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Early this morning, activists started blocking the loading of a coal ship in Svea, Svalbard - 75 degrees North. Two climbers are hanging down the crane used to load the ship as I write. They are calling for the end of coal as we know it.

The Arctic region, where Svalbard lays, is at the frontline of climate change. Glaciers and sea-ice are melting faster than scientists are predicting. So little is understood about ice movements up here, but what we do know shows that we are reaching a tipping point. Yet, in the same place, coal is mined and exported to Europe to be burnt. Coal is responsible for one third of CO2 emissions on the planet. That makes it the single most important source of carbon dioxide.

It is simply absurd that coal is mined here. For a long time, the mines in Svalbard were mainly subsistence mines. The one in Longyearbyen, the main village of Svalbard, only serves to power the town. Svea, however, is another matter. In the last ten years, the Norwegian government, which owns the mine, decided to boost production, in order to ensure its sovereignty over Svalbard isn't disputed. Next year, approval might be given to open yet another mine.

Coal isn't needed in Svalbard. I only need to look out the window and watch the seals play in the water to know that tourism could get an even bigger boost if the Norwegian government committed to it. Scientists are coming in from all over the world to discover Svalbard and study this incredible environment. Right now, mining represent one third of the activity in Svalbard, more as a political decision to keep the other ones reined in.

The Norwegian government, as well as those of all countries receiving coal from Svea - Netherlands, France, Portugal, Denmark, Germany - have to show their commitment for the climate. It's time to quit coal, and get a strong, fair and binding treaty in Copenhagen.

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I arrived in Svea, Svalbard this morning. It's absolutely beautiful here. My camera has been working overtime, and I have way too many pictures of fjords and snowy mountains already.

Going over Svalbard by plane was surprising. I expected it to be white all over, but it's mainly brown - at least in the southern part. I could see beaches and lagoon-like colors around them. If I didn't for a fact what the temperatures are like, I would have been tempted to go for a swim. There's much less snow than I expected so far.

It was strange yesterday evening to be in Longyearbyen, and see what was happening half a world away, in Canada. Activists stopped the tar sands yet again. When you know the effect industrial projects like these have on the climate, and on the Arctic region where I am right now, it is good to know that people are stepping up and taking action.

I started to be sea sick about 30 seconds after we set off last night. Looking at a computer isn't the best way to fight off nausea. An hour later, I was just hoping to be sick and get over it. I went to bed very early - not much you can do once you're at sea, with no internet, sea-sick, and tired.

I woke up in yet another beautiful place. We were still on our way to Svea. The sea was very calm - so much that when I first awoke, I thought we were already anchored. We did anchor, around 11, near Svea. We're in the middle of a fjord. It's been snowing lately, so the mountains around us are white.

Everything looks (and is) so pristine around here. I don't think I've ever been to a place with such a low population density - there are more polar bears than humans in Svalbard. It shows. No houses, no road, no human traces, besides the ship - and the place where we arrived today.

There's a coal mine about 100 meters away from me. As we arrived, we met a coal ship that had just left the mine, and from what the mining company told us, there's another one arriving tonight. During the summer season, there's always ships arriving and leaving. It's much harder for them to make it through the fjord when it's icy, and in the dead of the winter, it's simply impossible. That makes Svea quite active in the summer for such a small settlement.

Next to the coal mine is a polar bear trail. It represents very well the paradox of Svalbard: the incredible nature, and devastating coal activities. There is actually enough tourism and scientific activity to keep the economy going here. Coal used to be essential - now, it is becoming a side activity. The main reason the Norwegian and Russian governments keep mining here is to prove their sovereignty and their rights. As two of the countries at the frontline of the Arctic Meltdown, they should definitively know better.

As I started this blog, Dima from Greenpeace Russia walked in and said he saw a white whale in the distance. I pretty much jumped from my seat and ran outside. I managed to see its back for half a second, but unfortunately, Mr Beluga was shy, so that's all I got. I'm crossing fingers to see another one.

