Searching for narwhals is a surreal concept. It’s almost like saying, “Hey, let’s go look for centaurs!” or “I want to meet Bigfoot!”. Although narwhals are real, they’re not just named the “unicorns of the sea” because of their famous tusks; they’re so elusive, they may as well be mythical. One of our crew on board the SHVega, Andy Wenzel, has been an expedition guide for 30 years and never seen one. But our guide Marissa Idlout, an Inuit native of Pond Inlet here in Nunavut – the easternmost, northernmost and largest territory in Canada – is sure that conditions are right for a sighting.
The Arctic wind tugs at my bobble hat and whips the dark blue flag of the Swan Hellenic livery from side to side. Fine rain splatters against my glasses and splashes my face, but I don’t mind one jot. I strain my eyes across the water, searching for a silvery needle in a blue-black haystack. We’ve already seen nine polar bears and countless seals this week; a testament to the remoteness of our journey so far.
Something grey dashes past the starboard side of the Swan’s Nest lookout platform on the ship’s bow, but before I get a proper look, it disappears back under the surface. Our captain Lyubomir Garciyanov – affectionately known as ‘Lubo’ – and his team on the bridge deftly spin the ship around inside the hardly spacious Icy Arm Fjord, west of Baffin Bay. A beautiful iceberg swings into view: it’s shaped a little like a fighter jet and is a stark white contrast to the silty brown of the beaches behind, the gunmetal grey of the 3,000ft-high cliffs that lean over us and the dark cyan of the sea in the foreground. In itself, it’s an enchanting moment.
“Just there – I see something!” yells Gustav Länne, one of our guides, with a stirring yet articulate voice that can only come from a musical-theatre education. He’s pointing just beyond where the iceberg disappears under the water, creating that astonishing cerulean silhouette that feels almost artificial – similar in colour to the virtually neon parkas we were given at the start of the cruise. We notice some splashes, a couple of bubbles… and then nothing.
But then, a curvy crowd of silvery slivers glide up and out of the murkiness. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s not just one narwhal – it’s three! Even after our expedition photographer Andrew Miller has shared a shot of the iconic tusk, and when the sighting is confirmed by the renowned wildlife experts on board, I’m still in disbelief. It’s as if the world-leading authorities on the Loch Ness Monster have given their assent to the existence of the creature and we’re looking directly at Nessie herself.
Such is the serendipity of polar expedition cruising, and the impressive adaptability of our crew onboard the SH Vega, that we weren’t even supposed to visit Icy Arm Fjord. Our ship had been rocked by Arctic storms in the previous days, causing us to cancel various shore excursions and change plans.
“Sorry everyone, we’re going to be moving into a weather system later today and are expecting four-metre-high waves,” expedition leader Nicki de Souza had announced over the ship’s PA system the day before. So we did the only thing logical people would do: we booked a sea-kayaking session.
Fortunately, the storm had not reached Strzelecki Harbour; our ship rounded a corner away from the choppier waters around the ominous-sounding Pandora Island and dropped anchor in the secluded bay. Under the watchful eye of Rex Nelson (who might have the coolest job title in the world: kayak master) we loaded our kayaks onto water so calm and dark it could have been black onyx. We spent an entirely enjoyable two hours pootling around on the water, under yawning cloudless blue skies – even though we were deep inside the Arctic Circle.
Two days later, I thought to myself, “Well, that was the calm before the storm” as the Vega lurched forward wildly and my belly delivered an uppercut to my palate.
We’d been invited by Captain Lubo for a tour of the bridge – one of numerous activities to fill up the days onboard, alongside working out, swimming, learning the local Inuktitut language with Inuit guide Michael Milton, and attending lectures by experts such as the SETI Institute, a research organisation that works with NASA.
“Vega is a purpose-built expedition ship to negotiate ice and rough seas,” Captain Lubo told us as he pointed out some of the state-of-the-art equipment onboard. “She has oversized stabilisers – similar to aeroplane wings, powered by hydraulics.”
As if the Arctic Ocean understood the concept of a false sense of security, an enormous wave battered the windows of the bridge – despite us being up on the ninth deck – eliciting squeals and gasps from the guests.
Brutal weather is never far from the narrative of the Canadian Northwest Passage expedition we are following on SH Vega; the search for this very route cost British explorer Sir John Franklin his life when his fleet first became icebound in 1845. Throughout the cruise are mementos of the fearless men who came here long before the days of Google Maps – well, in this part of the world, long before the days of any maps.
We see remnants of the doomed Franklin expedition on Beechey Island, including a small but elegant cemetery to some of the first victims. Here, four graves celebrate the lives of John Torrington, William Braine and John Hartnell – members of the original voyage aboard the HMS Erebus and aptly named HMS Terror who all died in 1846 – as well as Thomas Morgan, who died aboard the HMS North Star as part of the rescue mission in 1854.
The modern-day memorials, installed in the 1990s and now part of a National Historic Site of Canada, are cast in bronze; unsurprisingly, the original oak graves deteriorated significantly in the ferocious Arctic climate. On the shoreline just below are the ramshackle remains of Northumberland House, built as an emergency supply depot in the 1850s, which bear further witness to the harshness of the conditions and the implausibility of survival.
