PHOTOGRAPHY BY KEVIN J. MIYAZAKI

Icebreaker

Getting to Know Arctic Svalbard

September/October 2022 - Virtuoso Life

Bits of white ice bob around our ship in the dark-blue sea, and every so often an iceberg floats by. It’s 5:30 am aboard National Geographic Resolution, but the sun hasn’t set all night. The vessel, on its inaugural voyage to the Arctic, glides silently up a bright fjord, and I’m up early – too excited to sleep – taking in the beauty while northern fulmars streak past like wingmen.

What are the words beyond “beautiful”? Mesmerized, I realize I’ve forgotten them during these long pandemic years at home. To starboard and port, snow-fields etched with reindeer tracks sweep toward black cliffs dusted in snow. Straight off the bow, an aquamarine glacier gleams beneath crystalline sky. I sit and gape. What are the words for a landscape that seems so timeless it brings tears to your eyes?

Lindblad Expeditions was venturing to the high Arctic earlier than usual – in April – with a trip to Svalbard aboard its newest polar vessel, the 126-passengerResolution, named after British explorer Captain James Cook’s HMS Resolution.

I’d signed on with my husband, Jeff, when we learned that Sven-Olof Lindblad, the company’s pioneering founder and board co-chair, would be joining this first-ever spring sailing.

Now, triple-vaxed, PCR tested, and well caffeinated, I’ve already found what will become my favorite place on the ship: the library, a light-filled aerie of blond wood and floor-to-ceiling glass with 270-degree views overlooking the ship’s bow. Perched in a caramel-colored leather chair that’s tethered to the carpet in case of rough seas, I’ve made myself a cappuccino, helped myself to a pair of Bushnell binoculars, and am sitting in bliss, taking in the sea, the sky, the snow.

The landscape seems untouched, silent and permanent, but one of the reasons so many of us have come so far to see it is that it’s not. The Arctic is unraveling, melting at a frightening rate due to climate change. A new nature and climate study predicts that summer sea ice floating on the surface of the Arctic Ocean could disappear entirely by 2035. (Until recently, scientists didn’t think we’d reach this point until 2050 at the earliest.) The Arctic is warming more than twice as fast as the rest of the planet, and there’s no element of life unaffected by the immense rate of change here. Many of us have come because the Arctic as we know it – a vast, icy landscape where polar bears prowl and reindeer roam – may soon be just a memory.

“I first visited Svalbard in July 1973 and drove Zodiacs for my dad’s ship, the Lindblad Explorer,” Sven tells us over cocktails that night. “Back then, the place was so thick with ice that July was the earliest you could get through it. Now, most of the sea ice is gone by May and June, and the challenge is where to find it.”

This early in spring, there’s still plenty of ice, thankfully. Drawing our cabin’s thick drapes that first morning and squinting out at the midnight sun, my sharp-eyed husband spotted polar-bear tracks crossing an ice floe right beneath our balcony. Not bad for 6 am.

But knowing how little will soon be left of the ice is heartbreaking. “My hope is that this expedition will be both an experience and a conversation,” Sven had added. “While we profoundly lament this march toward ice extinction, being here this early in the season, a time unthinkable a decade ago, is a wonderful opportunity.”

“Arctic” is derived from arktos, the Greek word for “bear.” I would love to see a polar bear in the wild, but there are no guarantees – especially as the ice continues to melt, putting more pressure on bear populations. Jeff snaps an iPhone pic of the tracks, and we scan the scattered floes, on the lookout for cream-colored fur.

The day before, we’d rendezvoused with our 67 fellow passengers in Oslo, Norway, then taken an early-morning charter flight to the Svalbard archipelago, landing in Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost town. Tucked between snow-covered mountains some 800 miles above the Arctic Circle, Longyearbyen is a tiny, quirky place, home to about 2,400 people, a university, the famous Svalbard Global Seed Vault (which stores roughly 1 million seed samples from around the world in case of apocalyptic disasters), and about 2,500 snowmobiles.