More later,

Juliette

Despite what the blog says, this entry was not written by Dave

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 There may not be very much sea ice where we are right now, at around nearly 80 degrees north, and just over 4 degrees east, but we're soon heading back into the thick stuff again. Earlier in the week we experienced lots more, when the ship was pack bumping and grinding its way deep in the ice pack.

 We left the town of Longyearbyen, in Svalbard on Sunday afternoon, September 13th having deposited our group of oceanographers and glacialogists, Gordon, Fiamma, Leigh, Jim and Dave, along with some members of the crew, like Eric and Steffan. Joining us, we had a team of polar oceanographers led by Dr Peter Wadhams of the University of Cambridge, and Frida, a campaigner who works at Greenpeace Nordic in Oslo. I've wanted to visit Svalbard for years; my brief glance sailing in, and then departing on a beautiful evening didn't disappoint – stunning mountains and glaciers, huge skies, and apparently, more polar bears than people.

 By Monday we were into start of the sea ice, and by Tuesday, really in the thick of it. Peter and his team were looking out for a good ice floe to work on. Later, he joined his colleagues Keith, Steeve and John to deploy an ice mass-balance buoy to measure how fast the ice of the Arctic Ocean is melting. The buoys temperature measurements that take a temperature profile through the ice along with collecting data heat conductivity, and then transmit that data back to the laboratory via satellite.

 This is all part of a study to try to understand the rate of melt of sea ice in the Arctic, including why sea ice here is disappearing so fast, and why certain kinds of sea ice are disappearing faster than others, such as pressure ridges. While the Arctic Sunrise was pushing slowly through the sea ice a few days ago, it was sobering to learn that there used to be an awful lot more of it. On Friday, the NSIDC in the United States announced that the minimum area of summer Arctic sea-ice extent had hit the third lowest level in recorded history, after 2007 and 2008, and was 1.61 million square kilometers (620,000 square miles) below the 1979 to 2000 average minimum and 1.28 million square kilometers (490,000 square miles) below the thirty-year 1979 to 2008 average minimum.
Here's some of the areas recorded from the last few years

 2005: 5.57 million km2 (2.15 million square miles)
2007: 4.28 million km2 (1.65 million square miles) - Lowest ever recorded
2008: 4.67 million km2 (1.80 square miles) - Second lowest ever recorded
2009: 5.10 million km2 (1.97 million square miles) - Third lowest ever recorded.

 Back to the science work on board the Arctic Sunrise, John, based at the University of Cambridge has been using what's become known as the "magic show" – a small black tent with laser equipment inside, that's he using to perfect an understanding of how fast ice is thinning, while Steeve, based in Villefranche in France. has been catching plankton to study the effects of ocean acidification caused by climate change on microscropic marine animals.

 According to Peter, during a briefing he gave us earlier in the week, "we are entering a new epoch of sea ice melt in the Arctic Ocean due to climate change; in five years' time most of the sea ice could be gone in summer with just an 'Alamo of ice' remaining north of Canada's Ellesmere Island".

 "In twenty years' time," he added, "that will also be gone, leaving the Arctic Ocean completely ice-free in summer. It's clear we can't rely on current models of prediction for sea ice melt, as they have been constantly outpaced since the 1980s".

 "In the last few years", Peter continued, "there has been an unprecedented retreat of the sea ice in the Arctic Ocean during summer months, but this starts during the winter. So there's a decline in the rate of growth of sea ice during the winter, an increase in the rate of melt in the summer and now the thickness of Arctic sea ice has diminished much more rapidly that it had in previous decades. At some point, the ice will not grow enough in winter to match summer melting, and the summer ice will disappear, all in one go."

 This is sobering stuff; the effects of losing summer ice barely even computes – and I'm sitting here in the middle of it. First of all there's the knock-on warming effect of losing the ice – instead of sea ice reflecting infra-radiation back into space, instead there would be more dark ocean, absorbing more heat, leading to more thermal expansion in the ocean, which is a factor in sea level rise. There have been news headlines in the last couple of weeks about two German ships, the Beluga Fraternity and Beluga Foresight, making their way along the Northeast Passage – basically across the top of Russia – with cargo from South Korea. With less summer sea ice, the reasoning is that it's shorter and faster to send cargo ships through this route; however, the safety and environmental aspects of this idea seem badly thought out, if at all; the waterway is not open and clear, the ships still require icebreaker escort. With less summer sea ice, various countries are posturing over claims on resources; most absurd of all is the idea that less summer ice means more opportunities for extracting oil from the Arctic sea bed, when it was fossil fuels substance that got us into this climate trouble in the first place.

