Frozen

Motoring across frozen desert and camping on ice, Sarah Marshall ventures north and into the deep freeze

F aced 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 Norway’s 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.

In winter, the only way to explore this glacial wilderness is by snowmobile, so it’s no surprise these 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, clouds of diamond dust in our wake.

For four months, the sun disappears completely at this latitude, plunging Svalbard into a never-ending dawn and dusk. But in February, the first spidery rays creep above a jagged horizon, flooding valley floors and frozen rivers with a bitter lemon glow.

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”.

Although there are no trees growing this far north, the landscape is anything but barren; curves, colours, shapes and shadows give inanimate geological formations their own life force. Once the short-lived sun has faded, skies simmer in a fuchsia haze, eventually cooling to a bone-chilling blue, allowing sparkling constellations to light our way.

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,” explains our host. “He’s one of the few trappers living in Svalbard.”

I discover enigmatic 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

During a gourmet tasting menu, featuring bearded seal and smoked reindeer, conversation turns to hunting