Cruising to the Isolated Arctic, Home of the Polar Bears (for Now)

The polar bear is assessing our presence.

We’re close enough to observe the rise and fall of her shoulder blades as she circles her prize, a seal she’s just caught from beneath the ice. Steam billows from her nostrils, and her heavy breaths reveal the deep blue of her tongue—it took significant effort to sneak up on the pinniped, and she’s exhausted. But more crucially, she’s hungry and contemplating whether she’ll need to protect her meal.

Ultimately, she concludes that the group of humans standing at the bow of the ship, eagerly snapping photos, poses no danger and begins to feast on her catch.

Once our memory cards are full and the freezing temperatures become unbearable, my travel companions and I head inside to enjoy the cozy warmth of a hot toddy. We’re aboard Lindblad Expedition’s National Geographic Resolution for a 10-day journey through Svalbard, a group of islands situated halfway between Norway and the North Pole, deep within the Arctic Circle. It’s mid-April, making this the earliest expedition (by over a month) around the archipelago that Lindblad—or any cruise line—has ever undertaken. These rare, tranquil encounters with one of the estimated 3,000 polar bears residing in this part of the High Arctic are precisely why we’ve come.

Throughout the week, there's no fixed itinerary except for the chance to seek out what expedition leader Bud Lehnhausen, a veteran of Svalbard since the 1980s, refers to as 'little butter balls' among the fractured sea ice along the coast, where the bears prefer to hunt. Due to safety concerns (polar bears are unique in their tendency to stalk humans), we will spend most of our journey on the ship. However, one unforgettable day we step off the vessel to witness a short-legged subspecies of silver-furred reindeer engaging in what can only be described as reindeer games.

Much of the week, I find myself on the bridge—the ship’s command center, where the captain and crew navigate the vessel—which is open to all guests around the clock on Lindblad voyages. I frequently converse with Captain Heidi Norling and scan the horizon through a pair of borrowed binoculars. We're over 600 miles north of Norway and at a latitude higher than all but a few regions in Greenland and parts of Canada’s Nunavut, so it's still firmly winter here—most peaks are blanketed in meringue-like snow, though slivers of rock resembling misty midnight occasionally emerge. The color scheme this time of year ranges from pearl to smoke, though those visiting in July will witness wildflowers and vibrant emerald hills.

In comparison to polar bears, seals and walruses were more readily spotted—they emerged in the distance of the crisp white landscape like blurry letters on a page. With each sighting, both guests and crew rushed to the deck for a closer look, returning with frost-covered eyelashes. Birds were the easiest to spot—they often trailed in the ship's wake, mimicking a lead bird in their V-formation. One afternoon, Captain Norling skillfully maneuvers the vessel near a towering rock face adorned with thousands of Brunnich’s guillemots, a black-and-white bird that nests in colonies along rugged cliffs. For over an hour, we sat mesmerized in the Observation Lounge, sipping coffee and gazing out through the floor-to-ceiling windows as flocks of birds swooped and danced around the ship.

As an expedition vessel, the Resolution does not dock at ports, except for Longyearbyen, the largest settlement in Svalbard, home to around 2,500 residents year-round, for embarkation and disembarkation. Instead, the ship navigates the surrounding areas, cruising through the icy waters as determined by the ice and weather conditions. This eight-story vessel accommodates 126 passengers, primarily in suites with balconies, and features two dining areas, a bar, a spa with two outdoor hot tubs, a gym, and a library. Additionally, there are two glass igloos at the stern, equipped with hot water bottle–heated beds and eye masks for those adventurous enough to spend the night on the ship’s deck.

Most nights, the onboard naturalists present talks about the region's landscapes and wildlife before dinner, with many discussions focusing on the Arctic's iconic predator: the polar bear.

The scientific name, ursus maritimus, translates to 'bear of the sea,' although 'bear of the ice' may be more fitting, as these frozen expanses serve as both their highways and hunting grounds. However, this critical habitat is vanishing at an alarming rate.

While the bears are the main attractions, a more dominant presence is capturing everyone's attention.

One reason we can visit so early is that the Resolution, launched in late 2021, was specifically designed for navigating icy polar waters. However, the more significant issue—the elephant (seal) in the room—is climate change. The Arctic is warming at more than double the rate of the rest of the planet, and the impact of these rising temperatures on Svalbard is a frequent topic during our week together.

During one evening briefing, Sven Lindblad, CEO of Lindblad Expeditions and a recipient of the Dinogo’s 2018 Travel Vanguard award, recounted his visits to Svalbard since 1973. Known as one of Europe’s last great wildernesses, Svalbard boasts stunning electric blue ice fields (over 60 percent is glacier-covered), breathtaking fjords, and rugged landscapes that provide habitat for a sixth of the world’s remaining polar bears, as well as Arctic foxes, bearded seals, and Svalbard reindeer. In summer, the sun never fully sets, lingering low on the horizon, making the “golden hour” last all day. Conversely, in winter, the sun remains below the horizon for five months, yet clear nights reveal the northern lights dancing across the sky.

Decades ago, the earliest visits were possible only in July, as this region of the Arctic Ocean was frozen solid. Now, by May or June, most sea ice has either broken up or melted—if any remains at all. This ice is crucial not just for the bears; it serves as the foundation for all other Arctic ecosystems. The microorganisms that sustain fish thrive there, so as the ice recedes, fish populations decline. Consequently, this leads to fewer seals and fewer polar bears. Although hunting polar bears has been prohibited since 1973, they still face various human-induced challenges globally.

While Svalbard’s landscape appears rugged and barren—largely empty of human presence and marked only by the tracks of Arctic wildlife and the whisper of wind across the snow—it is remarkably delicate. The Arctic may seem like the planet's edge, almost resembling a lunar surface with its stark beauty, yet it is intricately linked to the world beyond. The impacts of events here resonate around the globe. The ice plays a vital role in regulating the Earth's temperature, reflecting sunlight more effectively than land or water. As it melts and flows into the ocean, contributing to rising sea levels, it leads to flooding and habitat destruction, allowing the Earth to absorb more solar energy and heat up more rapidly.

Indeed, tourism plays a role in the problem—estimated to account for 8 percent of global greenhouse gas emissions annually, according to Sustainable Travel International. However, in situations like this—where travelers witness firsthand the fragile balance of the ecosystem—it can also support conservation efforts. Those who observe the difficulties faced by polar bears, reindeer, and other Arctic inhabitants may return home with a heightened awareness and appreciation for the planet, as noted by Lindblad.

“It’s vital for people to have the chance to visit these remarkable places, understand their significance, and foster a deep respect for their existence,” Sven Lindblad shares with the cruisers during dinner one evening. (He doesn’t join every voyage but participated in this one as it marked the earliest his company had ever traveled to Svalbard.) “Our aim is to reveal the beauty of the world, spark wonder, and motivate individuals to make a difference.”

One afternoon, the experience became vivid for me as I zipped between glistening, floating pieces of ice in a Zodiac. While lifting my camera to photograph a walrus (a species whose numbers have increased in recent decades thanks to protective measures against hunting) resting on an iceberg, I could hear the ancient glacier nearby groaning as if in distress. Turning my gaze, I watched large blocks of ice break away from its face.