great surging wave in a miniature tsunami. Close by, black guillemots upended into the turquoise water, vanishing with a kick of scarlet feet. Fulmars paddled up to us like gray ducks, and right beside the boat a kittiwake plunged, emerging a second later with a kicking capelin, which it swallowed with one gulp. Now is the height of summer, when seabirds must forage constantly to feed hungry chicks. Here, where cold glacial water meets warm sea currents, is the best fish restaurant in Europe.
Punch drunk already with these icy images, we returned for Welcome Cocktails, while Captain Leif Skog introduced his stalwart crew before another sumptuous dinner. But the day was not done. For our Expedition Leader Tim Soper called us up for one last spectacle: we had reached Moffen Island, on the 80° parallel. This gravel atoll, dusted with snow from an evening snowstorm, is a nature reserve and walrus haul-out. We watched a group of 30 lying in a steamy scrum, while others rolled and scratched their backs in the shallows. 80°N in a freezing snowstorm, while naked walri romp in their own Club Mediterranée; its summer, Jim, but not as we know it…
After touchdown yesterday in Longyearbyen, the one-horse capital of Svalbard, we came through chilly winds to a warm welcome onboard National Geographic Endeavor. Within the hour, it was gangway up and cast off lines as we sprinted out of the blocks, eager to leave the last signs of civilisation for the Arctic wilderness. Through the night we steamed up the western seaboard, and at 0700 rounded the northwest tip, through pewter seas buzzing with puffins, guillemots and little auks. The long inlet of Leifdefjord reaches deep into the heart of Spitsbergen. It made a fabulous first panorama, swarms of seabirds whirring low over the water like bees returning to the hive, the smooth tundra flats all rust and mustard, ringed by battlements of indigo mountains striped with snow.
The tension built as folk gathered along the rails, scanning, scrutinising and dismissing every white boulder in the landscape. But as we approached Måkeröyane, a group of low domed islands on the south shore, one clean cream blob held our attention; binoculars clenched, telescopes zoomed: "It's moving!" Our first polar bear! It wandered down to the shore, moved among rocks, climbed back onto the tundra and then slumped down. Just as we passed the word, another was seen on the adjacent island. This was a young animal, very lively, loping across the landscape, with a cloud of angry terns above it like white wasps. It was clearly hoping to snaffle half-grown tern chicks, a crunchy snack for a hungry bear. As we turned away we saw our third bear moving steadily along the shore behind, under red sandstone cliffs.
An hour later we had reached the end of the fjord where the giant Monacobreen glacier comes down to the sea, with its younger sisters Emmabreen and Idabreen close by. What a place! We lowered Zodiacs and puttered gently out into an Arctic wonderland: brash ice, floating ice sculptures and electric blue battleships of ice. Behind it all were the jagged battlements of the glacier. Suddenly with a bang and a cloud of spray, part of the glacier face collapsed, sending out a great surging wave in a miniature tsunami. Close by, black guillemots upended into the turquoise water, vanishing with a kick of scarlet feet. Fulmars paddled up to us like gray ducks, and right beside the boat a kittiwake plunged, emerging a second later with a kicking capelin, which it swallowed with one gulp. Now is the height of summer, when seabirds must forage constantly to feed hungry chicks. Here, where cold glacial water meets warm sea currents, is the best fish restaurant in Europe.
Punch drunk already with these icy images, we returned for Welcome Cocktails, while Captain Leif Skog introduced his stalwart crew before another sumptuous dinner. But the day was not done. For our Expedition Leader Tim Soper called us up for one last spectacle: we had reached Moffen Island, on the 80° parallel. This gravel atoll, dusted with snow from an evening snowstorm, is a nature reserve and walrus haul-out. We watched a group of 30 lying in a steamy scrum, while others rolled and scratched their backs in the shallows. 80°N in a freezing snowstorm, while naked walri romp in their own Club Mediterranée; its summer, Jim, but not as we know it…
