Tree lines

One reason I chose this ship rather than one of the 10 others that ply this coast is that it has an Expedition Team who give talks, some on the open deck and some inside, about the geology, history, biology or mythology of what we’re passing. This morning the person who ran a very helpful workshop on photographing northern lights three days ago gives an excellent talk on the history, language, traditions, livelihood, beliefs and music of Sami people. With music.
 
After lunch a collection of rotund forms of down and fleece cased in wind-resistant, waterproof plastic, meet her outside on deck to look at Ryøya, an island uninhabited except by three large, smelly, aggressive musk oxen. In 1969 25 calves were imported from Greenland, the plan being to domesticate them since the undercoat of musk ox is warmer than sheep’s wool, finer than cashmere, shrink-resistant and, when it has to be harvested from wild animals, very expensive.
 
Six years later, after a musk ox had killed a hunter and the herd was no tamer, they were donated to the Arctic University in Tromsø for research into their behaviour and adaptation. It took quite a few more years for the University to give up on them. They then tried to sell the island to the Chinese to build an Aurora Hotel with glass ceilings but once it became clear that the musk oxen came too, the deal fell through. From a safe distance we look, but can neither see nor smell them
 
We arrive in Tromsø, nestling below trees like charcoal marks, at 2.15 in the afternoon, 1½ hours after sunset, and the striking white triangles of its Arctic Cathedral glow in the dusk on the other side of the water (extra) while a small tree of lights shines on our side (another extra). Our group of six have booked to go dog sledding from here and we are taken out into the countryside to meet the dogs and warm up with a drink in a Sami tent before being pulled by teams of huskies into the snowy darkness. Except that before we quite get to that, my mum slips on the ice and takes a far worse tumble than I did three days ago. She has hurt her arm and her face is bleeding. The dog-sledding crew are fantastic, look after her and call a doctor. My mum insists that the rest of us carry on. I know how anguished I would feel if anyone missed this trip for me, so the rest of us go while she is taken to hospital but we feel acutely for her.
 
Each sled has between seven and ten huskies, females at the front for reliability and males at the back for pulling power. As our departure gets nearer they get more and more excited until some are leaping in the air, even though they have already done several trips today.  There are two of us to a sled, plus a driver. Our driver, Ian, is from Edinburgh. Others are from Switzerland and Lithuania – there seems to be a lot of migrant labour here. Each driver works with and cares for a small group of huskies so they get to know each other very well. B and I are last in the convoy of sleds and I watch the lights of those ahead pick out some whiteness of snow, slide up the next mound, catch the dark trees then jump back onto the ground again. The ride through woods is bumpy as there has been no snowfall for several days. Of course I am thinking of my mum all the way round and as soon as the sleds get back to base, the organisers meet me and tell me she is safely at hospital for a check and they will drive her back to the ship.
 
An 80% chance, the hospital has said, that her arm isn’t broken but she is in a lot of pain. We all have spikes for our boots with us but we haven’t got accustomed to how they work so we weren’t using them. We are so frustrated with ourselves.
 
As we stand out on deck we see some glows and distant swirls of Northern Lights but very much less dramatic than last night. We come into Skjervøy and I am impressed as one man runs up the quay to  slip the rope over the bollard, runs back to the store and gets into the fork lift truck, takes pallets of packages off the boat in smooth efficient turns and stacks some in neat piles outside, some in the store, lifts pallets of packages onto the boat, parks the fork lift truck, runs back to the bollard to free the rope as the ship is already pulling away, playing out as much rope as it needs until he gets there. This exercise is superbly efficient.

Then suddenly the wind gets up, the spray bites my cheeks and we struggle to stand. Within moments it is too strong for us to stay out on deck.