What Svalbard can Teach us About Being Small

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”— Barry Lopez, Arctic Dreams

There are places that demand your attention. And then there are places that ask for your humility.

Svalbard is mostly, one of the latter.

You don’t stride through the High Arctic—you tread carefully, breathe differently, listen more. In this landscape of ice, stone, and staggering silence, you are not the protagonist. You’re not even the observer. You are simply… allowed. Allowed to witness. Allowed to learn.

That quote by Barry Lopez has followed me through many of my journeys, but it wasn’t until I began guiding in the Arctic that I truly felt its weight. The land knows you. It doesn’t perform for you. And it certainly doesn’t owe you anything. Yet, when it offers you something—a brief wildlife encounter, a moment of golden light on the mountains—you feel its talking to you are you are marked by it.

Alkefjellet

I’ve stood beneath cliffs pulsing with tens of thousands of seabirds, where the noise is so alive it feels like sound has a texture. The kittiwakes and guillemots swirl overhead, oblivious to us—too consumed by their season of frenzy and flight. In those moments, we become the quiet ones, craning our necks in silence, barely daring to whisper. There is something deeply humbling in not being the center of the story.

Arctic Fox Kits

I’ve walked on ground being carful on each step to not press into ancient moss that may have taken a hundred years to grow a few centimeters. To rush here is to miss the point. The High Arctic reveals itself slowly, often in layers—through fog, through light, through the long wait.

It’s here that I began to understand something that we hear a lot, yet I hadn’t quite grasped before: how small we are—not in an insignificant philosophical way, but in a relational one. Small like one heartbeat in a vast pulse of living systems. Small like a single snowflake in a long winter. And somehow, that smallness feels liberating. It reminds me that my task as human isn’t to dominate, but to care. To pay attention. To speak up, and also to know when to be quiet. Something that -if you are not careful enough- can get lost in the frenzy of "Delivering a 10 points voyage".

I’ve watched a glacier exhale a thunderous piece of itself into the sea and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Calving isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s a crack like a shot, then the sudden hush of waiting before a chunk folds forward and vanishes beneath the surface, sending up a cold breath of water and air from deep time. In the silence that follows, there’s often a sense of reverence among the guests—nobody rushes to speak. We just listen to the echo disappearing into the fjord.

My hope is always that Svalbard, doesn’t leave you once you’ve left it. As all remote places, It lingers—in the rhythm of your thoughts, in the way you notice the sky, in how you now question the pace of the world you return to. The Arctic slows you down in all the best ways. It invites awe, but also a kind of stewardship rooted in love, not conquest.

When I lead expeditions here, I try to open that same space for others—not just to see the Arctic, but to feel its enormity and stillness. Although education is important, It’s not about filling people with facts or rushing to tick boxes on a wildlife list. It’s about softening into presence. Inviting to slowing down enough to notice the silence between things. The calm grazing of a reindeer in the tundra mist. The round gaze of a seal just before it slips below the surface. A so ever resourceful Arctic fox before vanishing across a wind-shaped dune of snow.

I want guests to feel the privilege of those encounters—because that’s exactly what they are. Visiting Svalbard, should be with no sense of rights, not expectations. Just witness privileges. When a polar bear appears across the packed ice, or a walrus lets us drift close enough without alarm, we are being invited, briefly, into the ancient logic of this place. Into a conversation that began long before us and will—hopefully—continue long after.

These moments don’t need to be dramatic to be unforgettable. A gust of wind carrying the scent of sea and stone. A pink glow across the ice at the midnight sun. The sound of breathing in awe on a Zodiac, no one speaking, just watching a whale dive with slow grace into the dark. These are not just sights. They’re imprints. And they'll stay with you.

As I just finished my time visiting for this season, I think of what people carry home after a journey here. Beyond the photos, beyond the stories told over dinners back home—what’s left? I hope it's a shift in pace. A deeper respect for quiet. A memory of vastness that gently unsettles the idea that we are always at the center in the world.

“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.”— Rachel Carson

That strength, I believe, is rooted in wonder. And wonder begins with humility. If you ever think to visit this magical corner, be prepared... You don’t just visit Svalbard.You carry it with you long after.