 There's the accelerating effect of climate change on the eco-system here; we've had several polar bear sightings in the last week, hundreds of miles from any land. This is true polar bear territory; I mean that in the broadest sense, for polar bears are wanderers of the sea ice – they spend so much time hunting on the frozen Arctic seas that they are referred to as marine mammals. We've seen some seals out here too, though not many in the last week.

 A few nights ago came across the site of a polar bear kill; an ice floe strewn with blood and tufts of fur. In the middle of the floe lay the carcass of the seal, completely frozen. Out here there's ringed, harp, bearded and hooded seals, that not only exist on a seafood diet, but actually breed and give birth on the sea ice itself. If there's less sea ice, that has a knock-on effect for the seals and bears.

 During the week, a gyrfalcon was spotted circling the Arctic Sunrise; the largest of the falcons, and apparently the world's fastest bird (reaching up to 200 kilometres an hour), it spent a few minutes chasing northern fulmars around the ship before it briefly alighted on the tail of "Lucky Bird", our helicopter. Since then the falcon has reappeared a couple of times. Gyrfalcons breed all around the coast of Greenland, and historically have been regarded as an iconic creature –the medieval Vikings settlers in south Greenland used to export live gyrfalcons as a luxury item; according to the book I'm reading at the moment, "Collapse" by Jared Diamond, makes mention of the fact that 12 Greenland gyrfalcons were used "to ransom the Duke of Burgundy's son after he was captured by the Saracens" in 1396.

 This morning, Geerard, or "Number Two", as well all refer to him, reported seeing a male snow bunting this morning, while we were at about 80 degrees north. While this relatively small bird lives around the coast of Greenland and throughout Svalbard, it's interesting to see one out here – it's not a seabird, and I would have expected them to be migrating south to Europe, Russia or the United States by now, not on a commuter flight between Greenland and Svalbard.
It'll be three months this Tuesday since I joined the Arctic Sunrise, at Nuuk, at the far side of Greenland. For most of the people on board, it's been a longer trip than that, since they sign on in Amsterdam. There's another week and a half left in our Arctic voyage; and there's less than three months left until the Copenhagen climate summit. We can see what's going on here in the Arctic; others are bearing witness to what's going on around the world, where sea level rise amongst other climate change factors are threatening livelihoods and stability. We're calling… no, we're demanding that world leaders get their act together in Copenhagen, and come together to make a bold, ambitious deal that that will mean decisive action by developed countries for a 40% cut in greenhouse gases by 2020; they also need to invest $140 billion per year to help developing countries deal with the impacts of climate change, stop deforestation and switch to a low carbon economy. Anything less is a total waste of effort, and the adoption of blind ignorance climate change.

 - Dave

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 Our last few days in a very remote part of Greenland's northeast were
the coldest of the trip so far. Gone is the light clothing of Petermann
and Humboldt in July and August - a similar latitude, now its been
thermals, gloves and hats.

 The actual temperature out on deck the last few days was about -10
Celcius, not low for anyone who lives through cold winters with lower
temperatures in Canada or parts of the United States. But remember, it's
only September, and the Arctic winter is already kicking in here at the
top of the world. And the wind whipping off the ice sheet at "79
Glacier" (Nioghalvfjerdsfjorden) makes it feel a hell of a lot colder
than -10.

 Because of the bad weather and tough sea ice, we didn't have as much
time as we would have liked, but glaciologists Gordon and Leigh managed
to get their GPS equipment onto the glacier for more than two days –
enough to gauge its reaction to two tide cycles. Fiamma and the Woods
Hole team carried out temperature and depth surveys along the floating
ice tongue – and one day, even drilled down through the sea ice to find
out what was going on.

