To the Edge of the Earth

A boat-based ski touring expedition just 600 miles from the North Pole, through Svalbard’s western fjords. It sounded extreme. Cold. Remote. Slightly ridiculous. I signed up immediately.

Svalbard. Even the name felt like a place dreamt up by Tolkien. All I knew was that it was somewhere in the Arctic, surrounded by glaciers, polar bears, and mystery. A neighbour from my village back in the UK had once spoken about Svalbard with such awe that the name had never quite left me.

I found the trip through a friend-recommended company called ‘Elemental Adventure’. They organise ski trips with a twist. Not your usual catered chalets and lift queues in the Alps. It wasn’t cheap – but for me, far less extravagant than a heli trip, and somehow more adventurous. Their trips sell out quickly, so booking months in advance was the only chance to secure a spot! Deposit paid, it was set: May 2024, to the edge of the Earth.

Northbound

We met at an Oslo airport hotel: ten of us, mostly Brits, mostly middle-aged, one or two clear ultra-athletes (including my cabin mate, fresh from the Marathon des Sables).

We flew from Oslo up to Longyearbyen: the last stop before the wild. A small town just shy of 80° north latitude, where the sun doesn’t set in May and the snowmobiles outnumber the cars. It’s surreal: no trees and the need to carry a rifle outside of town. We ate breakfast in full daylight, skied all day - in full daylight, and brushed our teeth at midnight…still in daylight. It messes with your head, in the best way.

Svalbard is part of Norway, but it doesn’t quite feel like Earth. It’s a place of Arctic foxes and reindeer, of polar bear warnings at the edge of town, and a surreal stillness that sinks under your skin.

We spent two days acclimatising – touring the town, testing gear, sharing slightly awkward small talk with people we’d later watch ski off narrow ridgelines. There was the Svalbard Museum, some strong coffee, and a hike to a nearby slope to practise using our kit. At one point, I attempted to strap on my crampons, only to find they didn’t fit. Confused, frustrated, cold. I waved over a guide, who took one look and flipped them around. I’d put them on backwards. That’s when I first realised how far outside my comfort zone I’d be…

Ship Life & Polar Precautions

We boarded our ship: a repurposed industrial service vessel, tough enough to break through sea ice – and probably had before. It was simple but warm, with a surprisingly excellent Belgian chef and an international crew who took their Arctic duties very seriously.

Our two guides – Dougal, a Welshman with a calm authority, and Danny, an American with Chamonix mountain legs – laid out the ground rules. Avalanche gear always. Harnesses when needed. Ice axes, crampons, rifles.

The sailing began. Each day we’d anchor in a new fjord. Each morning we’d climb into military-grade Zodiacs, ferry across icy fjord waters to the shore; one of the guides would disembark first, rifle in hand, to make sure the coast was clear from bears. Then the real work began: ski touring.

I’d been ski touring for five years. There’s something satisfying, I’ve found, about earning your turns. Ski touring combines the best of mountaineering, solitude and skiing – no queues, no tracks, just a group of people climbing snow-laden mountains under their own steam, and carving their way back down!

The beauty, and the madness: Into the White

Clouds hung low. The wind howled. We clicked into our skis and began the climb – up, up, through hard-packed, windblown snow. We’d ski tour up steep, untouched terrain – often 800 to 1,000 vertical metres per climb, sometimes twice a day. It was physically tough. My hips nearly gave out until a veteran Austrian skier tweaked my technique, and the pain vanished like magic. Lesson two learned.

On one of our climbs, we reached a narrow ridge and that’s when the nerves really set in. The exposure was serious: no ropes, nowhere to drop a pole, let alone a person. I had to ask for help transitioning – no shame in that. Better a steady hand than a helicopter evac. One woman lost her ski into the sea. Our Arctic guide, miraculously, retrieved it from the water thanks to a small fluorescent decal and a sharp eye. That deserved a medal.

This was touring like I’d never experienced. There were days which were less dramatic, but stocked with beauty. The sun shone, lighting up the snowfields and casting long shadows across the fjords. We skied in total silence, past walruses on ice. Every day brought something new: seals hauled out on ice and – a highlight of the trip – a pod of beluga whales gliding beside a glacier. Captured by drone, straight out of Planet Earth.

We made it down, day after day. Exhausted, relieved, buzzing.

Safely back on the ship, some jumped in the water for a polar plunge and vodka shot. Brrr. I took in the view from the bridge.

Farewell to the Ice

We wrapped up the week with a BBQ on deck, beers in hand, surrounded by ice, sky, and the kind of quiet you don’t forget. That bittersweet feeling that only comes after a proper expedition.

Back in Longyearbyen, we managed a quick visit to the World Seed Vault – a bizarre and fascinating place built for doomsday scenarios. A surreal monument to human foresight, buried in permafrost like a sci-fi set.

A stopover on the way home in Tromsø – a gem of a town in Arctic Norway – gave me a glimpse of the Lyngen Alps: now next on the list! Then finally, a short stay in Oslo, where summer had arrived and people were sunbathing by the harbour – this made for a surreal contrast to the world of glaciers and stillness I’d just left behind.

Final thoughts? This wasn’t just a ski trip. It was a full-body, full-mind reset. Ski touring in Svalbard is rugged, raw, and unforgettable. It tested me physically and allowed me to experience the beauty and serenity of the Arctic.