Ultimate ice adventure
FACED with a gaping icy plateau and a taunting mob of unforgiving mountain peaks, I’ve no idea where I’m going.
Rattling in the restless, scornful wind, a sign depicting a polar bear is the only indication of what lies ahead. Not even the sun, an explorer’s sure-fire navigational tool, is yet to rear its cheery head.
Only 30km of tarmac connects the far-flung Arctic community of Longyearbyen, living year-round at 78-degrees north in the Svalbard archipelago, and as I embark on a winter adventure across main island Spitsbergen, I’ve quite literally come to the end of the road.
During winter, the only way to explore this glacial wilderness is by snowmobile, so it’s no surprise the motor-powered vehicles outnumber people at least two-to-one. Any tourist with a driving licence can rev up an engine for a few hours, but to truly get a sense of life on the frozen frontier, I’ve chosen to travel for several days.
A night spent cocooned in the log cabin loveliness of Longyearbyen’s Basecamp Hotel was essential preparation for my 72-hour, 300km snowmobile safari, and as snow crystals form on the tips of my eyelashes, I fondly recall the toe-tingling warmth of log fires like an all-too-distant memory.
Led by Norwegian guide Marthe, an elfin creature who’s hardier than she looks, our caravan of thundering snow camels sets off across Arctic desert, spewing clouds of diamond dust in our wake.
Crossing Adventdalen (the main valley closest to Longyearbyen), we slalom through twists and turns carved out by meandering summer channels, and I grip my driver in a wrestling hold as I nervously ride pillion.
Pumped-up, muscular mountains grow thinner and sharper as we head west, explaining why 16th century Dutch navigator Willem Barentsz named this island Spitsbergen – which translates as “pointed mountains”.
Having burned almost 100km of fuel, I’m relieved to see the inky outline of Isfjord Radio, a former radio and weather station originally built on the coast at Kapp Linne in 1933, and now transformed into a comfortable hotel.
Steaming mugs of hot apple juice spiced with chilli and Calvados greet us, as do equally exhilarating streaks of aurora, rippling above a defunct transmission tower like an electromagnetic welcome telegram in space.
During a gourmet tasting menu, featuring bearded seal and smoked reindeer, conversation turns to hunting.
“We get our supplies from Tommy Sandal,” our host says. “He’s one of the few trappers living in Svalbard.”
I discover Tommy leads an elusive existence in a simple wooden hut at Austfjordneset. It’s a reminder that although we’re lucky enough to be wrapped up in a warm, cosy hotel, outside its cosseting walls, this is a difficult place to survive.
Hours later, the Northern Lights are still raging, although the threat of polar bears (coupled with a sleepy rifle-bearer) keeps us safely locked indoors. It’s a night’s sleep I’ll never forget!