Boarding our ship after buying last-minute gloves and Nordic wool caps along the town’s snowy main drag, we can’t quite believe we’re not only here, but here for the first commercial trip of the season. By summer there will be 30 cruise ships plying these waters (and more than 50 in Antarctica between November and February).

“Polar travel appeals to the curious at heart who want to venture into the wild and remote corners of the world. Age is no barrier,” says Calgary-based Virtuoso travel advisor Jenni Evans. “But it’s important to choose the right ship.” She adds that the most efficient and eco-friendly ships are purpose-built to protect the sea and release fewer emissions. They also have dynamic-positioning systems to avoid using anchors in fragile environments. And of course, Evans advises, smaller expedition vessels carry fewer guests, leaving less impact on protected shores and wildlife.

Departing the dock at Longyearbyen, relieved to know our ship has all these things – as well as one of the industry’s highest ice-class ratings – we turn to starboard and head north, toward Spitsbergen Island’s northwest coast. Our plan is to be “unplanned,” according to expedition leader Bud Lehnhausen, allowing the ship’s expedition team freedom to pivot when weather calls for kayaking or a walrus encounter. “We’re hoping to get up to about 80 degrees north and into lots of pack ice,” Bud adds, grinning.

Eighty degrees north? My husband and I, both sailors, exchange glances, thinking the same thing: That’s up there!

Sure enough, when we wake the next morning and pad up to the bridge (open to everyone 24/7 to check out the high-tech nav systems; meet our trip’s captain, Heidi Norling, and navigator, Nicole Pickering; and observe the action as it unfolds), a huge electronic chart table shows the Resolution blasting north from Svalbard like a spaceship. Our position: 81.45 degrees.

Outside, it’s snowing lightly, the crew is sweeping snow and ice off the decks, and there’s pack ice as far as you can see. The air temperature is 21 degrees, and many of us are bundled up on the bow before breakfast. It’s hypnotic watching the ship’s prow crunch through solid ice, splitting it into a geometry of white jigsaw pieces with black water borders.

Half a dozen Filipino crew members are taking videos, enjoying the novelty of the icebreaker as much as we are. The ship shudders slightly. Aside from the deeply satisfying crunch of ice, we’re cut off from all the noise and intrusion of modern-day life (Wi-Fi comes and goes this far north). It feels like a rare luxury, experiencing a place surrounded by silence that stretches all the way to Siberia.

One of the wonders of polar travel today is being able to witness unforgiving environments in extreme comfort. We packed for our ten-night trip to the Arctic in wheeled carry-ons, knowing that Lindblad’s faux-fur-trimmed parkas (which travelers get to keep), puffy jackets, and thick neoprene boots – all ordered to fit in advance – would be waiting on board. It was chilly on deck, especially if the wind was blowing, but dressed in my layers I was rarely cold.

For me the greatest pleasure, however, was being inside the light-filled ship, looking out. In addition to the extensive library lounge (with a fireplace and “fire” consisting of water-vapor flames), Resolution and its sister ship, Endurance, each have a spacious yoga studio with a view off the stern, a spa whose saunas and massage rooms also have astonishing views, two infinity-edge Jacuzzi pools perched so you can sit outside in your swimsuit and watch the snow-covered ridges recede, a light-drenched lounge and bar with more 270-degree views, two restaurants, and the open bridge – with room for dozens of guests at a time and passed hors d’oeuvres during cocktail-hour wildlife sightings.

The design throughout is contemporary Scandinavian: understated, comfortable, and elegant. In the main dining room, tables for two to eight passengers press up against floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s delightful having dinner while frozen landscapes pass by and warmth from the ship’s super-efficient heating system wafts round your knees. Rather than the standard shipboard buffets of yore, meals are plated and ordered from daily menus, minimizing Covid risk. On rotating nights each guest is invited to join a private seating of 12 to 20 at the “Cook’s Nook” – a long table on the Observation Deck inspired by Captain Cook’s officers’ table – for a seven-course tasting menu ranging from salmon gravlax with avocado-wasabi puree to braised lamb with shiitake mushrooms.

