Every spring, the sea ice in the fjords of Baffin Island begins to break up, creating a ‘line of life’ that attracts seals, polar bears and even the mythical narwhal

Words & photographs Phoebe Smith

There’s a legend told among the Inuit of the Canadian Arctic that all the animals in the sea are controlled by a mermaid-like goddess called Taluliyuk. The story goes that she was thrown off a canoe by her angry father and when she tried to cling onto the side, he cut off her fingers and they became the whales, walruses and seals that populate these icy waters. It’s said that if she is angered by humans not respecting the environment, she will entangle all the marine mammals in her long hair, helping them evade hunters and thereby stopping them from providing isolated communities with much-needed food, clothing and tools.

On a cold day in early summer, while floating in the waters of Baffin Bay wearing a black dry suit and lobster-shaped gloves, it occurred to me how easily I could be mistaken for a half-woman, half-fish sea creature. Thankfully, I still had all my fingers – though that might not be the case if I’d stayed in the -2°C water much longer. This wasn’t a pleasure swim; I was on the search for a creature as mythical as Taluliyuk herself: the narwhal.

The adventure had begun in Pond Inlet after a three-hour flight from Iqaluit, the regional capital of the Canadian Territory of Nunavut. Myself and a party of 12 were introduced to our expedition leader, Jaime Sharp, a New Zealander who had just come from guiding visitors on a polar bear safari in Churchill. He was accompanied by our Inuit team, led by an elder and artist called Billy Merkosak. On arrival, we were split into groups and boarded our qamutiks – makeshift wooden sleds pulled behind snowmobiles.

The sky appeared to become bluer as we creaked over the hardened icy ground. The mountains glistened in the distance, their snow-encased ridges dazzling in the sunlight. After two hours, we reached our base camp at Eclipse Sound, a cluster of yellow tents (our bedrooms) and white marquees (the kitchen and dining hall). From here, the floe edge – the part of the fjord where the sea ice had begun to melt into narrow channels of water, bringing with it hungry wildlife – was a two-hour drive away, Jaime told us.

“We used to camp much nearer, but the effects of climate change mean we cannot anymore,” explained Billy later that afternoon, as we finally arrived at our narwhal-watching spot. “The season is shorter and the ice forms later and melts quicker, so we are always reading the ice.”

It was then that Billy told me the story of Taluliyuk. I couldn’t help but think that we humans had been doing a lot to anger the sea goddess recently. We headed back to camp without a sighting, though our spirits were soon lifted by the feast of freshly cooked caribou steaks (or a cauliflower equivalent for the vegetarians), spiced veggies and rice that awaited. And before we went to bed, Billy told us the Inuit legend of the narwhal.

“There are different versions,” he said, “but the one I was told is that an elder woman with long hair was hunting for white whales with a rope tied around her waist. She was suddenly pulled into the water, and as they dived her into the deep, she twisted her hair into a horn and it froze. She became the first narwhal.”

The name narwhal itself comes from the Norse word ‘nár’, which translates as ‘cadaver’, presumably given due to the creature’s mottled grey-and-white colouring. The purpose of its horn, or elongated tooth, however, is still a mystery to scientists. Some believe it’s used to spear fish, others postulate it’s for echo-location – though this wouldn’t explain why many females haven’t got one. Another theory is that it’s used for fighting. Whatever the purpose, back in medieval times it was harvested by seafaring Vikings and sold to unsuspecting Europeans and Asians as ‘genuine unicorn horn’. Danish kings are even said to have grated it into their wine to ensure a long life, though eating narwhal meat was said to induce a corpse-like state.

In Inuit tradition, the value of the narwhal horn is – as with any animal – judged by its use in everyday life.

“We use the tusks as tent poles,” said Billy. “The blubber is very high in protein and vitamin C, which is vital to our diet. The skin and sinew are dried out and can be made into clothing and thread, and the intestines can be packed with fermented meat and dried out to last year-round. To the Inuit people, the narwhal is everything.”

That night, my dreams were filled with unicorns; only occasionally did I rouse to hear the sound of melting snow slip down the sides of my tent, or the footsteps of Joe – the polar-bear patrolman – who kept us safe from any unexpected ursine visitors.

A little after dawn, we went back to the floe edge (or sinaaq) to look for narwhal again. The 24-hour sunlight at this time of year causes tiny microorganisms to energise and grow, attracting fish such as cod and halibut – a much sought-after meal for the narwhal.

“The floe edge is a safer spot for narwhal to calve, away from predators such as orca,” explained Jaime as we spotted unidentifiable fins far away on the horizon.

