When the sun wheels in a great circle around the sky, never bothering to rise or set, when does the day begin? Was it in the drifting patches of fog blowing past the dark cliffs where tens of thousands of Thick-billed Murres were tending their eggs and newly hatched chicks? As the Endeavour nosed up to within scant meters of the towering wall many of us were clutching our cameras with one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, so perhaps that was early in the morning. Or maybe morning came as we left our floating home to cruise out in the Zodiacs, going ashore for a hike across the tundra of Nordaustlandet where tremendous ice caps crouched on the hills around us. The fog had broken open and the day was bright and new.
Later, we boarded the Zodiacs again and crept across the glassy calm water, forsaking outboard engines for paddles and slowly approaching a nursing mother walrus and her pup. Our care and quiet kept this vigilant mother at ease, relaxing with her nearly weaned offspring on a small ice floe. Our boats drifted past on the gentle tide and thousands of frames of film were exposed under the bright low sun, now filtered though thin overcast. Was it evening then? Mid-afternoon? The sun had moved and the light had changed, but in unfamiliar ways; perhaps each excursion amounts to its own day, with meals and quick naps between.
At some point we flew the ROV submersible down into the twilight world beneath the sea, the world where walruses feed and strange creatures like brittle stars dwell. Deeper still we found more life in the realm of eternal darkness, where no light can penetrate, even in these clear still waters. We wondered what changes the long day of Arctic summer and winter’s months of night might bring to these lightless depths.
On a Photo Expedition like this one, there really is no need to know the time of day. The sun hangs low in the sky, the high clouds come and go, the light is ever changing but never fails; just keep your camera close at hand and be ready for the next discoveries. Perhaps the day has yet to begin, we are approaching the edge of the pack ice now…
Later, we boarded the Zodiacs again and crept across the glassy calm water, forsaking outboard engines for paddles and slowly approaching a nursing mother walrus and her pup. Our care and quiet kept this vigilant mother at ease, relaxing with her nearly weaned offspring on a small ice floe. Our boats drifted past on the gentle tide and thousands of frames of film were exposed under the bright low sun, now filtered though thin overcast. Was it evening then? Mid-afternoon? The sun had moved and the light had changed, but in unfamiliar ways; perhaps each excursion amounts to its own day, with meals and quick naps between.
At some point we flew the ROV submersible down into the twilight world beneath the sea, the world where walruses feed and strange creatures like brittle stars dwell. Deeper still we found more life in the realm of eternal darkness, where no light can penetrate, even in these clear still waters. We wondered what changes the long day of Arctic summer and winter’s months of night might bring to these lightless depths.
On a Photo Expedition like this one, there really is no need to know the time of day. The sun hangs low in the sky, the high clouds come and go, the light is ever changing but never fails; just keep your camera close at hand and be ready for the next discoveries. Perhaps the day has yet to begin, we are approaching the edge of the pack ice now…
