Kapp Lee & South, Svalbard, Norway
We wake off the northwest coast of Engeøya. A scout boat reports that the landing at Kapp Lee is too rough, but an inspection of a bay a little to the south looks more promising. Our fleet of Zodiacs transports us ashore for hikes and photographic opportunities. A stiff cold wind scours the landscape, but bundled up in layers of wool, fleece, down, and windproofs, we set out.
The “long” walkers skirt the base of a snow-patched slope and disappear into the wilds. Later they tell us of encountering a herd of reindeer including some new born calves. The photographers leisurely explore the spongy tundra and shingle beach for subjects. The persistent wind challenges us to hold our cameras steady as we capture images of whale bones, tiny cushion plants, and drift wood. A number of different kinds of birds are spotted. The song of a snow bunting can be heard between howling gusts. Purple sandpipers poke along the sea’s edge in search of tasty invertebrates. Arctic terns, those legendary polar migrants, hover then dive to snatch a tiny fish or some other morsel off the ocean surface. A flock of geese honk overhead. Eider ducks patrol the shallows.
In the meantime, steel grey clouds first stretch into lenticular shapes and then roil into lumpy masses called cumulonimbus mammatus, which are often a precursor to precipitation. A few minutes later, a snow squall engulfs us. The National Geographic Endeavour disappears behind veils of fog and blowing snow. But as the brief storm passes, the wind drops, the sky brightens and suddenly the day seems milder and friendlier.
After lunch, we set sail south through Storfjorden to once again meet the edge of the pack ice and to continue our search for the ice bear. Fog and snow drifts in and out all afternoon. The occasional seal is seen either hauled out on the ice or swimming along the edge of the floe. Our old bird friends - guillemots, fulmar, kittiwakes, and a few ivory gulls - wing past but no isbjörn.
Just before retiring for the evening, we enter Hambergbutka, a large ice-choked bay near the southeastern tip of Spitsbergen. The blue and white ice blocks are magnificent. Large flocks of guillemots and other seabirds wheel around the ship, as she pushes and crunches her way through the ice pack.
Suddenly, someone shouts “Bear!” Within nanoseconds, dozens of eager eyes and lenses focus on our closest encounter with the ice bear yet. The bear doesn’t take much notice of this huge looming ship. Instead, she continues to feed on the apparent carcass of a seal, periodically pausing to glare at some gulls also interested in seal meat. For hours, we all stand transfixed by this most amazing sight; the perfect conclusion to an extraordinary day.
We wake off the northwest coast of Engeøya. A scout boat reports that the landing at Kapp Lee is too rough, but an inspection of a bay a little to the south looks more promising. Our fleet of Zodiacs transports us ashore for hikes and photographic opportunities. A stiff cold wind scours the landscape, but bundled up in layers of wool, fleece, down, and windproofs, we set out.
The “long” walkers skirt the base of a snow-patched slope and disappear into the wilds. Later they tell us of encountering a herd of reindeer including some new born calves. The photographers leisurely explore the spongy tundra and shingle beach for subjects. The persistent wind challenges us to hold our cameras steady as we capture images of whale bones, tiny cushion plants, and drift wood. A number of different kinds of birds are spotted. The song of a snow bunting can be heard between howling gusts. Purple sandpipers poke along the sea’s edge in search of tasty invertebrates. Arctic terns, those legendary polar migrants, hover then dive to snatch a tiny fish or some other morsel off the ocean surface. A flock of geese honk overhead. Eider ducks patrol the shallows.
In the meantime, steel grey clouds first stretch into lenticular shapes and then roil into lumpy masses called cumulonimbus mammatus, which are often a precursor to precipitation. A few minutes later, a snow squall engulfs us. The National Geographic Endeavour disappears behind veils of fog and blowing snow. But as the brief storm passes, the wind drops, the sky brightens and suddenly the day seems milder and friendlier.
After lunch, we set sail south through Storfjorden to once again meet the edge of the pack ice and to continue our search for the ice bear. Fog and snow drifts in and out all afternoon. The occasional seal is seen either hauled out on the ice or swimming along the edge of the floe. Our old bird friends - guillemots, fulmar, kittiwakes, and a few ivory gulls - wing past but no isbjörn.
Just before retiring for the evening, we enter Hambergbutka, a large ice-choked bay near the southeastern tip of Spitsbergen. The blue and white ice blocks are magnificent. Large flocks of guillemots and other seabirds wheel around the ship, as she pushes and crunches her way through the ice pack.
Suddenly, someone shouts “Bear!” Within nanoseconds, dozens of eager eyes and lenses focus on our closest encounter with the ice bear yet. The bear doesn’t take much notice of this huge looming ship. Instead, she continues to feed on the apparent carcass of a seal, periodically pausing to glare at some gulls also interested in seal meat. For hours, we all stand transfixed by this most amazing sight; the perfect conclusion to an extraordinary day.
