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National Geographic Arctic Kingdom Life at the Edge
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Arctic Kingdom: Life At the Edge |
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In the far northern reaches |
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lies an alien sea of ice |
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in darkness, in uncompromising cold |
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It's winter on the Arctic Ocean |
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But a great power is returning to |
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The sun's rays touch the ice |
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and like a living thing |
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As the ice surrenders to |
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it becomes a world in motion |
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a shifting stage full of danger |
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Where creatures are trapped |
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Stranded on the frozen waters |
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Caught in the struggle to live in one |
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And where the ice meets the open sea |
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the sun awakens a world of strange |
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This is the Arctic under the sun |
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brilliant season of survival a miracle |
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and a resurrection at the edge |
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After three months of |
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the first light of spring spreads a glow |
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across the ice It's dawn in the Arctic |
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A lone predator stalks the ice |
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A polar bear is on the prowl |
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in different to the killing cold |
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Even in temperatures of fifty below |
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he doesn't hibernate |
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The bear is the supreme master |
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He can grow to seventeen hundred |
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but his life depends on |
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The ringed seal takes a quick breath |
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and returns to his world below |
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He, too, has endured all winter |
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just beneath the feet of his |
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It's April. A female is also |
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bringing her cubs out hunting |
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They were born four long months ago |
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and since then, their mother's |
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Her sense of smell is so keen |
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that she can detect her prey |
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through several feet of snow |
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She seeks out ridges |
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covers the breathing hole of |
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Inside this protective snow cap |
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She catches his scent |
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The seal rests but only sleeps |
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its sharp hearing tuned to danger |
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A tense contest of the senses begins |
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Even the top predator on the ice |
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And yet, the mother bear |
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at least two seals a week to keep |
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The seal is safe for the moment |
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but each new trip to the surface |
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to breathe could end in another ambush |
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It's an oversized game of cat |
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The bear eats mostly the blubber |
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licking bits of fat from the snow |
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A stealthy white shadow has been |
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An Arctic fox |
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For days he has been tracking |
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crossing miles of ice in hopes |
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When hunting is good, the bear |
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The fox finds a morsel and |
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against an unpredictable future |
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The sun now skims the horizon |
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and will not set again |
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Day by day |
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it begins to take control of the ice |
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between darkness and light |
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But for nearly half the year |
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the far north is angled away |
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and sleeps in the dark shadow |
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Left in the deep-freeze of space |
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the Arctic seas lie covered with |
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As the year progresses |
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the planet swings around the sun |
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Light returns to the top |
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With 24-hour sunshine |
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By spring, the ice edge has receded |
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in the high Canadian Arctic |
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and to the entrance of Lancaster Sound |
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An ice-breaker cuts the first breech |
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through six feet of solid ice |
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It brings goods to and from villages |
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and mining outposts 500 miles north |
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For the ship, the ice is an obstacle |
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For some, it is home |
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The Init have carved life from |
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The ice is their world |
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and spring promises a rich season |
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The ice itself has been guarding |
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But now the crystal fortress |
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its walls pierced by light |
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In the shallows forty feet below |
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the sun reveals a garden of |
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Golden sea anemones... |
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and small crustaceans awaken |
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Overhead, the skylight of ice glows |
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A vast pasture of algae now blooms |
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spreading across the sea for |
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Countless young fish |
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and shrimp like creatures come |
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These in turn become food for |
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Protected by the shield of ice |
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some half million tons of cod flourish |
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All this abundance is solar powered |
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As light floods the water, it sets |
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Great stores of food can now |
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where the ice meets open water |
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It's May, and animals begin |
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for this annual feast of spring |
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Thick-billed murres fly in |
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from the North Atlantic to plunder |
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They flock to Lancaster Sound |
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Murres are uncertain aviators |
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Their true medium is water |
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Once beneath the waves |
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they're the Arctic version |
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With short |
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flipper like wings they dive |
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for three minutes at a time |
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On the way back up |
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air trapped in their |
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They rocket to the surface |
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At the ice edge nearby |
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a polar bear scents |
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As though navigating by satellite |
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he continues to hunt |
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even as the ice turns into ocean |
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Beneath his fur |
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the white bear has jet black skin |
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from the sun when he's on the surface |
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In the near freezing water |
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four inches of blubber keep |
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He's not above taking a bird or two |
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But the murres take no notice |
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for they have an urgent |
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Timing is everything here |
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and the schedule is set |
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The murres head for land |
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The short breeding season |
