I have always loved the mountains. They shaped the way I see and move through the world. But what truly fascinates me is further north: the Arctic, the ice, the vast spaces where land disappears and everything feels reduced to what is essential.
After two expeditions in Greenland, the pull of the high Arctic only grew stronger. In July 2025, I was able to fulfil another life long dream and make my way north from Svalbard, navigating for days toward the ice pack.
The journey itself was slow and deliberate, a gradual detachment from the familiar. The days spent moving through open water, fog and drifting ice were already part of that transition, a slow shift in perception before reaching the ice pack itself.
Everything changed the moment we reached the ice pack.
The world reduced itself to ice, pale light, and silence. Not an empty silence, but one that felt enveloping and complete. It was everything I had always wanted to feel, and more. A deep sense of calm, clarity, and arrival.
With no land in sight, just ice extending in every direction, I felt an immediate sense of belonging. Knowing exactly where I was on the map of the world brought a quiet certainty. There was nothing to resist, nothing to compare, nothing to escape. Just the presence of the place itself.
It was in this environment that I encountered the polar bears. Seeing them there was deeply humbling. I felt like a guest in their kingdom, fully aware that I was passing through a world that was perfectly theirs. What struck me was not only their presence, but how completely they belong to this landscape. Their bodies, their movements, their stillness all seem shaped by the ice. Everything about them functions with an extraordinary precision in conditions that feel extreme even to observe.
They are not separate from the environment. They are part of its structure. Watching how effortlessly they move through these harsh, fragile spaces made the balance of this world painfully clear. The ice is already retreating, further north each year, and yet these animals remain entirely dependent on it.
For this reason, I find it impossible to understand how polar bears could ever be seen as trophies. Standing there, aware of how finely tuned and vulnerable this ecosystem is, the idea feels profoundly out of place. There is nothing to dominate here, only something to respect.
The wild North does not demand attention. It simply exists. Reaching the ice pack felt like both a fulfilment and a responsibility. Some places remind you how small you are, and how carefully you should look, especially when you are only a guest.