At Sea, Habenichukta (Edgeoya Island)
Before we had all put to bed the previous evening the motion of our vessel had undergone a distinct and noticeable change. Our heretofore experience within the protected fjords on Spitsbergen's west side had been of benign, even-tempered waters. However, once in the open sea en route to Svalbard's eastern reaches around the island of Spitsbergen's south side the National Geographic Endeavour encountered larger swells driven by powerful and unfettered easterly winds. This was the norm throughout the night and into morning. By dawn slushy rain and strong gusts had added to the chorus of inclement conditions. The decks were slick and treacherous, snow was piled into many of our vessel's trenchant corners, and wind whipped the flags and rigging into a frequency of high-pitched audio. The sky was an unpleasant uniform gray-black blanket of bitter cold. And all around were unconsolidated pieces of broken pack, progress-impeding floes of solid, jumbled ice drifting on a low pressure-lashed sea of burnt green.
Though forbidding and inhospitable a scene as any ancient mariner could envision, from our steel cocoon this was a comfortable scenario favorable to spotting polar bears. From the bridge, lounge, and library (bathed in warmth and with large windows affording forward viewing) we scanned the horizons. In due time, we were rewarded with the apparent telltale sign of a polar bear, a conspicuously cream-colored blob staged against the snow-white pack ice. It was sleeping soundly on an ice floe, showing only its prodigious rump. As the bear was immobile with slumber and only partially visible, our bridge's brain trust could not confirm the sighting. A better view was desired. To that end the captain took our vessel on a wide turnaround to re-approach that piece of ice. Moments later another bear was spotted swimming in the water. We noticed it from a distance swimming strongly between rafts of pack ice, head occasionally above water to breathe. Then it was lost by all viewers for a brief spell. A few minutes later it quickly and skillfully hoisted itself onto a large piece of ice, vigorously shook itself of excess water, and stood proudly and defiantly on its temporary frozen island. To all eyes this was a rotund bear indeed, not necessarily large in frame, but endowed with fur and fat. Perhaps it was a pregnant female or a just a polar powerhouse recently gorged with seal. Active and unsettled with our proximity it soon slipped back into the drink and was gone. Not wishing to stress the beast the National Geographic Endeavour resumed its course northeastwards towards the shores of Edgeoya. Back on track we re-spotted the original snoozing polar bear, and very slowly bridged the gap. It was not going to be bothered by us or shift its bulk in response to our presence. However, we were afforded very close views of its hind quarters (thus confirming our initial assessment) before setting sail once again.
Under a blossoming gloom and strengthening winds we beat our way through more of the gathering pack. Fulmars and kittiwakes continued to escort us along our course as arctic terns, buoyant in flight, bobbed and dipped on invisible currents of air before dipping to the sea to feed. The winds remained robust and steady, blasting out of the northeast with gusts topping 40 knots. The sea was whipped into a lather of short-period whitecaps, and rain continued to fall. Forward progress was slowed by the ever-shifting pack. But often, just as it appeared the horizon was too dense with ice to readily continue, new leads would appear, thus guiding our vessel deeper into the belly of Storfjord (the large body of water between Spitsbergen and Edgeoya) towards a landing site on Edgeoya. The conditions and ticking clock cast omnipresent doubts, but we all remained hopeful. Then out of the murk loomed the dark, stratified ramparts of the southwestern tip of Edgeoya Island. Freshly frosted in snow and capped with ice, the steep dark shoulders of this sedimentary outcrop looked grim and forbidding. At its base stretched a low, broad plain whose beaches were rimmed with ice. Hopefully this would serve as our landing site.
As we broke through the pack into open water and came abreast of the island's lee side the winds dropped to breaths and the seas calmed. The sky began to lighten in the east, and the rain stopped falling. In the late afternoon we launched Zodiacs to explore Habenichbukta on southwest Edgeoya. This wide swath of land is one of the most archeologically significant locations in all of Svalbard. Protected from easterlies, and dimpled by a small bay, its viability as a springboard for deeper exploration would have been a forgone conclusion upon its initial discovery almost four centuries ago. In use as a platform from which to launch hunting excursions as early as the 1600s, it was used by Russian hunters and trappers for probably 150 years or more. Whalers also employed the flat ground as an ideal site to flense leviathans. The enterprise was fuelled by high prices for whale oil, baleen, and walrus tusks. Mainly Dutch, British, and German expeditions participated in whaling, which was organised by companies of great national importance. At the peak of activity more than 300 vessels were active. In the late 1600s the Dutch alone engaged 150-250 vessels, which annually took between 750 and 1250 whales. The great bowhead whale, initially the most attractive booty, was ultimately eradicated from these waters. All around lay the vestiges of that bygone era. Whale bones and decrepit remains of the old whaling station were still conspicuous, reasonably well preserved by year-round cold temperatures. The terrain was an amalgam of rock and cobbles punctuated by tundra - fair substrate for reindeer, one of which we spotted on our walk. Other notable wildlife was of the avian variety. Barnacle geese foraged on the tundra and flew overhead. Red-throated loons cut arrow-straight flight paths as they unleashed their shrill calls. Mating red (grey) phalaropes gave us a personal, risqué display of seasonal courtship, while mated pairs of long-tail ducks and common eiders strode the shoreline. Indeed the window of summer, that brief but highly energetic period of Arctic renewal, was beginning to open wide.
