Hornsund, Spitsbergen Island, Svalbard Archipelago
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun...." Robert Service
Our first full day in the land of the midnight sun has been strange indeed. Somehow within the space of only half a day we have managed to squeeze in forty-eight hours worth of experiences. And the sun still sits far above the horizon as the clock creeps towards bedtime for most rational beings.
A crumpled satin sea rustled gently against the eastern shore of Spitsbergen early in the morning. The mountains still rested their heads beneath a wispy pillow. From their flanks glaciers poured towards the ocean's edge, a river of ice, always moving. Hornsundtind, the tallest mountain, jutted its head above the clouds to check on the bright blue sky. Little by little other jagged peaks appeared. Bands of harp seals porpoised through the dark water, churning it into a temporary froth. And then they were gone as if they had never been there at all.
The wind, although gentle, nipped at our noses and other exposed flesh as we stood on the shore at Gnålodden within the fjord known as Hornsund. High above, the "incessantly humming mountain", Gnålberget buzzed with activity. Kittiwakes swarmed from the steepest cliffs that appeared to have no ledges. This too was an illusion like the timelessness of the day, for hundreds of mossy nests were under simultaneous construction. Builders came and went in frantic flurries distracted only by the shadowy passage of the neighborhood bully, a glaucous gull who wanted no more than to find nourishment somewhere. On a prominent boulder far below, its mate silently incubated developing chicks. Its life was no less stressful, for beneath its lofty perch an arctic fox had strolled about in search of sustenance. In springtime all life is focused on bringing about a new generation.
High on the flank of the mountain we could look down and read the story of time. Carbonaceous sediments piled deep beneath ancient seas were slowly compressed into the rocks we walked upon. Ice had plowed the valleys into U-shaped channels and plucked pieces from the heights leaving sharply projecting cones and fingers. Mankind had left its trail behind too. A wooden cross lay splintering beside a rocky grave. Was this an early whaler who had met an early demise? Or was this a Russian hunter from the White Sea who had lived within a tiny wooden hut nearby? Only two posts and a remnant of wall remained but its style was unmistakable. Why had these hunters built so low on the rocky shore? Only a brief walk away today but maybe a hundred years in time, the Norwegians chose a higher spot to base their operations. There were no amenities or comforts of home here, just a shelter from the wind and a hard bed to lay one's head upon.
Around the corner in Burgerbutka more surprises were in store. Flat as a skating rink, rotting fast ice extended from shore to shore. Littering the pristine white, ringed seals lounged looking like fat black sausages. Inert as they appeared, they were none-the-less vigilant for they are the favored food of foraging polar bears. Lumps of ice looked bear shaped but not one moved an inch, so we turned our attention to the deep and were rewarded instantly. Five beluga whales cruised against the shore joined by a swimming walrus. Only a few flat floes drifted about the bay. Hauled out upon the largest was another great tusked form, but this one had no interest in whales or even passing vessels. Its skin was flushed as the time for moulting neared. Lacking energy to do much of anything, it propped its massive head upon its tusks like a camera on a tripod and turned its tiny eyes in our direction. Attendance at Captain's Cocktail Hour could only be encouraged by turning our bow toward the sea and continuing southward bound.
