The fjord that France celebrates

By Flavia Tomaello, https://flaviatomaello.blog/, Instagram @flavia.tomaello
Krossfjorden houses, in its most remote stretch, a bay whose name is confusing at first sight. Fjortende Julibukta, the Bay of the Fourteenth of July, honors the French national holiday despite being located in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard. Prince Albert I of Monaco baptized the place between 1898 and 1907, during his oceanographic expeditions in these latitudes, thus leaving a curious diplomatic mark in the middle of the Arctic ice.

In front of that bay lies Fjortende Julibreen, a glacier sixteen kilometers long and one hundred and twenty-seven square kilometers in surface, with a front that rises more than thirty meters above sea level. Its color, between white and intense blue, contrasts with the dark and sharp mountains of Haakon VII Land, forming a scenery that seems designed by a sculptor obsessed with right angles and impossible masses.

Getting into a Zodiac in front of such a landscape means accepting, from the first minute, a scale different from the usual one. The boat moves slowly between dislodged icebergs, while the guide remembers to keep a safe distance from the glacial front, alert to the possibility of a dislodge that generates an unexpected wave. Seals rest on floating ice shelves, indifferent to the flotilla of boats approaching with engines off and cameras at the ready.

A cliff full of life, organized by species and height

The real spectacle, however, unfolds on the cliff that overlooks the north of the bay. Thousands of seabirds nest there in an almost architectural organization, Brünnich’s terns, kittiwakes, arctic fulmars, hyperborean gulls, marine murrelets, Atlantic puffins and some razorbills divide the rocky outcrops according to rules that only they seem to know. The constant hum of these colonies, thousands of overlapping voices, works as a natural soundtrack throughout the boat tour.

Under that cliff, the guano accumulated over generations fertilizes a strip of tundra that becomes, in the middle of the Arctic summer, an unexpected garden. Reindeer graze among tiny flowers, polar dandelion and black eerigeus, species with restricted distribution in Svalbard that here find exceptional conditions to thrive. Greater black-faced geese and white-faced goose breed on the nearby slopes, completing an ecosystem where the apparent hostility of the landscape hides a surprising fertility.

Strands of bluish ice, some the size of a small building, occasionally break off from the glacier with a roar that comes seconds after the flash is seen. That moment, brief and always unexpected, is usually recorded more powerfully than any photograph taken during the rest of the journey. Polar bears, although less frequent in this specific bay than in other parts of the archipelago, are part of the constant imagery that accompanies each outing, a possible presence that sharpens the senses of any crew member.

Returning to the ship after hours sailing through this intersection of diplomatic history, imposing geology and concentrated biodiversity leaves a curious sensation, the certainty of having crossed, in just one morning, layers of time that range from the twentieth century to glacial processes that are counted in millennia. Few experiences manage to compress so much contrast in such a small geographic space. Swan Hellenic organizes expeditions that take you to bays like this, faithful to its promise of discovering what usually remains out of sight. A glacier baptized by a European prince, thousands of birds singing over an Arctic garden, seals indifferent to the passage of man, all of this beats in Fjortende Julibukta, waiting for those who decide to get off the boat and take a closer look. The fjord that France celebrates, Krossfjorden guards, in its most remote stretch, a bay whose name is disconcerting at first sight. Fjortende Julibukta, the Fourteenth of July Bay, honors the French national holiday despite being located in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard. Prince Albert I of Monaco baptized the place between 1898 and 1907, during his oceanographic expeditions in these latitudes, thus leaving a curious diplomatic mark in the middle of the Arctic ice.
In front of that bay lies Fjortende Julibreen, a glacier sixteen kilometers long and one hundred and twenty-seven square kilometers in surface, with a front that rises more than thirty meters above sea level. Its color, between white and intense blue, contrasts with the dark and sharp mountains of Haakon VII Land, forming a scenery that seems designed by a sculptor obsessed with right angles and impossible masses.
Getting into a Zodiac in front of such a landscape means accepting, from the first minute, a scale different from the usual one. The boat moves slowly between dislodged icebergs, while the guide remembers to keep a safe distance from the glacial front, alert to the possibility of a dislodge that generates an unexpected wave. Seals rest on floating ice shelves, indifferent to the approaching flotilla of boats with engines off and cameras at the ready.
A cliff full of life, organized by species and height
The real spectacle, however, unfolds on the cliff that overlooks the north of the bay. Thousands of seabirds nest there in an almost architectural organization, Brünnich’s terns, kittiwakes, arctic fulmars, hyperborean gulls, marine murrelets, Atlantic puffins and some razorbills divide the rocky outcrops according to rules that only they seem to know. The constant hum of these colonies, thousands of overlapping voices, works as a natural soundtrack throughout the boat tour.
Under that cliff, the guano accumulated over generations fertilizes a strip of tundra that becomes, in the middle of the Arctic summer, an unexpected garden. Reindeer graze among tiny flowers, polar dandelion and black eerigeus, species with restricted distribution in Svalbard that here find exceptional conditions to thrive. Greater black-faced geese and white-faced goose breed on the nearby slopes, completing an ecosystem where the apparent hostility of the landscape hides a surprising fertility.
Strands of bluish ice, some the size of a small building, occasionally break off from the glacier with a roar that comes seconds after the flash is seen. That moment, brief and always unexpected, is usually recorded more powerfully than any photograph taken during the rest of the journey. Polar bears, although less frequent in this specific bay than in other parts of the archipelago, are part of the constant imagery that accompanies each outing, a possible presence that sharpens the senses of any crew member.
Returning to the ship after hours sailing through this intersection of diplomatic history, imposing geology and concentrated biodiversity leaves a curious sensation, the certainty of having crossed, in just one morning, layers of time that range from the twentieth century to glacial processes that are counted in millennia. Few experiences manage to compress so much contrast in such a small geographical space.

Swan Hellenic It organizes expeditions that lead to bays like this, true to its promise of discovering what usually remains out of sight. A glacier baptized by a European prince, thousands of birds singing over an arctic garden, seals indifferent to the pace of man, all of this pulses in Fjortende Julibukta, waiting for those who decide to get off the boat and take a closer look.

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