Alexandra’s full account of the hike up to Stuptjørna (it’s quite funny)
That morning, semi-rested, we got ready for the big ascent (200+m from sea level) to Stuptjørna. We had been staring at this round-sized gem of a lake from remotely-sensed imagery for months (and years for some of us). One of the highest elevated lakes in the entire Archipelago. We pack the gear -strictly the necessary- we need for data collection, safety, firearms, changes of clothes and food into the small boat ferrying us to land, then awkwardly in or onto our backpacks. I have been training and building my body back for this hike: will my injured lower back -post pregnancy of two scandinavian sized boys- allow me to hike 20-30kg of gear up to this lake? Twice? Then also get the work done? The stakes are high; I am nervous. We start walking.
We start on a nice beach of pebbles and cobbles. I am so excited to be there, even to the point of forgetting not to yell at people about how beautiful and amazing everything is, which nearly give our PI A. Schomacker a series of heart attacks: loud voice should only ever be used in the Arctic in the case of a polar bear sighting, which there are (still) many on Svalbard. I calm down some as we start ferrying gear on an inflatable zodiac across the Røyetjørna, while some of us walk along shore. A bit of uphill to a nice viewpoint onto the large lake Røyesjøen, ‘this is great, we can do this!’, we have some well deserved fika.
Onwards comes a perilous passage along a steep mountain hill, with giant sharp boulders we need to hop to and from that look like they have only recently fallen off the cliff… the geologists among us know the timescales of this ‘recent’ fall are way beyond that of a human life, and that from previous experience on this terrain is best way to cross over. But it is my very own human life I feel I am risking at every step crossing this much too inclined field of boulders, unbalanced by giant backpack, and I must ask multiple times whether this was indeed the very best way for some reassurance. Finally in safer terrain for a few minutes, there begins a wild ascent that gives me an impression of how it must be on the final legs of an iron man. I’m at the tail of the group sweating, while some of us simply trot along like mountain goats. With around the corner our prize in sight, we happily walk down again towards it, trying our luck on the presume smoother little leftover snow patch still melting into the lake, and then again deciding against due to sinking at every step. We leave much of the gear in place for sampling the next day, hoping polar bears do not decide to use our materials as entertainment.
The return to the boat on day 1 is attempted via a ’short cut’, which turns out to be much too close for comfort to the ‘precipice of doom’ (towering over a near 200m vertical cliff to Røyesjøen). Note to self: shall return the other way next time. The (too) inclined boulder field exhibits the same traits as on the way over, and I begin seriously questioning my priorities in life. Indeed living itself emerges as a strong contender vs science at that point. Somehow, the souvenir of the exciting and nice 'walk on the beach’ is suddenly very distant in the last few 100 m back to the sailboat.
Thinking about the hike to the lake and back is really daunting, but sleep and the promise of a unique climate record from Stuptjørna gives us strength. This time, our sampling stretches the day, as well as our will - and we return more than 24 hrs later to the shore of Wijdefjorden with our precious cores and wet gear sticking out from every angle of our silhouettes. We all take a (much needed) cleansing swim and finally make it back to the sailboat, ferrying our equipment and people back and forth until the lasts of the team are on board. Pure joy. Minutes later, we notice a white spot on the beach we just left behind (see attached photo).
