Svalbard: Where the Connection to the World Fades and Nature Towers
Svalbard is a place where the silence of the Arctic blends with mystery. Amid storms and lights dancing across the vast white expanse, one realizes that every step demands respect and every moment is a privilege in the face of the untouched grandeur of the northern world.
There is something mystical about Svalbard, the northernmost inhabited territory on Earth. Over the course of five days, we traveled about 400 kilometers by sled and snowmobile—an experience I dare say we will never forget.
Svalbard is unlike any other place. The archipelago’s northern latitudes preserve an untouched “Noah’s Ark,” offering encounters with polar bears, seals, reindeer, narwhals, belugas, puffins, walruses, blue whales, and other species. Located about 1,300 kilometers from the North Pole, Svalbard means “cold coast.” March is usually the coldest month of the year and, therefore, one of the most exposed to inclement weather.
As we approached the town of Longyearbyen, still flying over the southern part of the territory, we realized just how close we were to a pristine environment. I looked at the people sitting in the same row on the plane, searching for other enchanted gazes. It was incredibly easy to be swept up by the beauty of what we were seeing—a white canvas crumpled by mountains and cliffs, resting on Prussian blue waters.
When we stepped onto the snow-covered trail, we smiled, as if no words were needed to describe how we felt. We were close to the top of the world, where polar bears outnumber the human population.
After walking around Longyearbyen, it’s easier to understand why this is one of the safest places in the world, where crime is nonexistent. In addition to municipal rules on safety and environmental protection, there is a higher order: do not disturb the animals, emphasizing that we are the visitors here, not them.
As we were about to embark on an adventure of as yet unknown scope, we met the local guide who would accompany us on the first leg of our journey—a nine-hour sled ride to an ice cave on the Tellbreen Glacier.
Once we arrived at the kennel where the dogs live, we put on more durable clothing over our snow suits, including two pairs of gloves, face masks, hats, goggles, and high boots. We began by getting to know the dogs that would accompany us and learning about this ancient tradition, which is essential for travel in Svalbard. Each of us had the task of positioning them correctly on the sled and preparing the equipment that would allow us to travel safely, in pairs.
Shortly thereafter, we were outside the city limits, on a vast, natural white expanse. It was as if, suddenly, we had been transported to another time, stripped of artificial stimuli. The linear arrangement of the sleds, lined up one behind the other, prevented us from communicating with the group for most of the time. After a few hours on the trail, the near absence of noise was almost unsettling. The rest of the world seemed suspended in a frozen blanket that absorbed us there and only there. A silence in which no one else seemed to dwell.
Every now and then, we would stop to listen to the guide’s instructions or adjust some part of the sled. If anyone had any doubts about how much the dogs enjoyed pulling the sleds, those doubts would vanish the moment we stopped. They would immediately look back as if to ask us why we had stopped, leaning forward, ready to set off again.
During the journey, the wind chill reached minus 36 degrees. I closed my eyes and reminded myself that sixty percent of the archipelago is covered by glaciers and only thirteen percent is covered by vegetation. Just imagining those who first arrived on these shores and encountered this untouched landscape is awe-inspiring.
When we got close to the ice cave, we tied up the sleds in a sheltered spot and fed the dogs. We walked to a staircase with ropes and wooden steps, which allowed us to climb a hill and reach the cave’s entrance. “Wow!” we shouted in unison. We were standing before a true natural amphitheater, with white streaks and bluish-gray reflections. Before wandering through the cave, we sat down in the softest snow, in an area with plenty of natural light. The guide handed out packets of surprisingly delicious dehydrated carbonara, which we prepared using a thermos of hot water. Between spoonfuls of pasta and sips of hot syrup made from a local blackberry, we savored the inhospitable place where we were having lunch.
Overwhelmed by the immense privilege I felt at being there and by the weather conditions that constantly change or restrict access to the cave, I wondered if I would ever return. I tried to commit to memory those colossal blocks of ice that filled the interior of the cave. Some resembled pristine gift boxes, others gleaming crystals that seemed to be coated in butter when stepped on.
Back on the sleds for the return trip, I sat in the front, trying not to let the cold get the better of me. The discomfort of the freezing temperature has a way of transporting us to moments other than the present. I looked around to distract myself, but I could see nothing but the six dogs pulling us and the sled in front of us. Every now and then, the sun seemed to peek out, and we could see the contours of the mountains more clearly.
Back in civilization, we headed to a floating sauna overlooking the fjord and Hiorthfjellet Mountain. Night had fallen, the mountains were lit up by the city lights, and we were finally warm. The day couldn’t have ended any better.
The next morning, we set off westward on snowmobiles toward an old radio station built in 1933, which played a crucial role in the archipelago’s communications with the outside world. Destroyed during World War II and rebuilt in 1946, it was later converted into a small hotel where polar bears are regularly spotted.
The guide told us that a storm with very strong winds was approaching and that the route might be adjusted in the coming hours. “The unknown makes all kinds of scenarios possible, and that’s often where the best memories of a trip are made,” I thought, as usual.
Although it is forbidden to attract or seek out wildlife, whenever the natural landscape opened up before us, more reindeer would approach our path. At times, we would slow down to watch them feed on lichen and dry plants in the tundra, where to the naked eye there seemed to be almost nothing.
After a couple of falls in the deeper snow, which easily caused the motorcycles to tip to one side, we stopped for lunch on a high plateau. The selection of freeze-dried meals was more varied than the day before—it included beef and vegetarian chili, tikka masala, curry with fresh cod, Bolognese, and mac & cheese. While the hot water rehydrated the food, I looked at everyone’s faces. Everyone was beaming, taking photos of the landscape around us. We had completed the first leg of the day at an average speed of 70 kilometers per hour. In the afternoon, we would be crossing glaciers, which require more careful and cautious riding. The guide warned us: “If you get stuck in a crevasse on the glacier, don’t get off the bike. I’ll come to you and help you with the bike to prevent you from falling and getting trapped.”
