Polar bears, whales, walruses and other wild sights: I travelled to one of Europe’s most remote yet awe-inspiring environments

And then, just as the third mate shares our speed (exactly 10.7 knots) and starts into a rather involved talk about bow thrusters, we spot them: whales. Dozens of them, all around the ship. Their movements are mesmerizing, especially from this angle, up on deck eight. Their mighty forms are visible, even under the water.

It’s like a ballet: flukes raising up and then disappearing to the depths, pectoral fins splashing, big white puffs in every direction, near and far. “There’s a zillion of them!” someone cries out. I spot humpbacks and, later, the world’s second-largest mammal, the fin whale. A second later, the captain emerges, a long-lens camera in hand. A veteran officer, this man has seen most things you’ll find in polar waters — but even he’s snapping away at this almost unbelievable display of wildlife, which, truth be told, happens regularly in this part of the world.

I’m cruising off the coast of Svalbard, the northernmost inhabited islands on Earth and part of the Kingdom of Norway. Longyearbyen (population: around 2,400) is the administrative centre and unofficial capital, and sits on the island of Spitsbergen at a latitude of 78 degrees north. That places the town about halfway between the Arctic Circle and the North Pole (the latter is about 1,300 kilometres away — or just next door, in polar terms).

This remote archipelago includes nine main islands, which are covered with glaciers and snowy mountain peaks (and often by fog and mist, giving them an almost mystical feel). Despite the far-flung location, it’s home to a vast variety of wildlife, making for a safari by sea. Thousands of seabirds nest on towering cliffs, from guillemots to adorable Atlantic puffins. Polar bears and arctic foxes stalk the frozen land and ocean, and all sorts of cetaceans and pinnipeds swim in these waters.

Svalbard’s popularity has been growing rapidly with the recent rise of expedition cruising, although a noteworthy change in Norwegian environmental regulations will soon limit visitors. As of 2025, only small expedition ships with no more than 200 passengers — like the S.H. Diana — will be permitted in all protected areas. It’s a measure intended to safeguard what the government calls “one of the largest wilderness areas left in Europe.”

For most travellers, Svalbard’s wildlife is the primary attraction. On my trip, we see plenty, including the king of the North: polar bears. One evening on the ship after dinner, with cocktails in hand, we hear a slightly breathless announcement from expedition leader Mariam Leuenberger over the P.A.: two bears, right off the bow. People rush out to the open-air Swan’s Nest at the front of the ship, designed to get you closer to the animals. We hope the big bears will show us their strut, and the nearer of the two beasts obliges, walking back and forth across the gunmetal-grey beach.

While the polar bears can only be safely viewed from the water, we get much closer to a variety of other Northern creatures. Landing our inflatable Zodiac boat on a beach within the vast Soraust-Svalbard Nature Reserve, Leuenberger gives us a quick briefing about what’s onshore. “Keep your voices to a whisper,” she says, as we disembark, boots splashing into the cold water. “Walruses are very noise-sensitive.”

On the slope we walk up, unlikely bursts of yellow and purple plant life break through what appears to be scorched earth. Emmanuelle Bily, a naturalist and polar bear guard with a rifle slung over her shoulder, points out some nearby reindeer. “They’re shorter, so they can stay warmer,” she says.

Suddenly, a stealthy arctic fox sneaks past, behind us. An arctic tern swoops low and screeches, warning other animals that this wily predator is nearby. Wildlife drama, in real life, is unfolding right before us. Fortunately, despite all the hubbub, the walruses are still waiting for me when I reach them, at the end of the path. Comically bucktoothed, the social animals have stacked themselves up, lying very close together for both warmth and camaraderie.

On our last full day in Svalbard, we dock in Longyearbyen. Life at these extreme northern latitudes is unique and fascinating. Laws different from the mainland’s govern this still-wild place. For instance, visas aren’t required; anyone can come to live and work in Svalbard, regardless of citizenship (provided you have the means to support yourself). Some 50 different nationalities reside on this remote tundra. Famously, you’re not allowed to be born here or die here — the latter because decomposition just doesn’t happen in a grave made of permafrost.

Joey Swindall, an American expedition team member who has lived in Longyearbyen for eight years, leads us on a walking tour. The town is cradled in a dark valley and surrounded by snowy mountains, whose peaks rise into the clouds. Swindall explains that coal mining was the original draw here, and for years was the primary industry. Remnants of those grittier days are everywhere, including a cable car system to transport the ore that still stands, disused, around town.

We take off our shoes and visit the Lutheran “sailor’s church” up on the side of the valley. Inside, it’s half sanctuary and half lounge, so people can gather around the tables to drink coffee and talk. “We’re open all night. People stay for hours, especially in the dark season,” says the vicar, referring to the sunless winter.

But during my voyage, the sun never set — it remains blazing above the horizon for four months in the summer. The town is at our feet, the bright multicoloured buildings drenched in Nordic light, ready to be explored. Lots of stories are waiting to be told, including the one about the last time a polar bear wandered through town. I search the bay for any puffs from whales. I see none, at least for the moment, but another day of possibilities lies just ahead.

Tim Johnson travelled as a guest of Swan Hellenic, which did not review or approve this article.