read part one of this travel journal here, and part two here.

Drifting Ice and the Watchful Eyes of the Arctic

The further north we traveled, the thinner the world seemed to stretch. The horizon blurred between sea and sky, broken only by drifting ice floes. We had left the last outposts of human presence behind, moving into the true Arctic wilderness.

Mornings on the Vikingfjord were unpredictable—one day could bring blue skies and mirror-like seas, the next, a wall of fog swallowing us whole. But no matter the weather, our eyes were always searching for movement on the ice.

And then, there he was.

A lone polar bear, massive and unmistakable, moving across a broken ice floe. He paused, sniffing the air, aware of our presence. We cut the engine, drifting in silence, watching as he moved with slow, deliberate power. He peered into a lead of open water, perhaps searching for seals, but today, he seemed in no hurry.

For nearly an hour, we watched, the Arctic granting us this rare, unfiltered glimpse into the life of its greatest predator. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the bear turned, stepping off the ice and vanishing into the white expanse.

The Walrus Haul-Out: A Clash of Giants

Not long after, we found ourselves at another natural spectacle—a walrus haul-out. Unlike the sleepy colony we had seen earlier in the trip, this one was alive with action.

Massive bulls jostled for dominance, their deep grunts carrying over the water. Some lunged at each other, tusks clashing, sending sprays of water and sand into the air. Others sprawled on the beach in tangled heaps, their sheer size defying belief.

We launched the zodiacs, drifting closer to the edge of the group. The smell—ripe, pungent, inescapable—was part of the experience. We watched as younger walruses clumsily attempted to find space among the elders, earning grumbles and half-hearted shoves in return. Despite their bulk, they moved with surprising agility, rolling and shifting as new arrivals flopped onto the shore.

Then, without warning, a huge bull plunged into the water near our boat. For a few tense moments, he disappeared beneath the surface. The Arctic has a way of reminding you that you are never truly in control. When he resurfaced just meters away, exhaling in a burst of spray, we all exhaled too.

A Midnight Sun Farewell

As our journey began to wind down, the Arctic gave us one final gift.

It was near midnight, yet the sun hung low, casting golden light across the glassy sea. The water was impossibly calm, reflecting the cliffs and glaciers in perfect symmetry. We gathered on deck, wrapped in layers against the chill, soaking in the silence.

Then, as if scripted, the telltale spray of a whale’s exhale broke the surface. A pod of beluga whales—ghostly white against the dark water—moved through the sea with quiet elegance. Their sleek bodies surfaced and vanished in rhythmic arcs, their calls echoing faintly through the stillness.

There was no rush, no frantic scramble for cameras. Just quiet awe.

As the Vikingfjord sailed south, leaving the drifting ice behind, I found myself thinking of all we had seen. Polar bears and walruses. Fog and sunlight. Silence and spectacle. The Arctic is a land of contradictions—harsh yet delicate, remote yet deeply alive.

And no matter how many times you visit, it never loses its ability to take your breath away.