 The front of 79 Glacier is a flat, floating ice tongue, like Petermann
Glacier, where we spent most of July. However, unlike the rapidly moving
Helheim or Kangergluqussuaq glaciers that we visited in the last couple
of weeks, 79 has not yet been activated by climate change and only moves
a few hundred metres per year, yet still drains 10% of Greenland's ice;
Kangergluqussuaq glacier, in comparison moves 14 kilometres a year!

 79 Glacier sits in a deep fjord, or trough, which continues 700-800km
into the heart of Greenland's Ice Sheet, well below sea level. The front
of the glacier is pinned in front on a shoal or ridge in only 100m of
water, which keeps the glacier in place. Behind that ridge, the 80
km-long tongue floats above water that is 800 to 1000 m deep. If any
major changes take place at the front of the glacier, such as it losing
touch with the ridge, this weakness will propagate inland, causing large
amounts of ice to be dumped from the heart of Greenland's Ice Sheet,
into the ocean, contributing to global sea level rise.

 Because it hasn't speeded up (yet), 79 can be studied in a more
‘natural' state, so scientists can understand how the faster glaciers
used to be. The problem with 79 Glacier is that it's so hard to reach;
the last team of scientists that worked on the glacier itself arrived 14
years ago!

 Everywhere we're gone in Greenland has a distinctly different landscape,
with the land in the north, around Humboldt, Petermann and 79 glaciers
appearing more barren and dry than the tundra around Kangergluqussuaq or
Helheim. At 79, great steep cliffs with silver rivers of shale sweep
down to the frozen fjords and sounds, and the ice sheet dips its feet in
the sea. Despite the gigatonnes of ice here, this part of Greenland is
functionally a desert, and there's not much sign of life; the sea,
however, harbours plenty; in the last few days, we've had whale
sightings (humpback and possibly bowhead), seals and some polar bears –
last night a mother and cub, and this morning a lone adult. That brings
to ten the number of polar bears we've seen on our odyssey around
Greenland so far. When I say ‘around Greenland', I'm being literal;
given the fact that the extreme north coast and north east coasts of
Greenland are hemmed in by sea ice year round, it's impossible to
actually circumnavigate the island. However, since June 29th, when we
reached the Arctic sea ice in the Lincoln Sea at 82.5 north, until last
night, we've been pretty close to circumnavigating; to go further would
need sleds and dogs.

 So it's goodbye to glaciers, and hello to sea ice; in Longyearbyen we'll
be picking up a new team of scientists, lead by Peter Wadhams from the
University of Cambridge in the UK. We'll be spending until the end of
September exploring the effects of climate change on the Arctic sea ice
as it reaches its annual minimum extent.

 Stay with us!

 Dave

 More about sea ice extent:
http://www.greenpeace.org/international/campaigns/climate-change/arctic-impacts/sea-ice-extent

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 This was the expedition’s second run of bad weather in less than a week. Last Wednesday, after departing the east Greenland port of Tasiilaq, we spent the day battering head on into a force 9 gale – which even gusted up 65 knots (force 11) at times. I spent too long looking at my laptop in the morning, and nearly succumbed to the popular pastime of regurgitation; I decided it was more fun to hang out on the bridge, shooting video of waves hitting the windows, or filming inanimate objects swinging back and forth in the empty messroom.

 On Thursday we ducked into Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord, home to calm waters and the fastest moving glacier in Greenland. It’s the fourth major glacier on our voyage around Greenland, and I was struck by how different the surrounding environment appears to each one. Different light, different climate, different landscape, different shapes to the icebergs. I’ve been slagged off for still getting excited by icebergs, after months of looking at them. But there’s no two the same… I swear.

 And each glacier is different too. We spent the end of last week right up inside Kangerdlugssuaq fjord near the glacier itself, the ship completely surrounded by a stew of glacial debris. On Friday night, while the northern lights flickered dimly overhead, and no open water visible, it was tempting to assume that it was possible to step on to the ice. It was a foolish dream – we would have gone straight down through the chunks of fresh water ice, into the salty fjord water, and never be seen again.

