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An arctic dream

After two years of planning, Alf, Pål and I were leaving Longyearbyen behind, finally on our way. So many thoughts had raced through our minds lately, worry as well as excitement – but in this moment putting one ski in front of the other felt amazing, the air cold and the sun in our faces. We tried to prepare for everything we could prepare for, but from this point Mother Nature was in charge. Our goal was over 300 kilometers away, at the southern tip of Svalbard.

We started in Longyearbyen, crossing Van Mijenfjorden to the south-east and from there set our bearing south towards South Spitsbergen National Park, home to some of the most beautiful landscapes of all of Svalbard. For the next 30 days our home would be our tent, wildlife our nearest neighbour. Relying on our own judgement, we needed to find safe passage across sea ice as well as the constantly moving glaciers. And then, of course, there was the ever-present possibility of encountering Svalbard's biggest predator: the polar bear.

Entering Van Keulenfjorden felt like stepping into a scene from an adventure film. Jagged mountains met a sea of toppled ice cluttered with rocks and debris. Beams of light pierced through scattered clouds, casting an ethereal glow over the surreal landscape. Awe filled my soul – both from the surroundings but also from knowing that we were closing in on the first critical juncture of our journey. Our first day of entering South Spitsbergen National Park involved crossing the Nathorstbreen glacier – an intersection of massive forces of ice, and also an area with many crevasses.

In freezing temperatures we struggled to get our climbing harnesses on. The webbing on my harness was a tangled mess and the waist belt had unfastened from the locking mechanism. I had to pull my mittens and gloves off in order to get the webbing through the loops. Touching the cold metal, my fingers burned and quickly started to lose their strength. Stress escalated with my pounding heart. Alf and Pål were clearly getting cold and frustrated, moving around in circles and jumping to get the blood flowing. I could imagine their thoughts: Henning should have checked his harness when he took it off. After an eternity I was able to tighten the harness and connect to the rope.

Climbing up the Nathorstbreen, the whiteout became more and more complete. I felt like I was inside a carton of milk. With nothing to fix our eyes on, we all struggled to keep our balance and to stay on course. I was at the rear, responsible for navigation, and constantly shouting orders to Alf in the front: ‘Alf bear left… Alf bear right.’ Irritation mounted as I continued shouting directions. ‘How hard can it be to keep a straight line?’ I mumbled to myself. Suddenly Alf stopped and started to yell back. I could not hear a word he said. When I walked up to him he was fuming: ‘Stop correcting me every other minute.’

We were skiing in slow motion, each following the track of the one ahead. I enjoyed being at the front. There were no distractions and, in this mindful state, I often found myself bubbling with feelings. One of the strongest was gratitude, but with an unfamiliar sensation of isolation; behind were my companions and the sounds of our sleds and ski poles piercing the snow, but ahead of me nothing but white and silence.

We woke the next morning to perfect weather and could finally see the surreal landscape surrounding us. Silky smooth glaciers and mountain peaks led our way over the next horizon, and we continued to push to Hornsund, our second crux – a glacier that is shrinking fast. The endless glacier gently sloped down ahead while sharp mountain peaks pierced the horizon in the far distance, as if they had fought themselves free from the glacier’s heavy burden.

We were skiing

and it felt like we were moving

through this magnificient landscape

as in a movie played back in slow motion.

I spent time observing, letting the visual impressions sink in deep. Looking at the thin streaks of clouds that flowed through the valleys between the sharp peaks. Taking notice of the landscape’s great contrast, from smooth and polished to hard and brutal. Here and there a lonely round mountain stood in solitude.

When we had safely crossed Hornsund, I could not stop thinking that our trip would have ended there without the glacier to form a bridge across open water. Overwhelmingly, I hoped that future generations would be able to make this trip too.

It had been a long time since we had last seen prints of the polar bear. Only a few days ago we tested the perimeter fence. I was not expecting an encounter. It almost felt like a disappointment, but the rational part of my mind told me this was a good thing.

With a few days to go, we crossed back over Van Mijenfjorden on our way north after deciding to take an alternate route back to Longyearbyen – a route closer to the edge of the ice.

Just as our day was starting to feel a little monotonous, all of us keen to get across the fjord, Pål stopped. Alf and I almost toppled over the sled in front of us. ‘What is that on the horizon?’ Pål shouted, pointing to black dots near the edge of the ice. ‘Snowmobiles – let’s continue,’ Alf concluded. But Pål was not sure and grabbed the binoculars from the sled.

Shit polar bears

Pål dropped to the sled, getting the rifle ready. Through the binoculars we could see a polar bear and her cub. They were fully aware of us and had caught our scent in the wind. We felt small on that vast frozen fjord with nowhere to hide, but they were far away. The others continued to follow them through the binoculars while I ran to get my camera. I got a few shots but was happy to have a great distance between us and them. After a few minutes the mother led her cub along the edge of the ice and away.

We left the land of polar bears grateful and humble to be able to live out our Arctic dream.

Set images

We were skiing

The beginning of a dream