As the days pass by, I entertain a fantasy that I’m one of the expedition crew and the ship is our floating home – a home designed exceptionally well for exploration. In the evenings there are terrific lectures by onboard naturalists and, on our trip, National Geographic photographer Camille Seaman. And almost every day there’s an unexpected adventure. When we suit up and Zodiac ashore for our first walk in the Arctic – “No wandering off!” our guide, Stefano, reminds us, pointing out Petter the polar-bear guard standing watch on a hill with a rifle – we encounter a herd of Svalbard reindeer, a furry, short-legged subspecies found only in these islands. While the deer put on a show racing over the frozen tundra, we learn how they’ve evolved to eat and eat and eat all summer long, gaining 100 pounds a year to fatten up and survive the winter.

“Imagine how much salad you’d have to eat to gain 100 pounds a year,” Stefano quips, and it occurs to me I might as well relax and try everything on the menu since extra padding in the Arctic keeps you warmer.

Another day Captain Norling noses the ship up to towering black cliff faces while thousands of black-and-white Brünnich’s guillemots swirl above the icy white waves crashing below. Even the colors of the birds are striking, the sheer contrast of black and white drawing so much of this landscape together. Millions of birds flock to Svalbard to nest on the rock outcroppings of the coastline’s near-vertical cliffs. It’s a stirring sight, and we all rush out on deck – Sven Lindblad in his flip-flops and a few spa-goers in white bathrobes. A festive air pervades the Observation Lounge, every-one high on seabirds and fresh, invigorating Arctic air.

After sharing several outings and meals, we’re soon on a first-name basis with half our fellow adventurers. A well-traveled bunch, they range from age 10 to 83, and many are serious amateur photographers. Several had originally booked this trip two years ago and are here now that pandemic travel restrictions have eased. One tells me his wife got a great bonus at work and they’d decided to splurge on a big trip. “Polar bear or penguin?” she’d asked.

By the fifth night we’ve seen a mother bear and two cubs far off in the distance, but you can tell the photographers are getting anxious. Finally, an announcement comes that a bear has been spotted off the bow, and everyone crowds onto the bridge. An excited buzz fills the space. It’s cocktail hour, and Captain Norling and Navigation Officer Pickering run the show, inching the ship silently, slowly, through brilliant sun-burnished ice toward a young polar bear standing in the midst of a pure-white expanse.

It’s a thrilling scene, but what makes it unforgettable is that the bear is drenched in blood. She’s just killed a seal, and her cream-colored chest, forepaws, and face gleam strawberry-red. White gulls line up, fluttering their wings like an audience that can’t sit still, and we’re riveted. The white. The bear. The blood. At its most primal level the world is cruel, but also beautiful.

After dramatic encounters like this, it’s a comfort to retreat to our sunlit cabin with its spacious sitting area, command-center desk (equipped with an iPad, Bose speaker, and National Geographic atlas), sliding glass doors opening onto a big balcony, walk-in closet, and bathroom with a tub. I love our cabin so much I regrettably never try the ship’s two “igloos,” which have a waiting list of passengers eager to sleep out atop the stern under geodesic glass with hot water bottles and wool blankets for warmth.

The last day of our trip we wake to pale-blue skies streaked with cirrus clouds and speed toward shore for a final walk on the ice. A glacier topped with crenellated peaks sparkles before us, and we take in the silence, the bright warmth of the sun. The full privilege of visiting the Arctic hits me then. The ice we’re cruising through is rare and becoming more rare. The remarkable and unusual and bloody animals all rely on ice. And we rely on it too – it’s the air conditioner of our planet.

As the Zodiac lands at the edge of the shimmering ice field, I take a long look at the scene before me, the snow piled so light and dry it’s like sugar, pray we’ll figure out how to save it all somehow, and step ashore.

VIRTUOSO LIFE

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By Kim Brown Seely.  All rights reserved.