 Helheim and Kangerdlugssuaq glaciers deliver about 10% of the total flow of ice from Greenland’s ice sheet into the ocean; their contribution to sea level rise – last estimated in 2006, was about 10% of the worldwide total. Greenland’s total contribution to sea level rise is thought to be about 30%, or about 1mm of the currently 3mm or so rise. Greenland’s contribution to sea level rise has doubled over the last seven years – and we don’t know what’s going to happen next.

 On board the Arctic Sunrise, Dr Gordon Hamilton, from the University of Maine’s Climate Change Institute, tells me that between 2004 and 2005, Kangerdlugssuaq Glacier trebled the rate at which it moves fresh water ice to the ocean. That was an increase of 5km to 14km every year, or 38 metres every day a velocity that it still maintains. You can, apparently, see it moving with the naked eye. If you wait long enough, you’ll see the glaciers dumping thousands of tonnes into the ocean.

 While it was previously generally assumed that the speeding up of glaciers was due to only to surface melting, it’s recently been realised that glaciers like Helheim and Kangerdlugssuaq (and Petermann and Humboldt), which terminate in deep fjords and extend several hundreds of meters below sea level, could be accelerated by the intrusion of warm subtropical water from farther south. Until now, very little was known about this phenomenon, an issue that Dr. Fiamma Straneo of Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution and her team are on board to study. Melanie has discussed the details of this scientific work in earlier blogs, so I won’t go into it in too much detail; suffice to say, much of the work carried out in Sermilik Fjord was repeated at Kangerdlugssuaq – the water in the fjord itself was studied for signs of subtropical origin. Personally, I find it fascinating that water can actually have a fingerprint, and a story to tell about its origins.

 Right now we’re steaming for the rather prosaically named 79 Glacier (which is actually at 79 degrees north). Arne is steering us a course that takes us north, and east of the long finger of sea ice that extends south from the Arctic Ocean, before we make our way west towards the glacier. 79 is another of Greenland’s massive glaciers, pouring out from the heart of the ice sheet, pouring out through desert-like mountains into the Fram Strait. It’s a bit like Petermann, having a long, 80km long floating tongue. It’s unlike Helheim and Kangerdlugssuaq in that, as of yet, there’s been no real sign of it speeding up due to climate change. The scientists on board plan on using 79 as a benchmark, or “control group” that will help them monitor the effects of climate change if and when they kick in, while keeping a comparison between the un-activated glacier and its companions further south.

 Outside the Arctic Sunrise’s office window, there’s a thick sea fog, and a slack sea. Shards of first year sea ice are drifting by. After a few months around Greenland, we’ve become used to the cold, but were spoiled by the nearly constant sunshine. Now it’s damp, icy, and we’ve not seen the sun in days. We’re wandering back towards Ultima Thule again – the Farthest North, where the lines of longitude grow closer together.

 Photo: The Arctic Sunrise in Kangerdlugssuaq Fjord. © Greenpeace/Nick Cobbing.

 Dave

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 After spending more than five weeks waiting for Petermann Glacier in northwest Greenland to calve a 100km2 ice island into the sea, at around midnight Wednesday night the Arctic Sunrise began its transit down the west coast of Greenland. Our primary goal at Petermann Glacier was to document the calving of the ice island with remote time-lapse cameras perched on 1000m cliffs overlooking the glacier. Even though the ice island has not yet calved, our time-lapse cameras remain in place, ready to document the glacier's disintegration, should it happen this summer.

 People have been asking if I am disappointed that Petermann Glacier did not calve the large ice island while we were there. My honest answer is no. From the early stages when we first started planning this expedition, I was keenly aware that ice conditions in Nares Strait meant the ship had only a 50/50 chance of reaching Petermann Glacier in the first place. In reality, our passage north was virtually clear of sea ice – we sailed right to the top of the strait, reaching the an ice bridge holding back the Arctic Ocean's thick, multi-year sea ice on June 29th, just 445 nautical miles from the North Pole.

 The fact that we actually reached Petermann Glacier at all, and then had more than five weeks to conduct research into the dynamics that influence it and nearby Humboldt Glacier's sensitivity to global warming, was truly an unexpected bonus. Together, Petermann and Humboldt glaciers drain a full ten percent of the ice that flows from the immense Greenland Ice Sheet into the sea, with serious implications for sea level rise the world over.

