Southeast Spitsbergen
Dawn - or the timely equivalent - in the land of the midnight sun, came with the gentle jostling of the National Geographic Endeavour slowly working through the pack ice off the southeast corner of Spitsbergen. The previous evening Expedition Leader Matt Drennan had shown us the most recent ice chart, which clearly showcased the presence of dense sea ice concentrations around the northern and eastern reaches of Svalbard. In league with the rest of our vessel's brain trust he hatched a plan to take our ship to the edge of the sea ice to search for polar bears, the favored terrain of the world's largest land predator. For it is within the pack that polar bears in this region hunt for their principle food source - ringed seals.
The sky was a low-slung blanket of gray - even and unbroken. The light was muted and the air - still. In the distance to the west the dark, sedimentary ramparts of Spitsbergen, streaked with ice and snow, stretched to the clouds. In our foreground lay the unconsolidated pack - a fractured, dynamic, and temporary landscape - the realm of the ice bear. From the forecastle deck, bridge, top deck, and crow's nest myriad optics were trained in all directions, intently scanning the vista for any terrestrial motion. In this monochromatic world of white it is easy to miss an animal that blends in so well with its surroundings. It is even easier to be fooled into calling out a false alarm of "bear." A polar bear's fur is a creamy off-white and remarkably close in tone to an upturned piece of jumbled sea ice stained with algae or a light layer of dirt. However, the particular concentration and coverage of pack ice in front of our vessel held great promise. With diligence and patience we figured it should just be a matter of time. Before long the seemingly sterile and motionless stage gave way to movement, isolated and small within the vastness before us. But it was all we needed. A large male began to move towards us from the distance. The hook had been set. This was his show, and we were all willing patrons. Our attention had been zeroed. How would the act play out?
Over the course of close to an hour he moved slowly but steadily in our direction. His gait was ponderous but purposeful. Large powerful limbs atop massive paws pointed slightly inwards carried his bulk forward in a stride that is distinctive to members of his kind, his long muscular neck occasionally craning his large tapered head in directions that were governed by his olfactory sense. Nanuk of the north continued to move towards us and the ice edge, bridging the gap and raising hopes of more intimate viewing. The bridge crew wisely and sensitively kept our ship a respectful distance from the pack edge, allowing the bear an unthreatened approach to an area where he would have the opportunity to possibly hunt. The terrain upon which he strode was thick, concentrated fast ice with few or no cracks or breathing holes for seals. His only chance for food would come at the line where ice gave way to open water. At the ice edge he stopped, briefly tasting the wind before moving north along the border in search of prey perhaps. The National Geographic Endeavour shadowed his course a few hundred meters from the pack border. Before long he came to a halt, raised his head again and smelled the air. His countenance and body language suggested a focus of his faculties. It was clear some odor now had his full attention. It could have been our executive chef's cuisine seeping from our floating steel cocoon, but more than likely it was some key element of his own natural diet.
Before him and partially tucked between some small jumbles of ice on a small floe detached from the fast ice was a small ringed seal reposing seemingly unaware, its natural instincts for self-preservation on hold or absent. The bear crouched down into as cat-like a position as possible. His body was low, head forward and parallel to the ground, ears back. Then he moved slowly towards his quarry, occasionally lifting his head slightly for a gander and sniff. Some paces before his prey the polar bear deftly slipped into the water and swam towards the floe, his body streamlined, his head almost crocodile-like with his nose and eyes just above the water's surface. With his paddle-like paws he moved into a small channel between the floe and main ice edge, and then with some effort, but also with a speed and practiced skill that belied the beast's great weight, he emerged from the water and quickly bridged the gap to the seal pup. Slow and ungainly out of the water the seal had no chance. It was dispatched in an instant. The bear made quick work of his small meal, crudely tearing off large chunks then chewing and gulping down the morsels. In the time it might take one of us to eat a muffin he had consumed the whole animal, bones and all. Upon this leftover carnage the half dozen or so spectator glaucous gulls descended, scavenging anything worthwhile that was left at the scene, while the bear, with blood-stained muzzle and paws, strode a couple hundred meters away and rolled contentedly around in the snow. Naturalist Tom Smith with his range-finder calculated that we watched this macabre act play out from a distance of four-hundred meters - loge viewing with binoculars and spotting scopes. This rare occurrence had been a spectacle to behold.
As we cruised into the full swell of day the sun began to part the clouds, revealing steaks of sky blue and lighting up the mountains and sea ice with Arctic amber light. We continued to cruise the pack in hopes of furthering our already-impressive bear encounters. It was not long before another cream-colored beast was held fast in our vision, striding the unconsolidated pack some distance from shore. Tom Smith noticed a large "55" emblazoned with red paint on the bear's rear end. This particular animal had been spotted the previous week on fast ice in this same region by Lindblad guests and staff. The "55" mark was placed by the Norwegian Polar Institute in April as part of its scientific endeavor to track and study polar bears. The bright mark aids researches in polar bear recognition and greatly reduces the possibility of recapture. The paint will eventually wear off when the bear enters its annual molt. After a spell we left "55" to his devices and sailed farther north. Before long another bear was spotted deep into the fast ice; this one was some distance away. Captain Kruess took our ship as far into the ice as possible, maximizing our viewing potential. We observed the bear moving across the ice before it finally disappeared behind some ice blocks and did not re-emerge. We pulled out of the pack and continued our exploration. In short time we came across a large bearded seal lethargically lying on an ice floe. It appeared entirely unbothered by the large steel, blue and white behemoth that loomed over its resting spot. We watched it for a spell and then set sail back out into the waning Arctic light.
