Spitsbergen – A Night with the Walruses on Lågøya

Spitsbergen, 80° North latitude. A lost archipelago on the edge of the world, northeast of Greenland, the last lands before the pole. I’m aboard the *Grigoriy Mikheev*, a Russian ship from the Murmansk Polar Research Institute. Russian flag, Russian crew. Chartered by OceanWide Expeditions.

Last night, we were stuck in drifting pack ice in the long Hinlopen Strait. This incident led to an unforgettable barbecue and party on the ship’s foredeck, but we had to abandon our plan to head south and circle Spitsbergen. This summer, there’s too much ice in the strait, and it’s too thick. At dawn, the tide turned, allowing us to break free and head north again. The ship is now moving slowly through sea ice density that satellite maps estimate at around five-tenths. Our progress is punctuated by dull thuds: the ship’s bow constantly shoves and fractures enormous ice floes.

At breakfast, Tarik, our expedition leader, informs us that our program will be significantly altered. Since we can’t cross the strait, we’ll turn back and head north. To kick off our Plan B, Tarik plans a landing tonight on the small island of Låg (Lågøya), at 80°10' North. Last summer, he saw a large walrus colony there and hopes we’ll find them again. The weather is perfect—glorious sunshine—and walruses are truly addicted to sunbathing on the beaches.

We’ve now exited the strait and are sailing far from the coast. In case the walrus colony is there, we don’t want the ship’s approach to scare them into the water before we even see them. So, we scan the shore methodically with binoculars. We pass several bays, round a cape, and examine several shorelines littered with driftwood, but no walruses in sight. Several times, clusters of large rounded rocks trigger false alarms… but no, they’re just rocks…

Suddenly, Tarik spots them through his binoculars! On an isolated peninsula, our expedition leader’s highly trained eye has picked out, among those brown masses, the shape and white color of the enormous tusks of what he calls "the heavyweights of the Arctic!" Now, fifteen or twenty pairs of binoculars are pointed in the indicated direction… Sure enough, I see them now! They’re there, huge, sprawled in the sun on the beach. Without Tarik’s sharp eye, we might have missed them. They’re so tightly packed together that they really look like a mass of brown rocks. Only the white, saber-shaped tusks and the occasional furtive movements hint that they’re animals.

It’s 11 PM, and on the deck of the *Grigoriy Mikheev*, as you can imagine, excitement has ramped up several notches. Several of us have already rushed to our cabins to gear up, pulling on boots and life jackets in anticipation of a landing that promises to be absolutely amazing. Tarik reins in our enthusiasm a bit: Okay, so we were lucky to find them, but now we need to think about how to approach them. Not that they’re dangerous—at least not on land… Their enormous bulk and their pseudo-feet (flippers) only allow for very limited mobility. But when they feel threatened, their first instinct is to head for the water, where their perfect ease keeps them safe. So, the challenge will be not to scare them off, to avoid them bolting into the water in the first few seconds! That’s exactly what would happen if we arrived by Zodiac right in front of them.

So, Tarik decides we’ll make a wide detour to land on the other side of the peninsula where they are. From there, we’ll leave the Zodiacs on the beach and cross the peninsula on foot, about a kilometer and a half. That way, we’ll approach the herd from behind. This approach will also keep us downwind of them. There you go—with a few precautions, they shouldn’t hear us coming or catch our scent.

Everyone is geared up now and practically bursting with impatience… While the Zodiacs are being lowered into the water, Tarik and Delphine recap the approach rules: absolute silence, communication only by signs, no dragging feet on the rocks, watch your step, and strict coordination with slow movements.

Here we go… we’re off now! Spray flying from the Zodiac’s bow, icy air whipping our faces, gloves gripping the side ropes, freezing splashes, pure emotion… Ahh, I love this! We describe a wide curve offshore to round the peninsula. Ahead of us, the magnificent landscape of this intensely blue sea unfolds, with the hills of Lågøya and, in the distance, the ice-covered mountains of Nordaustlandet under the sun. It’s midnight now. In July, at 80 degrees North, the sun is just like midday.