 The independent science team on board gathered a lot of important data in a part of the world that is remote and challenging to reach. With the support of the Arctic Sunrise and her crew, the scientists were able to conduct glacier and oceanographic studies that will help fill the gaps in their and the greater scientific community's understanding of how Greenland's glaciers and ice sheet react to global warming. In the last seven years, the Greenland Ice Sheet's contribution to sea level rise more than doubled, due to a surprisingly rapid and unpredicted loss of ice. Against this backdrop, there is still so much that scientists do not understand about how Greenland's glaciers and ice sheet react to global warming. It's a stunning example of how the impacts of global warming on the ground are outpacing scientific models, which is the case throughout the Arctic and in much of the world.

 Ironically, while the Arctic Sunrise was conducting research on glaciers in northwest Greenland, the G8 met in Italy and failed to make any meaningful progress toward a climate deal. There is a huge gap between what countries are willing to do and what climate science is saying the planet needs. Not one head of state is prepared to do what's necessary to prevent climate catastrophe. At the end of the day, if the Copenhagen Treaty forged in December does not include science-based targets of at least 40 percent reductions in greenhouse gas emissions by 2020, then it will fall far short of what is needed. Even emissions reductions of 20 or 30 percent by 2020 won't cut it; it's just not possible to save the climate a little bit at a time. Obama, Merkel, Sarkozy and other heads of state can't shut their eyes and hope this issue will somehow go away. It won't. In coming years and decades we will all wonder what the heck they were thinking when they failed to address the problem with meaningful action.

 I know it's naïve, but I wish these heads of state could spend just one day with us on board this ship, talking with the independent science team on board about how climate change is affecting Greenland's glaciers and ice sheet, and in turn, what it means for the US and the rest of the planet.

 They would leave the ship understanding that anything less than science-based targets in US and global climate policy condemns the world to the worst impacts of climate change, which, by the way, will ravage their national and the global economy in incalculable ways. The economic recession that started with sub-prime mortgages and bank failures in the US will seem like child's play compared with what continued and unabated global warming will cause.

 The Arctic Sunrise is now heading south toward the next stages of this expedition. Independent science teams will be joining us to conduct research on Greenland's east coast glaciers as well as sea ice. We will continue our work here in Greenland, using every tactic we can to amplify the voices of scientists who are on the cutting edge of global warming research. Our hope is that both their work and voices will form part of the impetus for heads of state across the planet to take real action on global warming in the four months that remain before the Copenhagen climate talks in December.

 - Melanie

 Photo: One of the cracks in Petermann Glacier. © Nick Cobbing/Greenpeace

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 Some of us should be asleep, but few of us are – we’re pulled up beside a stunning iceberg, which has become known as ‘The Donut’, thanks to the circular hole formed by an exquisite archway of glacier ice.

 I’m on the starboard bridge wing, looking at the Sunrise’s shadow play on the ‘berg, then reflection of that shadow in the water. Out of the corner of my eye I catch something yellow galloping along the pockmarked sea ice that stretches from the iceberg to the nearby coastal cliffs.

 “POLAR BEAR, POLAR BEAR” I shout into the bridge. The bridge erupts into a frenzy of activity.

 I stick my head back outside. The bear has stopped, maybe 50m off the starboard bow.

 Nanuk or Nanoq, the Inuit name for the polar bear or ice bear. Also known as Ursus maritimus, the sea bear. In northwestern Greenland, the Polar Inuit call the bear Pisugtooq; the great wanderer. To follow a bear, it is said, is to really learn something. I like what Pisugtooq means, but Nanuk rolls off my tongue a little easier.

 Nanuk is sitting down, waving its head back and forth as it sniffs the aroma of humans and cooking that’s coming from the big green ship. Polar bears are curious animals, and it’s a fair guess that it has never laid its brown eyes on a ship before – not many ships have ever reached these waters. I don’t know if it’s a male or female. I’d hazard a guess of male, but not from any solid evidence. Kieran forwarded me an new story earlier about a Japanese zoo where keepers spent six months trying to get two polar bears to mate, before discovering they were both female.