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and for those who come late |
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there'll be no second chance |
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Their destination is a lonely |
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...the towering cliffs of Prince |
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Half a million seabirds crowd onto |
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one thousand feet above the sea |
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The murres alone number |
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Vicious fighting breaks out |
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for the safest nest sites |
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They lay only a single egg |
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it from rolling off |
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The stronger, more aggressive birds |
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leaving the weaker birds at the top |
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where they're most vulnerable |
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An Arctic fox has been stranded here |
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as the ice retreated from the island |
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His white winter fur has been replaced |
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A castaway for the summer |
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he hunts alone on an island of birds |
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He heads for the cliffs the only |
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Faced with a dangerous thief |
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the birds abandon their eggs |
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And though they can lay another |
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a late season chick will not survive |
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The fox steals all the eggs |
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but he'll need dozens each week |
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Some he stashes in the cold ground |
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There will be lean days ahead |
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It's June. A hundred miles |
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a fleet of white whales has arrived |
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belugas hunting for cod |
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The sea is suddenly alive with sound |
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This chirping |
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from feeding grounds beneath |
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like a gathering of polar ghosts |
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With no dorsal fin to impede |
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these are true Arctic whales |
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The belugas' rich symphony |
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at the complexity of their lives |
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Their sonar may be the most |
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Navigating under miles of ice |
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they bounce clicks off shifting floes |
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using a kind of "sound imaging" |
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Their melodies pulse from |
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the frequencies fine tuned |
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like a focused beam of light |
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The bonds between them are strong |
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A mother and calf will swim side |
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Shadowy gray at birth |
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they only gradually turn as perfectly |
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The sun is riding high now |
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Strong winds from the open sea |
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Beaten by wind and wave |
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the ice fractures and begins |
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Immense cracks open behind the |
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These "leads" extend for miles |
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opening up new feeding areas |
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The Inuit are experts at navigating |
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It's a skill born of necessity |
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need to hunt on this |
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Olyuk knows how to read the ice |
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Still |
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In the old days |
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entire hunting parties could |
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They are now sixty miles from home |
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They are hoping the trip will end |
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but it may take days |
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Not far away, one of the most |
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in the Arctic hauls out to rest |
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heavily armored with tusks |
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Their skulls are massive |
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and backed by a body weighing |
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they can bash through nine |
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Out of the water |
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their only enemies are polar bears |
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The walrus feed on vast beds of |
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in the muddy sea floor |
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Each one can eat thousands of |
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And the mud harbors less obvious |
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but just as deadly predators |
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A carnivorous snail begins a slow |
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methodical attack |
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It smells the clam hiding in the mud |
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and tries to penetrate the tightly |
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But the clam can defend itself |
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with a strong kick from |
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Even stranger creatures patrol |
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They thrive in the near freezing |
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on the remains of the dead |
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...and on each other |
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Overhead, the surface is warming up |
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Frozen salt water melts first |
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and from deep inside the ice |
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salty brine begins to drain away |
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Plumes of super cool |
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salty liquid spill downward out |
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freezing the waters just beneath |
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Hollow stalactites build up around |
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some reaching three feet in length |
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The waves continue to hammer |
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and the edge gives way under |
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Wind and strong currents push |
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Massive blocks pile up and |
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building miniature mountain ranges |
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In the wake of the shifting ice |
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The bowhead whale is named |
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A favorite target of whalers |
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it has never recovered from |
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Numbering only in the hundreds |
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bowheads in the eastern Arctic |
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Reaching 60 feet in length |
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it's the largest animal |
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Yet the bowhead comes to |
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Energized by the touch of the sun |
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the depths now pulse with millions |
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They seem electrified |
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their transparent bodies glimmer |
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More liquid than solid |
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these delicate drifters are |
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wrapped in enchanting beauty |
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But to live here, they must also kill |
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A jelly trails its long tentacles |
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then reeling it in to its death |
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These tiny hunters float in a world |
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unaware of the leviathan that could |
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The bowhead sweeps through the water |
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like a living trawl net |
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Between the cavernous jaws |
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dark sheets called baleen filter |
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collecting thousands of |
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Its enormous white tongue will |
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harvesting the sea one giant |
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The sun is winning control of the ice |
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and the surface pools with melt water |
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Temperatures now reach a balmy |
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Dripping water measures the |
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the sound of summer ticking away |
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Fresh leads break into the |
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The Arctic's most intriguing creature |
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The narwhal - with its ivory tusk |
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a living tooth up to ten feet long |
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The whales converge along |
