Qeqertarsuaq, ‘The Big Island’
20th August 2006
When the sun comes out, with the clouds still hanging low in the sky, the light of the arctic summer is unique. The sky shimmers with mother-of-pearl shades of baby-blue, light turquoise and just a hint of gold. It is the same light we sometimes see just after dawn, but it had just turned 9am, and it was already full daylight.
We were approaching Disko Island on the Najaaraq Ittuk and I stood on deck, rubbing my mittens and looking out for humpback whales.
The first mate came out on deck to light a cigarette. “We should see whales around the tip of the bay there,” he said and pointed. “Maybe in an hour or so.”
My heart started beating faster as we approached the promised finger of Land. Now we were sailing close to the haunting basalt cliffs which make up the shore of this imposing volcanic island, with its geology so different from the mainland we had left a few hours ago.
Mighty icebergs drifted in front of the foreboding backdrop, some of them so close that we nearly brushed past them. On the bridge, a computer linked to a colour display kept track of any obstacles.
But some of them were too close to see. The ship backed up abruptly as—not ten metres from us—a humpback whale broke the surface. It disappeared as suddenly as it had surfaced. It had been a close shave. We glared at the water, but it was several minutes before we saw the whale resurface in our wake. Not one, but two, right in front of a distinctly shaped iceberg, by now too far away to photograph.
With ticket prices being what they are, I could only afford a single trip. I had been advised to travel to Qeqertarsuaq (a round trip of ca. 150 US$), because from here, whales can often be seen from shore. And there they were, within spitting distance from the gravelly beach. I fixed the image of the iceberg in my mind. The harbour couldn’t be far from here, and I intended to hike back to get a closer look at the whales
Twenty minutes went past, then an hour. We passed spectacular waterfalls and secluded bays while the sacred iceberg disappeared from view, to be replaced by even more imposing ones.
The sky had darkened again, and a fine drizzle dusted the sea. We saw one more whale in the distance, but when we finally turned into port, there was no sign of marine life.
In my dreams, I often imagined a secret bay with the sea as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the green and brown slopes; the silken surface only broken by the rolling shape of a whale, filling the air with the whoosh and spray of its blow.
Now, we had entered such a bay, albeit without the whales. And the surface was pock-marked with the rain which had begun to fall in earnest.
The town lay just at the head of the bay. Next to the harbour, the mighty jaws of a bowhead whale formed the gateway to a pier overlooking the harbour with its colourful small fishing boats.
There was a shop (closed, but soon to open), and a shelter in the form of a fish stall which was empty on this Sunday morning. I lit a cigarette and wished for a hot cup of coffee or, failing that, the warmth of the sun. Getting neither, I eventually set off to explore the small town.
A few hundred metres away from the harbour and town centre, I was presented with a bleak landscape of stark contrast: A black beach of pebbles and volcanic ash strewn with glistening lumps of white ice, broken off the icebergs which had drifted up into the dark, shallow water.
It was like being on a different planet. The light was different, and not just because the sky was grey. The dark ground and low vegetation seemed to suck the colours right out of the scenery.
On the town’s bleak sports field, a football game was in progress. Laughter drifted on the wind as I passed. The ball was shot in a high arc out of the field and onto the road, where it landed almost next to me and bounced towards the edge of a bog. I broke into a short sprint, stopped it and shot it back, before I had time enough to remember that I can’t kick footballs. The kids grinned and waved at me.
I could not hike all the way back to the sacred iceberg beyond the bay with the waterfall—at least not within a single day—but who was to say that the whales would not come close to shore around here? Once past the town, I decided to walk along the beach and keep an eye out.
However, just a few steps away from the path, I hesitated. What looked like a lifeless expanse of gravel and ash revealed an amazing, fragile cover of vegetation.
Lichens and grasses, and even tiny flowers, clung to the precarious ground during the few remaining weeks of the short summer. It was like walking over a coral reef. Carefully, I retraced my steps and returned to the path.
On top of the basalt cliffs, 700 metres above the sea, the tongues of the Disko Island glacier protrude between the cliffs. A few members of our group of daytrippers had already set off to conquer it, blister-free feet encased in proper hiking boots and daypacks packed with provisions. I had no such plans. But that was where the path was leading.
I turned back to the beach and a desolate campsite which offered some shelter in the form of gaily painted wooden cabins overlooking the bay.
“Have you seen any whales?” Another of the ship’s passengers, a bearded Dane, talking to a couple who were sitting at the next table, smoking.
“No.”
“Can you see whales from here?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
I shrugged and turned back to look at the sea—when a black shape broke the surface right next to the beach, where the water could not be more than a few metres deep.
I have often been fooled by things I want to see; but there it was again.
“Whaaale!” I shouted.
We all looked intendly, but naturally, it had disappeared. After a while, the Danish guy grunted and walked away.
And there it was again!
By now, I was on my way down to the beach, falling very nearly into a brook because I didn’t look at the path.
The whale didn’t surface again. But it had been very close and, because it had surfaced in front of one of the smaller icebergs stranded in the bay, I figured it was to small to be a humpback. A minke whale perhaps. Unlike in Scotland, the minkes here do not approach boats, because they are hunted. Several boats were out on the water and every now and then, a shot would ring out when one of the hunters spotted a seal. Maybe the little whale had sought cover in the shallow water close to shore. But now that I had seen it, the dry spell was broken. Not long after, I saw blows further away. Humpbacks, too far to see clearly, but we were definitely in the presence of whales.
The ship called again at seven. A scant half-hour later, sailing close to the bay with the waterfall, we saw our fist humpbacks feeding; their activity advertised by the gulls circling excitedly above them. During one magical hour, we saw at least half a dozen more.
“This is definitely a favourite spot!”
The first mate nodded. “They come here to pair off.”
It would seem that way. We usually saw them in twos, here as well as in Aasiaat. I wonder whether anybody actually studies them. The Disko Line would probably not mind having a researcher on board to record sightings and establish a data base with images of their tails and other markings. The ship sails a different route every day of the week, and it would tell us a lot about the distribution of humpbacks in the Disko bay area during the summer. And with the whales so close, this would also be a good time to satellite-tag them.
(This shot was taken with the digital camera. As I’ve said before, I managed to bugger up the film in the Nikon during the excitement. The whale was this close, honest!)
Tags: Greenland, Whale watching, Tag Index
Denni