Before we had all put to bed the previous evening the motion of our vessel had undergone a distinct and noticeable change. Our heretofore experience within the protected fjords on Spitsbergen's west side had been of benign, even-tempered waters. However, once in the open sea en route to Svalbard's eastern reaches around the island of Spitsbergen's south side the National Geographic Endeavour encountered larger swells driven by powerful and unfettered easterly winds. This was the norm throughout the night and into morning. By dawn slushy rain and strong gusts had added to the chorus of inclement conditions. The decks were slick and treacherous, snow was piled into many of our vessel's trenchant corners, and wind whipped the flags and rigging into a frequency of high-pitched audio. The sky was an unpleasant uniform gray-black blanket of bitter cold. And all around were unconsolidated pieces of broken pack, progress-impeding floes of solid, jumbled ice drifting on a low pressure-lashed sea of burnt green.
Though forbidding and inhospitable a scene as any ancient mariner could envision, from our steel cocoon this was a comfortable scenario favorable to spotting polar bears. From the bridge, lounge, and library (bathed in warmth and with large windows affording forward viewing) we scanned the horizons. In due time, we were rewarded with the apparent telltale sign of a polar bear, a conspicuously cream-colored blob staged against the snow-white pack ice. It was sleeping soundly on an ice floe, showing only its prodigious rump. As the bear was immobile with slumber and only partially visible, our bridge's brain trust could not confirm the sighting. A better view was desired. To that end the captain took our vessel on a wide turnaround to re-approach that piece of ice. Moments later another bear was spotted swimming in the water. We noticed it from a distance swimming strongly between rafts of pack ice, head occasionally above water to breathe. Then it was lost by all viewers for a brief spell. A few minutes later it quickly and skillfully hoisted itself onto a large piece of ice, vigorously shook itself of excess water, and stood proudly and defiantly on its temporary frozen island. To all eyes this was a rotund bear indeed, not necessarily large in frame, but endowed with fur and fat. Perhaps it was a pregnant female or a just a polar powerhouse recently gorged with seal. Active and unsettled with our proximity it soon slipped back into the drink and was gone. Not wishing to stress the beast the National Geographic Endeavour resumed its course northeastwards towards the shores of Edgeoya. Back on track we re-spotted the original snoozing polar bear, and very slowly bridged the gap. It was not going to be bothered by us or shift its bulk in response to our presence. However, we were afforded very close views of its hind quarters (thus confirming our initial assessment) before setting sail once again.
Under a blossoming gloom and strengthening winds we beat our way through more of the gathering pack. Fulmars and kittiwakes continued to escort us along our course as arctic terns, buoyant in flight, bobbed and dipped on invisible currents of air before dipping to the sea to feed. The winds remained robust and steady, blasting out of the northeast with gusts topping 40 knots. The sea was whipped into a lather of short-period whitecaps, and rain continued to fall. Forward progress was slowed by the ever-shifting pack. But often, just as it appeared the horizon was too dense with ice to readily continue, new leads would appear, thus guiding our vessel deeper into the belly of Storfjord (the large body of water between Spitsbergen and Edgeoya) towards a landing site on Edgeoya. The conditions and ticking clock cast omnipresent doubts, but we all remained hopeful. Then out of the murk loomed the dark, stratified ramparts of the southwestern tip of Edgeoya Island. Freshly frosted in snow and capped with ice, the steep dark shoulders of this sedimentary outcrop looked grim and forbidding. At its base stretched a low, broad plain whose beaches were rimmed with ice. Hopefully this would serve as our landing site.
As we broke through the pack into open water and came abreast of the island's lee side the winds dropped to breaths and the seas calmed. The sky began to lighten in the east, and the rain stopped falling. In the late afternoon we launched Zodiacs to explore Habenichbukta on southwest Edgeoya. This wide swath of land is one of the most archeologically significant locations in all of Svalbard. Protected from easterlies, and dimpled by a small bay, its viability as a springboard for deeper exploration would have been a forgone conclusion upon its initial discovery almost four centuries ago. In use as a platform from which to launch hunting excursions as early as the 1600s, it was used by Russian hunters and trappers for probably 150 years or more. Whalers also employed the flat ground as an ideal site to flense leviathans. The enterprise was fuelled by high prices for whale oil, baleen, and walrus tusks. Mainly Dutch, British, and German expeditions participated in whaling, which was organised by companies of great national importance. At the peak of activity more than 300 vessels were active. In the late 1600s the Dutch alone engaged 150-250 vessels, which annually took between 750 and 1250 whales. The great bowhead whale, initially the most attractive booty, was ultimately eradicated from these waters. All around lay the vestiges of that bygone era. Whale bones and decrepit remains of the old whaling station were still conspicuous, reasonably well preserved by year-round cold temperatures. The terrain was an amalgam of rock and cobbles punctuated by tundra - fair substrate for reindeer, one of which we spotted on our walk. Other notable wildlife was of the avian variety. Barnacle geese foraged on the tundra and flew overhead. Red-throated loons cut arrow-straight flight paths as they unleashed their shrill calls. Mating red (grey) phalaropes gave us a personal, risqué display of seasonal courtship, while mated pairs of long-tail ducks and common eiders strode the shoreline. Indeed the window of summer, that brief but highly energetic period of Arctic renewal, was beginning to open wide.