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This is what Olyuk has been |
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Hunting is at the heart of |
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a way of life and a skill still |
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It's a proud link to the past |
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and the only way to live off the |
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Today, the Inuit are still allowed |
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but their take is strictly controlled |
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Yet Olyuk remembers the not |
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when hunting meant the difference |
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They have landed a female only males |
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Whale skin is especially nutritious |
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Without such a diet |
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the Inuit would have suffered |
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which plagued many Arctic expeditions |
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Eaten raw, it's a delicacy |
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In the still twilight of midnight |
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the narwhals joust a slow |
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stately ritual of mythic beasts |
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The purpose of their strange single |
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Like the peacock's tail and |
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it may serve as a banner of |
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It could be a weapon |
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But it's the stuff of legend |
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In the Middle Ages |
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the tusks were sold as unicorn horns |
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for ten times their weight in gold |
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The sea ice is flooded now |
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although beneath the water |
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the ice is still several feet thick |
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Out on the melting surface |
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an abandoned ringed seal has |
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She has wandered away from |
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and cannot find her way back |
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Now, she is trapped above the ice an |
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for a hungry polar bear |
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And if she cannot return to |
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she will starve |
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The young seal is now exhausted |
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but luck finally leads her to a hole |
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She is safe, but now she's in |
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a long way from her familiar network |
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She won't stray far for a while |
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All around her the ice is changing |
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The pasture of algae |
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that once blanketed the surface has |
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and joined together in flowing |
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Long tendrils reach out to |
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and nutrients from the |
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A new lead has opened in the ice |
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and a pod of narwhals comes |
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They usually travel in small numbers |
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but when fishing is good |
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As they enter the crack |
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these specialized hunters |
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The opening unlocks a rich store |
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but the ice is still shifting |
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Without warning, the lead closes off |
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The whales are trapped |
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The entire pod must surface to breathe |
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in this small pool of open water |
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They bob up and down |
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careful not to wound each other |
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If the hole closes over completely |
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the narwhals will have to make a |
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if they don't find it |
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they will suffocate and die |
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Then suddenly, as unpredictably |
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the lead reopens |
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High off the cliffs of |
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fulmars and kittiwakes ride |
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Even gusts of 40 miles per hour |
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for these aerial acrobats |
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Landing is the tricky part |
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There is new life in the murre colony |
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The adult birds are busy plying back |
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returning with cod for their young |
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The chick will need to triple |
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its weight over the next three weeks |
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and feeds round the clock |
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At the top of the cliff |
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glaucous gull chicks are hungry too |
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But gulls don't limit their |
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This one goes hunting closer to home |
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looking for an unprotected chick |
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It returns with a grisly catch |
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For the fox, these are hungry times |
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Egg laying is over and the chicks |
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He has only his store of buried eggs |
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High summer finally reaches the Arctic |
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The last remnants of ice swirl near |
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The frozen sea is broken at last |
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drifting in tattered pieces |
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Moving inshore are the gleaming |
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They return by the hundreds to the |
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Their smooth, white skin has turned |
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It's time to molt |
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On the rocky bottom of the shallows |
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the whales scrape off their old |
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weathered skin with a rejuvenating rub |
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Terns wheel overhead and dive |
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As the tide turns, the whales retreat |
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But one young beluga has pushed too |
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The benevolent sun now becomes |
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He could easily sunburn |
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he could overheat |
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The others can do nothing |
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The rocks have cut his sensitive skin |
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All he can do is wait for |
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With one last surge |
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the young beluga recovers his freedom |
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It's only August, but autumn is closing |
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The chicks are just three weeks |
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Yet the time has come to leave |
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Escorted by its father |
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a chick makes its way |
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through a gauntlet of hostile adults |
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Driven by irresistible instinct |
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the chick prepares to make an |
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from the thousand foot cliff |
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With its father close behind |
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For the next eight weeks they'll |
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as the young murres grow the feathers |
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they need to finally take to the air |
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The fox is left alone |
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His stash of eggs is gone |
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and he may starve before he |
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The moon now looks down on Lancaster |
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pale face of the coming winter |
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All across the Arctic, animals |
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fleeing the coming freeze |
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The cold is returning to claim |
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The great bowheads depart |
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as their food supply begins to dwindle |
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Slowly, the surface begins to transform |
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then thicken into pancake ice |
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The season of the sun is over |
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Soon, winter and the white bear will |
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Cold howls across the empty expanse |
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Darkness deepens |
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The bear settles in to stay |
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and the Arctic turns once more toward |
