The Dance of Giants

The Arctic is peace. It is calm. It is quiet. Everything slows down because there is no information from the outside world. In fact, there is no outside world. In the Arctic, what you see and have in front of you is all there is.

Working in the Arctic is challenging: wind and weather, moving glaciers, shifting landscapes. Every year we have to find new routes. Preparations for our expeditions are crucial, yet we never know what will happen in the hours and days after the preparation is over and life on the ice, with the most dangerous animal on Earth, has resumed. I am a wildlife photographer, and yet my mission is so much more than creating images. My partner Fredrik and I are here to understand. I have adored the polar bear since childhood, and my biggest dream has always been to see one freely roaming an icy landscape.

Every inch of this remote cabin has its own story. It was built from driftwood logs by a polar-bear hunter in the 1920s. The door is usually locked against unwanted visitors like polar bears, but that does not stop them from breaking in occasionally. When we enter, the smell of old wood, smoke, blood, and death rises to greet us in the cold air, which drifts with motes of dust. It’s filled with tools from past trappers. In one corner is an old kitchen counter smeared with dried blood that daubs the worktop and up one wall. In the other corner is a table, and next to it a big stove. Fishing nets hang from the ceiling like ancient spider webs. This place scares me.

Many polar bears have walked the roof of this cabin and tried to get in from above – and through the walls. I saw the deep claw marks in the wood as we approached from outside. The history of this place, the humans and bears who have visited, saturates every part.

I stand in the middle of the room, frozen with fear, taking in this barbarous manifestation of the human world in the realm of the polar bear. I can’t stay here is my first thought. But we have to stay. It is the only shelter.

The next morning, Fredrik and I prepare breakfast. I watch the snow melt in the pot before me as the cabin slowly heats up again. Last night, around midnight, the fire died and the temperature dropped below freezing – a deep cold similar to the ambient chill out there on the ice. This life is still new for me, but it’s like coming home for Fredrik. In total he has spent many years in the field alone, surrounded by nothing but nature and its inhabitants. Countless wildlife encounters to learn and understand a single question: who is the polar bear? For me, the silence out here on the ice is deafening, and the cracking of wood brings my pulse up every time the wind knocks on the door.

Fredrik warms his hands by the fire and tells me the story of his first bear. ‘A couple of decades ago, on the first night of my first winter expedition, I was staying in a cabin just like this one,’ he said. ‘Mine was the top bunk. Just an inch of air above my face under the ceiling. Do you know what woke me? The ceiling hitting my face. There was a raging bear on the roof, trying to get in.’

I look out the window and see the sun rising, the blues and pinks, and the reflections on the seemingly endless sea ice. We are alone here; there is no connection to the world. Nothing but us and the bears.

Fredrik’s voice brings me back to the cabin. I am starting to get warm, and I begin to feel comfortable in my wooden chair by the window. Coming from the city, where there is no darkness or silence, this world is still challenging. But for as long as I can remember, I have wanted to know the most beautiful animal on this planet: the polar bear.

‘I’ve had my fair share of close encounters with polar bears,’ Fredrik starts his next story. ‘Many of them around camp or cabin, like this one. That’s where a bear can use the element of surprise. We are in control when we meet a bear out on the ice. I was leaving a cabin one early morning a few years ago, getting more snow to melt for coffee.’ He pauses, and his eyes go to the door, locked from the inside. ‘As I pushed the door open, he was there, just a couple of feet away, staring me straight in the eye. He could have killed me in a fraction of a second, but my first thought was, Oh, that’s bad breath you have. And he was probably thinking the same thing.’ Fredrik laughs, and I almost choke on the tea in my hands. I was expecting a more empowering story of living in a cabin. Fredrik continues: ‘We just looked at each other. Then I came to my senses and hit him gently on the shoulder with my rifle. He looked surprised, even disappointed, and slowly walked away. A grumpy old bear continued his journey. And I got my morning coffee.’

That day, just a few hundred metres from our cabin, I meet my first mother bear. Every emotion you can feel goes through my body at once. All I can hear is the heartbeat in my ears. I watch the bear stand up, hunting, as I see a little fur bundle behind her. A fox? No – two cubs looking up to their mum. I raise the camera, tears shooting into my eyes, and keep pressing the shutter release.

Fredrik whispers, ‘She can smell you… she can feel you. She’s trying to figure out who, or what, you are.’ In low voices we talk about the enormous presence one feels with a polar bear this close. ‘Inuit elders say that a polar bear can hear your thoughts. “Don’t think ill of the bears,” they warn, “for that might make them angry.”’

