Tuesday, June 28

Liefdefjorden

It takes longer to reach the ice than anticipated, matching NASA’s prediction that Arctic sea ice would reach a new record low for the second year in a row. Our planet is indeed warming.

Heading to the northern tip of Spitsbergen, the ship anchors in an arm of Woodfjord called Liefdefjorden, a dramatic periglacial environment with striations of quartz.

I can’t wait to go hiking in Svalbard, but I learn to be patient when hikes are announced since we are in polar bear country. This isn’t a matter of pulling on the ol’ hiking boots and backpack and hopping onto the trail.

First, the team of staff and crew suits up in thick, orange, waterproof overalls and jackets and motors over by Zodiac to the destination.

Much as we nature-lovers enjoy watching animals in their natural habitat, we wouldn’t want to encounter any bears as we hike, so the  area is first checked out carefully, and constantly patrolled by water and land as guests explore on land. Each guide–and there were usually 4-5 different groups– must carry a rifle. It’s the law in Svalbard. If we encounter a bear, our guide would first set off flares and try to frighten it away, and only shoot as a last resort.

The beach is set up for landing (no docks, of course), with foldable canvas bins to hold our life preservers as we hike, and a team wades in the water, ready to receive each Zodiac of hikers.

I trust these guys. Our team knows how to keep us safe, and they are cracker-jack resources about the plants and animals we were seeing.

In Liefdefjorden (Fjord of Love), our guide, naturalist Tom Ritchie, points out a marvelous variety of macroscopic delights: saxifrage, lichens, and scat (arctic fox, bear, reindeer in two versions) that my third graders will LOVE seeing. On the water, we see red-throated diver, long-tailed ducks, and Arctic terns.

On the way back to the ship, our Zodiac driver steers us around a gorgeous gull-studded iceberg, evidence that we are quite near Monacobreen Glacier. We sit quietly with the engine off, listening to the crackling of the ice mixed with the just watching them for a bit, but as the fog rolls in, it’s clear we can’t dilly-dally. As we motor back to the ship, the fog becomes so thick that the captain has to sound the horn to keep us navigating in the right direction.

In the evening, we continue north towards the ice edge, looking forward to encountering wildlife. And Moffen Island does not disappoint. There it sits, in glimmering sunshine at 9 p.m., a spit of brown, gravelly land—and resting and feeding on it, a huge heap of brown, tusked male land elephants, some splashing in the waves, then undulating towards the group to snuggle. We call that being “thigmotactic.”
Meanwhile, while I am enthralled with the walrus behavior, dear Grace whispers beside me to note the pair of northern fulmars and Arctic terns (equator crossers of the air). There is so much to take in.

To bed at 23:26 with fruitless hopes of seeing bears as we hit LOUD pack ice around 82 degrees N. Before I hit the sack, I snap a photo on the bridge of one of my favorite screens.