Right on cue, the expedition team tells us we need to change our plans because of the weather. Instead of walking across the shingle – which at times crunches unnervingly underfoot and at other times makes an oddly pleasant jingling noise – we’re going to need to make our way off the beach and take the Zodiacs to the next point of interest. The sea looks like a millpond and blue skies are languidly draped over the majestic Vega on the horizon, but a fog bank is rolling in. In this climate, ten minutes can mean the difference between 100% visibility and not being able to see your hand – or a polar bear’s paw – right in front of your face.
This weather, combined with other factors, including the sad fact that the recently invented tinned food intended to keep Franklin’s men alive actually gave them lead poisoning instead, meant that his expedition’s ships were lost for almost 200 years – the Erebus was only discovered in 2014 and the Terror two years later. To this day, the ill-fated trip is undergoing exhaustive research: as recently as September 2024, academics identified the cannibalised remains of Captain James Fitzjames, Franklin’s second-in-command, after running
DNA analysis.
I too will endure first-hand the punishing cold during this trip – admittedly only for a fleeting moment – on Devon Island in the Qikiqtaaluk region. Our Zodiac scuffs its way up onto the shore at Dundas Harbour – known as Talluruti, ‘A woman’s chin with tattoos on it’, in Inuktitut – and we disembark as our guides, many of them with rifles shouldered in case of polar bears, stand on lookout.
I swing my legs up and over the edge of the boat and plunge them down into the water, as is normal for a ‘wet landing’ ashore – but this is not the best time to realise that my boots have a hole in them. The Arctic waters shoot like icy needles through my right boot and into my thick woollen sock, which essentially becomes a freezing foot-based sponge.
But there is no time to falter. I summon the spirits of adventurers past and trudge upwards, moving from shingle beach to boggy bronze grassland. As I crest the hill, a staggering polar patchwork of blue, black and white unfolds before me: acres of icebergs have accumulated in the bay opposite. Dolphin-grey clouds roll overhead and every so often the sunshine peeks through; seaborne glints of sunlight seem to highlight certain icebergs one after another, in a PowerPoint presentation hosted by Mother Nature herself.
Although Devon Island is now Canada’s largest uninhabited island, in the 1920s it was the seat of a detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), better known as the Mounties. Signs of life are still visible: a number of cabins and a signpost stand firm but for the most part only the skeletons of former housing – and deceased wildlife – are left. One shed is intact but completely turned over, a victim of a storm not too long ago; others are barely recognisable as accommodation.
We start a short climb, looking up at the snow-capped mountains in the west, and stop at a rocky outcrop to visit the Johnson Bay Cemetery. This tiny but dignified plot, no more than 10ft by 10ft, and surrounded by a white picket fence, is home to two graves that commemorate RCMP constables Victor Maisonneuve and William Robert Stephens. Placed on a nearby rock are the remnants of a whale’s spine; the two individual vertebrae are over a foot wide each, helping to portray an idea of the startling size of these creatures.
The scene before me is the most perfect vignette of a Canadian Arctic expedition: in one vista I can see infinite water dotted with icebergs, unexplored mountains under cavernous skies, weather-battered buildings, evidence of magnificent wildlife, and a tribute to pioneers – both Francophile and Anglophile – lost to the relentless onslaught of the elements. Even my wet, freezing cold, foot feels oddly relevant.
Despite the obvious treacherousness of Canada’s Northwestern Passage, I completely understand why so many people were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to explore this part of the world. The staggering landscape, the chance to see otherworldly animals, and the endless sense of adventure within, are impossible to resist.
Need to know
Getting there
Swan Hellenic’s Canadian Northwest Passage and Northern Lights expedition departs from Kangerlussuaq in western Greenland. A charter flight connects from Keflavik International Airport in Iceland (served by British Airways, Icelandair and Easyjet, among others).
Getting around
The cruise takes in Ilulissat, Sisimiut and Qeqertarsuaq in Greenland, before moving into Canadian waters. The itinerary includes Fort Ross, the Bellot Strait, Port Leopold, Elwin Bay and Qikiqtarjuaq (all weather dependent). Some shore excursions are included.
Best time to go
The cruise is organised to coincide with the best opportunity to see the aurora borealis northern lights) – in the Canadian Arctic, this is between mid-September and early April, but much of the Canadian Arctic completely freezes over during November to February. The itinerary is usually scheduled for three weeks in September.
What to eat
The restaurants onboard serve international food with changing daily themes. Swan Hellenic has partnered with Jeunes Restaurateurs to bring the gastronomic experiences of Michelin-starred chefs, such as Alexandra Müller, onboard.
Where to stay
The SH Vega has 76 cabins known as Staterooms, some with balconies. All are five-star and include en-suite bathrooms plus flame-effect fireplaces and coffee machines. The itinerary can start with a night in Iceland at the Marriott Courtyard Reykjavik Keflavik Airport, where there is a briefing and an evening meal for Swan Hellenic guests.
Further information
swanhellenic.com
destinationcanada.com
