J-zine - Arctic Terns in the midnight sun

Arctic Terns in the Midnight Sun

The time was gone half past eleven; nearly midnight. I can't really say night, though, as the sun was still up, though low on the horizon. Rightfully, it should have be black night, but at seventy degrees North, the sun doesn't set at all for thirteen whole weeks from May to July. Now, when it should have set long ago, it shone defiantly, an orange orb in a cloudless sky painted in shades of pastel blue and peach blush. They tell me that it is the intense cold in the unpolluted upper atmosphere produces certain shape ice crystals. These crystals delicately break the sun's rays into a colour palette that is unique for the Arctic.

I am standing on the coast line, some kilometres North of Tromsø, the world's most Northerly university town. Winter has receded and arctic life has begun its frantic dash to grow and multiply before the snows come again. I hesitate to call the season Summer. The locals, with grim humour, talk of the green Winter and the white Winter. Today, it may be around eight to ten degrees Celsius. A good warm summer day could reach maybe twelve degrees, except on the rare occasion when the wind blows from the east and brings the hot air from the Russian steppes. Then the temperature can reach twenty four degrees. That is pure heat wave and the locals throw off their clothes and let their bodies soak in the sun's rays for as long as it lasts. It usually doesn't last long. Some hours, perhaps. Maybe even a day or two. Then the temperature plummets again. I have experienced the temperature falling thirty degrees (Celcius !) in the space of two hours.

I walk very carefully, watching every footstep. The ground below my feet is mostly coarse sand and gravel. Here and there are dotted small grey pebbles, rounded by the relentless pounding of the Arctic Sea. A few small weather beaten plants break the monotony. The reason why I am treading so carefully is that some of the pebbles are not what they seem. That is also why I have hundreds of sea birds circling around me, swooping down so that they brush my head. Most of them are Arctic Terns, white, with a dark scull-cap, sharply pointed, long wings and a swallow tail. They are fairly small as sea birds go, and are superbly agile in the air. The English word, Tern comes from the Old Norse þerna, which probably derived from the birds characteristic screech. Even if I were not looking so intensely downwards, I would be well advised to keep my head bent. As each angry bird swoops on me from behind, it pecks as it passes my forehead. Mostly its just a light peck, but sometimes it really hurts. If I weren't staring intensely down, they could easily hit my eyes, which is just precisely what they are aiming at.

Suddenly I see what I am looking for. A small egg; grey speckled with black. Even when you are close up to it, you can barely distinguish it from the beach pebbles. Its camouflage is almost perfect. The egg lies in a barely perceptible depression. There is no nest material. That would attract the attention of predators. Ahead, I see a cluster of two eggs. Like the first, they blend beautifully into the background. A minute later, I see the first chick. It is newly hatched so freezes instinctively; completely motionless. A day old, this chick will run for cover. Even when the camera lens approaches within centimetres, the chick doesn't flinch. I could have picked it up easily, but the smell of a human might have made its parents reject it. Further on, there are many more eggs and chicks. Altogether I guess there must be some three to four hundred 'nests' on this sand bank. On the small island in the river estuary nearby there are many many more. These birds are protected by Norwegian law. Other species are not so lucky. Among the locals, Måsegg (hard-boiled seagull's eggs) are a delicacy, and are washed down with Mack Øl, the pilsner lager beer from the world's most Northerly brewery.

I use the camera quickly; there is no time to waste. For one thing, my scalp is now aching with the constant pecking. Another matter is that I mustn't disturb the birds too long. They need to get back to their eggs and chicks. They cool down rapidly in this temperature and their lives would be in danger. Beautifully adapted to the harsh conditions, they nevertheless live with small margins. I am grateful for the experience of seeing them in real life, so I withdraw as rapidly as I can. When I am well away from the colony, I stop a minute and gaze out into fjord. Rising steeply from its turquoise coloured water is the island Reinøy. Its dark lower slopes are covered in pine trees which thin out towards the snow covered peak. The name Reinøy means reindeer island, though I don't know if there are any reindeer on the island anymore. The sun is still hovering in the sky, even though it is now gone midnight. There is an erie, almost magical feeling in the cool crisp air. This is one of the few remaining places in the world where you can experience the joy of breathing pure unpolluted air. It remains clean and untainted because it is remote and off the edge of most maps of Europe. I hope it remains that way for ever.

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