This navigation takes us far from the walruses, on the other side of the cape. Easy landing on a shoreline of large pebbles covered in giant seaweed brought in by the currents. They look like long strips of plastic—sometimes translucent, sometimes white, beige, or orange. In places, there are huge tangled layers of it. Our boots sink into this material, which gives off a strong iodine smell. Unfortunately, there’s also some plastic waste—fishing floats and net debris. Seeing this here is crazy… A little farther on, in a cove, tides and storms have piled up numerous tree trunks from Siberia.

We begin crossing the peninsula on foot, staying close together. We’re walking on a nearly deserted polar tundra. We’re only ten degrees of latitude from the North Pole here. The violent winds and extreme temperatures that dominate this island for nine months of the year allow only a few rare plants to grow, close to the ground, between the rocks. In places, rocks are covered with large patches of black lichen.

Gérard, rifle slung over his shoulder, constantly scans the terrain. Tarik and Delphine are also very vigilant. We know no one ever lands here, and although this environment isn’t ideal for bears, you never know—better to be cautious. The terrain is mostly flat, but whenever a small rise blocks our view, Gérard moves ahead and only signals us to proceed when he’s sure there’s no "big man in fur" (tradition dictates we don’t name the polar bear).

After a few hundred meters, we find an enormous whale vertebra. Judging by the state of the bone, it’s likely a relic from the whaling era that ravaged this area in the 17th century and all over northern Spitsbergen. A little farther on, the remains of a grave catch our attention. The only human trace on this remote island, this burial is surely very old, also likely dating from the whalers’ time. But this whaler’s final resting place didn’t shelter him for long—there’s not much left, just a piece of skull and a few broken bones. Due to the permafrost, the body could only be buried a few dozen centimeters deep, between some planks held in place by large stones. This makeshift grave was probably ravaged by a bear shortly after the burial. Several stone blocks are overturned, the planks are broken open. We only linger for a minute to pay our respects to this whaler, whose poor remains now merge with the mineral landscape.

A slight rise bulges in the center of the peninsula, and here we are at the highest point. If our orientation is correct, we’re heading straight for the walrus colony. A moment of emotion… my heart’s pounding. Yes, they’re there, about three hundred meters ahead of us! They haven’t moved since we spotted them from the *Grigoriy Mikheev*’s deck. They’re sprawled in a heap, packed tightly together in the sun, on the shingle beach. The light breeze blowing in our faces confirms we’re on the right track—not to be sniffed out from afar by the big beasts.

By signs, Tarik tells us we’ll approach slowly, in stages, moving about thirty meters at a time, making as little noise as possible with our boots, then freezing completely for a minute or two, crouching down to let them forget us. This strategy proves excellent. We’re now less than a hundred meters away, and it doesn’t seem like our presence is perceived as a threat by the "heavyweights of the Arctic." At this distance, let’s not kid ourselves: we’re certainly spotted, but our way of approaching must seem reassuring—or at least manageable—since they’re only a few meters from the water and know they could dash into it in seconds if they felt the need.

We now advance in shorter stages—twenty meters at a time, then just ten, crouching, then freezing like statues, our breathing nearly held from emotion and concentration. We’re now thirty meters from the mastodons. Our presence must be starting to stress them because they’re moving more. While still sprawled against each other, some suddenly rear up on their flipper-feet, grunting and snorting like monstrous pigs. Their head shakes make their two enormous ivory sabers sway. They jab them into the fat of their neighbors, who in turn stir and emit irritated snorts.

At Tarik’s signal, we move a few more meters, "on velvet paws"… We’re right there now. I hold my breath, throat tight… Intense emotion, a fantastic spectacle—these enormous Arctic animals sprawled in the sun, with the magnificent backdrop of snow-covered mountains across the sound. I think to myself: *I’m here… this can’t be real!* It’s nearly 2 AM now, the air is crystal clear, and the Arctic sun bathes this scene in what might be the most beautiful light I’ve ever seen. We’re about fifteen meters away now. Tarik signals that we won’t go any closer. The walruses are still lying down, but occasionally, our close presence and the clicking of cameras trigger bouts of agitation that ripple through the herd, causing some jostling. They’re so tightly packed and tangled that it’s a bit hard to count them. In the end, we tally sixteen, plus one "little one," half-crushed in the general mass.

Seen from here, they’re truly impressive! The "sumo wrestlers of the Arctic!" According to Tarik, they must weigh about a ton—slightly more for the males than the females—and the "little one" must already be around 200 kg. When the weather’s nice like today, they love sprawling on the beaches to soak up the sun.