 Out of the bear’s line of sight, on the other side of the ship, we’ve a boat in the water, with Bob, Sarah, Eric, Alun and Stephen on board. They quickly choose to evacuate the boat, and get back on board the Sunrise safely. Up on around the bridge, Nick is to my left, shooting photographs on his telephoto lens. Stephen, still in his boat suit, joins the others on the bow with his video camera.

 The bear moves forward, wading knee deep through a meltpool. It strides confidently up to the ship sniffing the air, and looking up at the little people above. Its massive forelegs are awe inspiring, ending in paws bigger than my head – these act as paddles, snowshoes, and seal-killing tools, thanks to huge reddish brown claws on each foot.

 Nanuk’s coat glows golden yellow in the low sunlight. It’s commonly assumed that polar bears are as white as snow – not so. Instead, their fur – each hair of which is hollow, for insulation, is creamy if not yellow.

 Now Nanuk is regarding the bow of the Arctic Sunrise with something more than curiosity. The deck that people are standing on is 4m above the ice, sloping outwards. Including the gunwale, the bear is looking up at about 5m of steel, sloping out over its head. It can’t be seriously thinking of jumping onto the ship, can it? I imaginet he Arctic Sunrise arriving into port, with a pair of cartoon scratch marks descending to the waterline from an attempted ursine boarding.

 Nanuk seems to blink, change its mind, sniffs around a bit. I’m standing on the next deck up, so I’m close to 9m from the ice, or probably less than 8 from the bear’s head. I’m looking through my 400mm camera lens at its muzzle, which is stained red, presumably from the blood of seals. Nanuk looks back up the lens at me, the sunlight catching its eye as it regards my clicking camera with cold curiosity. Even with that much vertical height between myself and the bear, I am unnerved.

 A sudden movement from from a crewmate below startles Nanuk, who spins away, splashing back into the water. The minor panic subsides, and it climbs on to the ice again. Then, showing only its right side, sits on its haunches, giving the Arctic Sunrise a doleful over-the-shoulder look. Then it stretches its back ramrod straight and aims its muzzle at the blue sky above.

 I almost expect the bear to start howling. Instead, it seems to have turned itself into an olfactory antennae, getting its nose as high as possible. It looks dumpy – plump around its nether regions, like a bear wearing a bear suit to a fancy dress party. But Nanuk also looks graceful, regal, and at ease in its domain, and now, with its snout in the air, seems to have reached a kind of shamanic pose.

 Nanuk’s forepaws come down on the ice again, and it starts ambling away. Without warning, it drops down on the snow, and spends the next two minutes rolling around on its back like a playful dog on a lawn, kicking its legs into the air, rubbing its fur onto the snow. Is it trying to cool down after all the excitement or drying its fur? Is it declaring its submission to the big green rainbow monster by proffering its furry belly? Or is it simply having a good time and wants to show off to the cameras?

 After a few minutes of this, Nanuk sits up, looking a bit dazed and selfconscious, before wandering off across the ice. We continue watching through binoculars and telephoto lenses. A dark lump can been on the ice, between the bear and the cliffs of Cape Clay. It seems to be a ringed seal, pulled up on the ice.

 Nanuk goes into stealth mode. We have problems telling the bear’s pale hump from the sunlit ice as it takes a winding route through the water towards the seal. We blink, and the seal vanishes. Nanuk appears, forepaws on the ice flow, sniffing the air, disappointed. Then it wanders off, in search of new adventures, and a late supper.

 The ship’s engines start, and we leave. The is the bear’s territory, and we do not want to impose further.

 -Dave

 Footnote: This was the fifth of six polar bears we’ve seen since June 29th. The 1st was on the Arctic Sea ice, as written about by Melanie. We later saw a mother and two cubs in the distance on Petermann Glacier. Since the above encounter, Martin, Stefan and Geert saw a polar bear from the helicopter, clambering about on one of the McGarry Islands.

 Photo: Nick Cobbing/Greenpeace

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