WALRUSES, Y'ALL. At Smeerenburg (literally "Blubbertown"—an old whaling outpost where the fat was rendered in onshore ovens), the first Zodiak was greeted by a committee. I won't call it a welcoming committee, because our welcome was far from definite. The three bull walruses swam out to meet us, and it was immediately evident that 1) they were evaluating our worthiness to land and 2) they could have capsized the Zodiak, had they chosen to do so. They are massive. Even from a distance, you can tell how much bigger they are than seals (it's easy to mistake a walrus for a boulder until it moves). The bulls can outweigh polar bears—and a polar bear would probably have to be starving to even attempt attacking a walrus.
After we landed, the three bulls lingered in the waves, watching us change our boots.
After we landed, the three bulls lingered in the waves, watching us change our boots.
On shore was the reason the walruses were so careful: the colony. (We were not allowed to come any closer than this; after all, it was their place, and a territorial walrus is dangerous.) They lay in a ring, bellowing and snorting. It was an obvious society, with complicated interactions and distinct personalities even at a distance.
Not that I would ever say it to a walrus's face, but wow: the smell. It's something akin to bone meal for the garden: rotten-fishy and sulfurous and earthy all at once. After the dry, frozen clean of glaciers and snow, it was...pungent.
Smeerenburg lies in a favorable position to catch driftwood. No wood grows native; most driftwood washes over the top of the world from Siberian forests. After seeing so many treeless landscapes, it was bizarre to encounter a fallen forest.
Smeerenburg lies in a favorable position to catch driftwood. No wood grows native; most driftwood washes over the top of the world from Siberian forests. After seeing so many treeless landscapes, it was bizarre to encounter a fallen forest.