Bjornoya
Far, far and away from the familiar coast of Norway, we sped north. Though the Circle was far behind us, we were in search of the "real" Arctic, the Arctic one can feel and see, the treeless expanse, the snow and ice, the wildlife. We traveled beneath a cottony blanket. The first sign of regional change was in the weather. Gone were bright Scandinavian skies; a chilly fog surrounded us. Still, the sea was gentle, so the weather couldn't be considered anything but kindly.
By afternoon, we had reached Bjornoya, the evocatively named Bear Island. Willem Barents named the island in 1596, when he found a polar bear swimming near its shores. The island sits at the southern extremity of sea ice spread, so is only occasionally visited by bears, but otherwise it seems wholly Arctic. Bjornoya's southern tip is bounded by massive cliffs. Here, we boarded Zodiacs to take a close look at the island. The fog was still thick, but happily, we anchored in a bright patch that allowed us a clear view of the cliffs and of a couple of waterfalls dropping from the island's snowy top like frosty hawsers. Then we plunged into the fog. Ramparts and towers loomed eerily through the mist, caverns beckoned. And everywhere were seabirds. Kittiwakes, crouched in their precarious nests, cackled down at us, their combined voices making an omnipresent din. Occasionally, a pair, tangled in a bitter territorial squabble, would tumble from the skies. Hitting rocks or water, they would rise in shock and ire to continue their dispute. Fulmars hurried by, alternating clipped wing beats with steady glides. From their grassy shelves, nesting fulmars regarded us. With large eyes and bulging foreheads, they looked beneficent and wise. Packed in precipitous tenements, murres covered the cliffs by tens of thousands. In wads and skeins, they also regularly covered the sea. With a slow approach, we could often get very close to the birds. We got good views of their elegant penguin-like plumage, and the unusual ring-and-streak "bridled" form of the birds. Bird colonies such as those of Bear Island are one of the major attractions, indeed, the signatures of the Arctic. Tropical regions may offer diversity, but at high latitude we encounter the spectacle of fecundity.
After an early dinner, we landed on the north end of Bjornoya. Here Norway maintains a weather station. This was our first stop with bear discipline, and since fog might obscure a potential bear's approach, we played it safe by sticking to the grounds of the weather station. Never-the-less, naturalists carried rifles, and escorted every group. Vegetation was limited to a few low growing plants eking a meager living in the toughest of circumstances. Snow buntings fluttered by, gaily pied in an otherwise somber world. Most of us stopped by the station's tiny gift shop for cards which could carry the rare Bear Island postal cancellation. This, in addition to the stunning seabird colonies, was a reminder: what an unusual experience, a rare privilege to visit such an isolated and extreme place!
Far, far and away from the familiar coast of Norway, we sped north. Though the Circle was far behind us, we were in search of the "real" Arctic, the Arctic one can feel and see, the treeless expanse, the snow and ice, the wildlife. We traveled beneath a cottony blanket. The first sign of regional change was in the weather. Gone were bright Scandinavian skies; a chilly fog surrounded us. Still, the sea was gentle, so the weather couldn't be considered anything but kindly.
By afternoon, we had reached Bjornoya, the evocatively named Bear Island. Willem Barents named the island in 1596, when he found a polar bear swimming near its shores. The island sits at the southern extremity of sea ice spread, so is only occasionally visited by bears, but otherwise it seems wholly Arctic. Bjornoya's southern tip is bounded by massive cliffs. Here, we boarded Zodiacs to take a close look at the island. The fog was still thick, but happily, we anchored in a bright patch that allowed us a clear view of the cliffs and of a couple of waterfalls dropping from the island's snowy top like frosty hawsers. Then we plunged into the fog. Ramparts and towers loomed eerily through the mist, caverns beckoned. And everywhere were seabirds. Kittiwakes, crouched in their precarious nests, cackled down at us, their combined voices making an omnipresent din. Occasionally, a pair, tangled in a bitter territorial squabble, would tumble from the skies. Hitting rocks or water, they would rise in shock and ire to continue their dispute. Fulmars hurried by, alternating clipped wing beats with steady glides. From their grassy shelves, nesting fulmars regarded us. With large eyes and bulging foreheads, they looked beneficent and wise. Packed in precipitous tenements, murres covered the cliffs by tens of thousands. In wads and skeins, they also regularly covered the sea. With a slow approach, we could often get very close to the birds. We got good views of their elegant penguin-like plumage, and the unusual ring-and-streak "bridled" form of the birds. Bird colonies such as those of Bear Island are one of the major attractions, indeed, the signatures of the Arctic. Tropical regions may offer diversity, but at high latitude we encounter the spectacle of fecundity.
After an early dinner, we landed on the north end of Bjornoya. Here Norway maintains a weather station. This was our first stop with bear discipline, and since fog might obscure a potential bear's approach, we played it safe by sticking to the grounds of the weather station. Never-the-less, naturalists carried rifles, and escorted every group. Vegetation was limited to a few low growing plants eking a meager living in the toughest of circumstances. Snow buntings fluttered by, gaily pied in an otherwise somber world. Most of us stopped by the station's tiny gift shop for cards which could carry the rare Bear Island postal cancellation. This, in addition to the stunning seabird colonies, was a reminder: what an unusual experience, a rare privilege to visit such an isolated and extreme place!