Dawn - or the timely equivalent - in the land of the midnight sun, came with the gentle jostling of the National Geographic Endeavour slowly working through the pack ice off the southeast corner of Spitsbergen. The previous evening Expedition Leader Matt Drennan had shown us the most recent ice chart, which clearly showcased the presence of dense sea ice concentrations around the northern and eastern reaches of Svalbard. In league with the rest of our vessel's brain trust he hatched a plan to take our ship to the edge of the sea ice to search for polar bears, the favored terrain of the world's largest land predator. For it is within the pack that polar bears in this region hunt for their principle food source - ringed seals.
The sky was a low-slung blanket of gray - even and unbroken. The light was muted and the air - still. In the distance to the west the dark, sedimentary ramparts of Spitsbergen, streaked with ice and snow, stretched to the clouds. In our foreground lay the unconsolidated pack - a fractured, dynamic, and temporary landscape - the realm of the ice bear. From the forecastle deck, bridge, top deck, and crow's nest myriad optics were trained in all directions, intently scanning the vista for any terrestrial motion. In this monochromatic world of white it is easy to miss an animal that blends in so well with its surroundings. It is even easier to be fooled into calling out a false alarm of "bear." A polar bear's fur is a creamy off-white and remarkably close in tone to an upturned piece of jumbled sea ice stained with algae or a light layer of dirt. However, the particular concentration and coverage of pack ice in front of our vessel held great promise. With diligence and patience we figured it should just be a matter of time. Before long the seemingly sterile and motionless stage gave way to movement, isolated and small within the vastness before us. But it was all we needed. A large male began to move towards us from the distance. The hook had been set. This was his show, and we were all willing patrons. Our attention had been zeroed. How would the act play out?
Over the course of close to an hour he moved slowly but steadily in our direction. His gait was ponderous but purposeful. Large powerful limbs atop massive paws pointed slightly inwards carried his bulk forward in a stride that is distinctive to members of his kind, his long muscular neck occasionally craning his large tapered head in directions that were governed by his olfactory sense. Nanuk of the north continued to move towards us and the ice edge, bridging the gap and raising hopes of more intimate viewing. The bridge crew wisely and sensitively kept our ship a respectful distance from the pack edge, allowing the bear an unthreatened approach to an area where he would have the opportunity to possibly hunt. The terrain upon which he strode was thick, concentrated fast ice with few or no cracks or breathing holes for seals. His only chance for food would come at the line where ice gave way to open water. At the ice edge he stopped, briefly tasting the wind before moving north along the border in search of prey perhaps. The National Geographic Endeavour shadowed his course a few hundred meters from the pack border. Before long he came to a halt, raised his head again and smelled the air. His countenance and body language suggested a focus of his faculties. It was clear some odor now had his full attention. It could have been our executive chef's cuisine seeping from our floating steel cocoon, but more than likely it was some key element of his own natural diet.
Before him and partially tucked between some small jumbles of ice on a small floe detached from the fast ice was a small ringed seal reposing seemingly unaware, its natural instincts for self-preservation on hold or absent. The bear crouched down into as cat-like a position as possible. His body was low, head forward and parallel to the ground, ears back. Then he moved slowly towards his quarry, occasionally lifting his head slightly for a gander and sniff. Some paces before his prey the polar bear deftly slipped into the water and swam towards the floe, his body streamlined, his head almost crocodile-like with his nose and eyes just above the water's surface. With his paddle-like paws he moved into a small channel between the floe and main ice edge, and then with some effort, but also with a speed and practiced skill that belied the beast's great weight, he emerged from the water and quickly bridged the gap to the seal pup. Slow and ungainly out of the water the seal had no chance. It was dispatched in an instant. The bear made quick work of his small meal, crudely tearing off large chunks then chewing and gulping down the morsels. In the time it might take one of us to eat a muffin he had consumed the whole animal, bones and all. Upon this leftover carnage the half dozen or so spectator glaucous gulls descended, scavenging anything worthwhile that was left at the scene, while the bear, with blood-stained muzzle and paws, strode a couple hundred meters away and rolled contentedly around in the snow. Naturalist Tom Smith with his range-finder calculated that we watched this macabre act play out from a distance of four-hundred meters - loge viewing with binoculars and spotting scopes. This rare occurrence had been a spectacle to behold.
As we cruised into the full swell of day the sun began to part the clouds, revealing steaks of sky blue and lighting up the mountains and sea ice with Arctic amber light. We continued to cruise the pack in hopes of furthering our already-impressive bear encounters. It was not long before another cream-colored beast was held fast in our vision, striding the unconsolidated pack some distance from shore. Tom Smith noticed a large "55" emblazoned with red paint on the bear's rear end. This particular animal had been spotted the previous week on fast ice in this same region by Lindblad guests and staff. The "55" mark was placed by the Norwegian Polar Institute in April as part of its scientific endeavor to track and study polar bears. The bright mark aids researches in polar bear recognition and greatly reduces the possibility of recapture. The paint will eventually wear off when the bear enters its annual molt. After a spell we left "55" to his devices and sailed farther north. Before long another bear was spotted deep into the fast ice; this one was some distance away. Captain Kruess took our ship as far into the ice as possible, maximizing our viewing potential. We observed the bear moving across the ice before it finally disappeared behind some ice blocks and did not re-emerge. We pulled out of the pack and continued our exploration. In short time we came across a large bearded seal lethargically lying on an ice floe. It appeared entirely unbothered by the large steel, blue and white behemoth that loomed over its resting spot. We watched it for a spell and then set sail back out into the waning Arctic light.