Walruses are marvels of Arctic adaptation. They can modify their blood circulation depending on thermal conditions. They withstand extreme cold by directing most of their circulation to vital organs (heart, lungs) and minimizing peripheral blood flow (skin and limbs) to prevent heat loss. Conversely, when they sunbathe, they direct most of their blood flow to the skin, turning themselves into true solar collectors.

At this latitude, there’s practically no difference in sunlight between day and night. Noon or midnight, the sun’s angle barely changes. Walruses make the most of these fair-weather phases by sprawling in the sun 23 hours out of 24… Enough to make siesta lovers dream, right? Twenty-three hours of lounging… and the twenty-fourth for eating!

And when we say "eating," what a feast! The proverb *"Who sleeps dines"* is fully justified here: when a walrus decides to feed, it gulps down between 50 and 60 kg of shellfish in an hour! Its food consists of large bivalve mollusks, which it tears from the seabed with its tusks and sucks up nonstop! A 50 kg meal certainly justifies a 23-hour nap for digestion, right? And speaking of digestion—it’s what the "big guys" in front of us are doing right now! You might wonder how we know this… Well, I’ll tell you: if you were here, downwind (or should I say *down the winds!*) of these marine giants, you’d have no doubt! Pfft… what flatulence! I can confirm that today’s scent is called *"Morsanus, from the North"* (*"Because I’m worth it!"*). Mmm, yeah… Tarik, you had a great idea putting us upwind… at least *they* can’t smell us, but we sure can!

But… heepp! Delphine discreetly signals to get our attention—she’s just spotted something: in the smooth water of the bay, a small V-shaped ripple runs along the beach, then turns toward the shore… So the colony wasn’t complete on the beach… Here’s an 800 kg bather stepping ashore now, right before our astonished eyes! She lifts her head and stays like that for a long moment, her enormous tusks half out of the water. She looks exhausted, resting a bit before coming out. Or more likely, she’s hesitating to climb onto the beach because she’s seen us… The shapeless head stays still for a moment, then violently snorts like a clogged drain! A misshapen head where you can’t make out anything that usually makes a head! No eyes, no ears, no mouth… A sort of monstrous cabbage! But the temptation to join the warmth of the "sunbathers" is too strong! Here’s our pachyderm bather climbing the few meters of the shore and sprawling right in the middle of her companions, who greet her with jostling, grunts, and tusk jabs! Then everything settles back into order—800 kg of fat and flesh added to the fifteen or so tons of local biomass. Welcome to the club!

It seems the walruses have gotten a bit used to us now. They’re moving and grunting much less. I realize it wasn’t obvious to approach them like this without scaring them into the water… It’s thanks to Tarik and Delphine’s advice that we managed it. It’s also, let’s be honest, because we’re all passionate here, and there’s been total discipline and cohesion from the start of this approach.

It’s past 2 AM now—time to head back… We’ll leave them to their wild world, to their life at the beginning of the world. We’re happy to have disturbed them as little as possible and not to have disrupted their nap too much. We leave stealthily, first backing up a few meters, then turning around and crossing the peninsula again, walking slowly, avoiding making noise with our boots as long as we’re still close.

We find the Zodiacs on the shoreline with the giant kelp. The sea is like a lake—easy boarding. We make another wide loop to round the cape, passing offshore. The sharp cold stings my cheeks and ears again—I put my hat back on. The cold—I hadn’t thought about it at all during our encounter with the walruses. In the Zodiac, with the engine noise, no one speaks. The faces and smiles are those of men and women who’ve just crossed an inner frontier—the one that separates dream from reality. But tonight, that frontier was porous, and the dream entered reality.

We return to the *Grigoriy Mikheev*, waiting at anchor. It’s past 3 AM, but I don’t feel any fatigue. A few minutes later, I’m in my bunk, rocked by a gentle swell and the hum of the engines. In the soft warmth of the blanket, a strange sleep overtakes me… A sleep filled with luminous, icy landscapes, with large beasts bearing saber-like tusks. Large beasts that sleep, snore, snort, grunt, and jostle in their sleep… in *my* sleep. An unforgettable memory. It was July 2004, in Spitsbergen.

Chris51.