While we watched a flock of king eider come into the shallows, their multi-coloured faces almost gaudy amid the monochrome, Billy went to speak to some hunters further along the edge. When he returned, he said that some narwhal had been spied but they were very far in the distance. With climate change warming the waters, the summer ice cover is rapidly diminishing here. Some Inuit hunters say that the number of killer whales being spotted is increasing noticeably, meaning that narwhal are being hunted in larger numbers than ever before.

After a hot lunch of spicy soup, mist began to spool across the water, so Billy led us further inland to check out some of the icebergs that had arrived here from Greenland. We spent the afternoon wandering amid frozen sculptures. Some had been carved by the wind and sun into chairs, tree-like protrusions and slabs as big as apartment blocks; others had been made by humans, who had purposely created inukshuk (marker cairns) from huge blocks of ice. These lined a newly formed crack in the ever-shifting ice as a warning.

The next two days saw us explore this constantly changing landscape further. We spotted little auks, terns and skuas, and a curious Arctic fox whose cheeks looked as though they had been painted with blusher. We saw ringed seals of every shape and size leaping in and out of ice holes. On one ride out, Billy signalled all the snowmobiles to stop as a huge male polar bear passed right in front of us. Another time, we stumbled upon the footprints of a mother and her two cubs, after he had skilfully tracked them across the expansive frozen fjord.

On our final day, we resolutely made for the floe edge again, giving ourselves as much time as possible to spot our unicorns. We sat on foldaway chairs for several hours, drinking warm tea, eating freshly made cookies and talking about the narwhal encounters Billy and his team had enjoyed over the years.

For them, the idea of hoping to see one to photograph rather than hunt is still novel but, as Billy explained: “We share your fascination with them; they are, and always will be, special to us here in the Arctic, and it’s important that we protect them.”

Roughly 75% of the entire population of the world’s narwhal migrate to the waters around Baffin Island every year, making this the only place in the world you realistically have a chance of seeing them. But studies now show that narwhal numbers are decreasing, and by a lot. In 2004, the estimated population was 20,000; this had dropped to 12,000 by 2016; and in 2021, there were just 2,595 recorded.

In a final attempt to see one in the wild, I allowed myself a narwhal’s-eye view by snorkelling the sea ice and checking out the endless dark ocean beneath my fins. I ended my visit with a kayak excursion with Jaime. We saw no narwhal, but we did spy a polar bear leaping into the water in front of us. We both watched in silence as it swam away.

It’s always sad to leave a place without seeing the species you’d hoped to see, but I left with a sense of optimism. Just a few months prior to my visit, hunters and environmentalists had been lobbying together for greater protection of these waters and the creatures that live in them, following news that a nearby mine was looking to expand. Despite the mine’s presence accounting for up to a quarter of the territory’s GDP, a study showed that sound from the operations was affecting narwhal behaviour and numbers (disputed, unsurprisingly, by the mining company).

This partnership, momentarily, managed to halt further development. And although the mine was recently given approval to increase its output until the end of 2024, the volume of protests against it showed the world that long-term gains from having a healthy wildlife population (and the accompanying income from wildlife tourism) can win out against short-term profits. At least for a while.

As I looked back at the water from my qamutik, still hoping to spy the arched back of a diving narwhal glistening in the sunlight, it occurred to me that the long-term security of these creatures was far more precious than seeing a whale with a horn on its head. Because when two groups on very different sides of the table can work together to help protect something, then there is still a chance that Taluliyuk may once again release her marine mammals to the surface.

Need to know

Getting there
From the UK, flights to the Canadian Arctic go via Ottawa. Air Canada
has daily flights from London Heathrow to Ottawa via Montreal and take around ten hours. Canadian North runs daily flights from Canada’s capital to Iqaluit, the regional capital of Nunavut (3 hours), and on to Pond Inlet (2.5 hours). From there you require a guide and a snowmobile to reach the floe edge. It takes about two hours to get to Eclipse Sound (where the camp is) and a further two hours to get to the water.

What to expect
Everything in the Arctic is governed by the weather and ice, which is unpredictable. It’s not uncommon for flights to Pond Inlet (and even Iqaluit) to be cancelled at short notice, or for them to start flying and have to turn around mid-air. Conditions can change fast on the floe edge; hours, or even days, stuck at base camp are a possibility, as are weeks of sunshine and blue skies. You should be prepared to expect anything and embrace the unpredictable.

Further information
To learn more about Baffin Island, be sure to visit destinationnunavut.ca; for more Canada inspiration, also check out explore-canada.co.uk.

About the trip

The author was a guest of Arctic Kingdom on its Narwhal & Polar Bear, Floe Edge Safari, including all food and drink, return internal flights from Ottawa to Pond Inlet, snowmobile transfers, accommodation in the Arctic in hotels pre- and post-camp and ‘en suite’ tent accommodation on the ice in the cost. The trip runs four times a year, between May and June.