We set out across Svalbard’s northern seas with one hope above all, to see polar bears.
This was my third season guiding in the Arctic, but 2025 felt different. Just months before our expedition, new regulations were introduced to better protect Svalbard’s fragile ecosystem. Viewing distances were increased, access to certain landing sites was restricted, and the emphasis on non-disturbance was strengthened. While I was happy to see these regulations in place as an environmentalist, as a photographer, I wondered what they would mean for our images.
As we sailed north, past glaciers and into the pack ice, those questions began to fall away. The silence, the scale, the stillness, all made it feel like another world. This is the kingdom of the survivors, a landscape shaped by extremes, where life persists against all odds. Bears, walruses, foxes, and seabirds endure here, in an ecosystem once pushed to the brink by centuries of hunting.
Out in the pack ice, patience is everything. We spent hours in fog, scanning the ice, waiting. A full day passed without a sighting. Then, finally, a shape appeared, a female bear, resting motionless on the ice. We kept our distance and waited with her, the ship floating silently under the midnight sun.
Some drifted off to bed, but a few of us stayed. Cards were played, stories shared, and anticipation started to build. In the early hours, she rose.
She stretched, then began to walk, not away, but toward us. Closing the distance on her terms. Pajama-clad guests rushed to the deck as she circled the ship, curious to see if we were prey. It was in this moment that the regulations made complete sense to me. We hadn’t chased the bear for the experience. We had allowed it to unfold on her terms.
The following day brought another encounter. We met a young, strong, healthy male, so close and unbothered that I eventually lowered my camera and just watched. Some scenes are better felt than photographed, and I knew I’d carry that one with me no matter what was on my memory card.
As we sailed south again, the richness of the Arctic continued to reveal itself. Walruses hauled out along the shore, reindeer moved across the tundra, foxes slipped through the landscape, and thousands of seabirds filled the skies whilst wildflowers bloomed beneath towering glaciers. A landscape which appears desolate at first glance is, in reality, full of life. To me, the new regulations did not diminish the Svalbard experience; they redefined it.
By heading further north into the pack ice, beyond the coastal zones where stricter distance rules apply, we found ourselves in a space where wildlife could approach naturally, without pressure. Every encounter felt more honest because of it, and we came away with powerful images. However, and possibly more importantly, we came back to shore with a clearer understanding of our role as humans.
This approach to creating wildlife-watching boundaries is not unique to the Arctic. In places like the Maasai Mara, low-use zones allow wildlife to behave naturally, free from constant vehicle pressure. Along the California coast, whale-watching regulations create space for marine life to move and feed without disturbance.
As photographers, we hold a unique position. We are witnesses to places that are changing, often faster than we realize, and the Arctic is one of those places. To experience it like this is a privilege. To represent it truthfully, and to protect it through the way we work, is a responsibility.
As a workshop company, that means making deliberate choices. We support these regulations, even when they reshape our itineraries and the expectations around wildlife encounters. Our role is not to maximize proximity, but to foster meaningful experiences within the limits that protect the places we visit.
