Edgeøya, Svalbard
Wrapped in a cold counterpane of fog, the ship's wake makes a spreading arrowhead against the green sea, pointing north towards the ice. What lies out there in the fog? We are somewhere in the southeast corner of Svalbard, feeling our way towards land. Encouraged by a steady southerly breeze, we move up to Russebukta and turn into the coast, and to reward our valour, the fog parts to reveal blue sky and a dramatic Arctic landscape, snow-draped hills, golden plains with scattered reindeer and a dense flock of geese grazing beside a coastal lake. The scout boat goes in while we scan from the ship to look for trouble. And five minutes after Bud and Carl have landed, trouble stands up: an old male bear which had been spreadeagled like a dirty brown rock on a snow bank, rises suddenly, alert, muzzle stretched high to pick up the scent of humans. He climbs the rocky ridge to locate the offensive smell which has woken him, then retreats to the wide plain below. We train the telescope on him and everyone has fine views as he slumps on a stream bank to sulk over his rude awakening. He then heads for the hills, loping across the tundra in bright sunlight: our first bear!
Unable to land here, we continue north along the shore, to be enveloped in fog once more. In the northwest corner of Edgeøya we find a safe landing spot, and speeding ashore in Zodiacs, land at a river delta glowing purple with a sheet of mountain saxifrage. Photographers and botanists fan out along the shore, medium and long walkers take to the hills. Squelching across waterlogged bog, we splash through a gravel stream, up a slithery slope of shale, and finally come out on a high terrace spangled with Svalbard poppies. It is spring; the snow has just cleared from these hills. From here on, this micro-meadow of lilliputian willows and cowering snow buttercups will become a banquet for the local grazing animals. To confirm this, we spot a group of four reindeer and their calves high above us, traversing a snow bank. And as we pause, several pink-footed goose families spiral high, calling as they join up into a living arrowhead against the blue heaven, pointing the way south towards the sun.
Wrapped in a cold counterpane of fog, the ship's wake makes a spreading arrowhead against the green sea, pointing north towards the ice. What lies out there in the fog? We are somewhere in the southeast corner of Svalbard, feeling our way towards land. Encouraged by a steady southerly breeze, we move up to Russebukta and turn into the coast, and to reward our valour, the fog parts to reveal blue sky and a dramatic Arctic landscape, snow-draped hills, golden plains with scattered reindeer and a dense flock of geese grazing beside a coastal lake. The scout boat goes in while we scan from the ship to look for trouble. And five minutes after Bud and Carl have landed, trouble stands up: an old male bear which had been spreadeagled like a dirty brown rock on a snow bank, rises suddenly, alert, muzzle stretched high to pick up the scent of humans. He climbs the rocky ridge to locate the offensive smell which has woken him, then retreats to the wide plain below. We train the telescope on him and everyone has fine views as he slumps on a stream bank to sulk over his rude awakening. He then heads for the hills, loping across the tundra in bright sunlight: our first bear!
Unable to land here, we continue north along the shore, to be enveloped in fog once more. In the northwest corner of Edgeøya we find a safe landing spot, and speeding ashore in Zodiacs, land at a river delta glowing purple with a sheet of mountain saxifrage. Photographers and botanists fan out along the shore, medium and long walkers take to the hills. Squelching across waterlogged bog, we splash through a gravel stream, up a slithery slope of shale, and finally come out on a high terrace spangled with Svalbard poppies. It is spring; the snow has just cleared from these hills. From here on, this micro-meadow of lilliputian willows and cowering snow buttercups will become a banquet for the local grazing animals. To confirm this, we spot a group of four reindeer and their calves high above us, traversing a snow bank. And as we pause, several pink-footed goose families spiral high, calling as they join up into a living arrowhead against the blue heaven, pointing the way south towards the sun.