When we returned to our motorcycles, we had been instructed not to stop, so that we could reach the hotel while it was still light out. The landscape around us had boldly multifaceted features, yet upon closer inspection, none of them seemed copied from one another. Each valley had its own curve, each elevation was a mountain with its own creases and texture, just as each of us wore polar “armor” that barely distinguished us from one another. The closer we got to the fjords, the more the blue stained the white canvas, adding enchantment to what was already immeasurably beautiful.
After a seven-hour drive, we arrived at the Isfjord Radio Hotel, where we were greeted by a bonfire and a new briefing on the safety rules for that area. There, we were more likely to encounter polar bears—some had been circling the hotel the previous week. It was essential to go outside only in the company of an armed guide to ensure maximum safety.
During dinner, we were told that the wind was going to pick up significantly and that we would have to leave early, setting off right after breakfast. We had to take advantage of that moment to use the sauna, as there wouldn’t be another chance. We went to our rooms to put on our swimsuits and robes so we could run to the sauna, which was near the sea. Even the simplest trip outside requires constant vigilance and awareness. Inside the sauna, we could see little beyond our own silhouettes and the mountains on the horizon. We laughed at hypothetical scenarios of an encounter with a bear and waited until the guide knocked on the door, signaling that we should return to the hotel.
In the morning, we explored the surrounding area on foot before setting off on what would be the most challenging stretch of the trip. Another group was leaving at the same time and would be staying at the same remote cabin, north of Longyearbyen. First, we had to return to the village—90 kilometers from the hotel—and reassess the weather conditions.
We once again passed through fjords, glaciers, valleys, and mountains that, however similar they might seem, were idyllic. An hour from the city, we stopped for a break. This time, we lay down in the snow, keeping our distance from one another. We closed our eyes and let ourselves be swept away by the grandeur of that vast white blanket for a few minutes. I recalled a quote from the Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen that I had read recently—“Most people are satisfied too soon.”
When we set off for the cabin where we would be spending the night, it was almost six o’clock. The blizzard had already begun to set in. After just 10 minutes on the trail, we could barely see anything beyond the snowmobile right in front of us and the thick snow swirling in the air. We stopped several times so the two guides could assess the conditions and give us instructions on how to climb certain slopes, now that the snow was considerably deeper.
When we reached a plain, we lined up our motorcycles in a row. The wind was blowing like I’d never seen before. To hear each other’s voices, we had to lean in close and shout. The guide asked us to wait with the other group while he marked the route to the cabin and made sure we could get there.
After 20 minutes, the other guide came over to me and told me I had to go look for our guide, in accordance with safety protocol. I asked, “What do we do if conditions suddenly get worse?” “You stay here and wait for us,” he replied firmly. I knelt down next to the motorcycle and closed my eyes for a few seconds.
At that moment, we were in a terrifying situation. I looked back, searching for distant signs of mountains or any other landmarks besides the snowmobiles and the two groups. We could no longer see the hill we would have to climb, right in front of us. The little natural light we had was fading. As the other guide prepared to climb the hill, we began to see the lights of our guide’s snowmobile. He had lost his GPS, and with the storm worsening, it took him longer to find the cabin.
What should have been a 20-minute ride turned into a nearly two-hour journey. We set off again, one by one, leaving enough space so that if a motorcycle fell, the one behind could stop safely. In that case, we were supposed to raise our arm to signal that we had to stop. On the climb, two of our motorcycles fell, but the snow was so fresh that the fall didn’t hurt. The biggest challenge was getting the motorcycle back up.
As we rode on, we had to keep glancing back at the bike in front of us to make sure no one had fallen behind. One of those times I looked over my shoulder, one member of our group was missing. We stopped to let the others know we had to wait. “Are you scared?” they asked me. “I’m worried we won’t make it to the cabin in these conditions,” I replied three times, since our voices were barely audible. The missing rider reappeared a few minutes later; he had fallen on one of the curves.
When we arrived at the cabin, we were greeted by two mountain guides who had prepared dinner to welcome us. As we sat down at the table, already in short sleeves, we raised a toast to having survived that enormous challenge. I asked them, “Do you remember the page in the brochure where I described examples of what ‘fun type 2’ episodes in the Arctic might look like?” “No,” one of them replied promptly, prompting a roar of laughter.
That night, wind speeds reached 210 kilometers per hour. Several people reported having nightmares, likely as a result of what we had experienced. After breakfast, we went out to take in the sights we hadn’t been able to see. We were atop a mountain with a breathtaking view, bathed in the morning sunlight.
I sat down in the snow and closed my eyes again. Immersed in the Arctic’s majestic silence, we heard nothing but our own desires and longings. For many, this is a demanding and inglorious melody. It was as if the combination of the disarming silence and the 30 degrees below zero had lifted us into a more crystalline dimension. The storm had buried the motorcycles in the snow. It was time to clear them off and head back to the city.
For hundreds of years, most people reached Svalbard by boat. For half the year, it was impossible to reach or leave the archipelago. Despite the changing times and the convenience of snowmobiles, the storm gave us a glimpse of some of the challenges faced by polar explorers.
Near the geographic North Pole, this group’s stoic acceptance of risk and uncertainty was unwavering. We witnessed how bravery and resilience alone are not enough for certain adventures. What is needed is the ingenuity inherent in the unknown.