We spend an hour with her, maybe two. Watching her hunt, seeing her cubs respectfully obey her at such a young age, and learning about their communication with each other, is the biggest gift from this expedition. The fear and dread of the cabin are gone now. I am part of their world, which I do not belong to, but I try to observe from the shadows. There is no hiding from a bear. Reading them and knowing when it’s time to go is the most significant skill one must have. It’s a dance of nature. And we do not lead it.

***

Eight years later

The years we spend working isolated in the Arctic teach me not just how to appreciate running water and a warm house to get back to. They teach me about myself: how to trust my instincts, how to slow down and listen to the nature surrounding me. When we are out there we are completely dependent on each other. At first it feels scary, but in time I have never felt as safe.

But this hard life on the ice is not for everyone, and in time Fredrik and I realise that we want to share elements of this experience with like-minded people. This wish brings us to our beloved expedition ship M/S Freya. Since 2016 we have been exploring Arctic waters, and as we navigate the Arctic Ocean and glide through the fjords of Svalbard, we make it clear to those who travel with us that we are not here to see the polar bear but to become ambassadors for the Arctic – and guardians for its future. Working as a photographer in the Arctic is about more than capturing photos. It’s about fostering a connection with the natural world and gaining a deeper understanding of our place.

One day, after leaving the ship and exploring the thick sea ice on foot, we spot a bear shambling over the ice. But I quickly realise that it is not just one bear. It’s a mother with her cub close behind. The sun slowly tips behind the mountains, painting the landscape in pink and blue pastels. Soon the light fades.

The female bear continues walking closer towards where we lie concealed – she is hunting and cares nothing for our presence. Her little cub, on the other hand, wiggles towards a meltwater pond on the ice that has turned into a reflection of the evening sky, like a photographic slide projected in darkness. I silently wish for the cub to cross that pool, for it to be framed by the light. My wish comes true. The one-year-old cub keeps striding fearlessly towards me, and I quickly realise that my camera is now useless. The bears have come far too close for my 600mm lens.

So I put the camera down, and do what I rarely do: just observe with all my senses. He stops right in front of me. When he looks me in the eye, I stop breathing.

As I peer into the eyes of the cub, time seems to come to a standstill, and all I can hear is the rhythmic beating of my own heart. Every noise around me fades away, leaving only the intense gaze of the young bear. His energy seems to embrace me.

I have learnt that the polar bear embodies love, connection, and hope for the future. I hear the cameras go off next to me, and part of me is angry that I had the wrong lens. But I am also thankful. As photographers we are driven by the perfect image, so we miss the perfect moment. I might not have the shot, but the moment – his eyes, and the way he tilted his head while looking at me – is something no image can ever hold.

This moment is abruptly shattered by the mother bear’s urgent call, slicing through the stillness like a knife. I recognise the tone of concern in her voice – a primal echo in the Arctic wilderness. I have never heard that sound, but the warning tone is unmistakable.

I tear my gaze away from the cub and turn to see what had caused the mother’s distress. Emerging from the shadows of the mountains, I see the silhouette of a male polar bear – the most dangerous threat to a mother and her cub. Midwinter and early spring is mating season. This encounter could escalate into a deadly confrontation, and the male bear would not hesitate to kill the cub if he got too close. The male bear approaches.

My eyes jump from the cub to his mother to the male. As an observer it’s not my place to intervene. I watch the mother quickly order her cub close to her side, protective instincts kicking into overdrive. Every muscle in her powerful body tenses, ready to defend her young against any potential threat. She would die for her cub. Nothing in this world is stronger than a mother polar bear’s love.

As the silent standoff unfolds before me, I realise that this is more than just a wildlife sighting – it is a glimpse into the complex web of life in the Arctic, where every encounter has the potential for both life and death.

Finally the male bear lumbers away from the small family, disappearing into the shadows once again, and relief washes over me. Many think of the polar bear as the symbol of climate change’s devastation, but I see something different.

As we continue our journey, I can’t shake off the memory of that intense encounter. It was a reminder of the fragility of life in the Arctic and the urgent need to protect these majestic creatures and the habitats they call home. As we sail into the night, leaving the drama of the fjords behind, I make a silent vow to do everything I can to protect the polar bears and the Arctic wilderness. A place where you can hear the sea ice cracking underneath you, and – when close enough – the paws of a bear breaking through the snow crust. When all noise is gone, and the only sound is that of the cold Arctic wind, you feel life pumping through your veins. And gratitude.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 30