20.
A JOURNEY TO THE ARCTIC
BY NELLIE S. FRENCH
ABOUT midway between the northernmost point of the continent of Europe (the North Cape pertaining to Norway) and the North Pole there lies a group of islands, five in number, with various smaller ones near by, which has excited the discoverer, the sportsman, the scientist, the trapper, the whaler, the miner, the explorer and finally of recent years the ubiquitous tourist, though few have braved the rigors of the north sufficiently to remain there. This group of islands known to us as Spitsbergen or by the Norwegian name of Svalborg, has been the goal of much scientific research and has proven itself rich in those wonderful provisions of nature which the wisdom of the Almighty placed there before man set foot upon that land. Fur animals abound, edible moss and birds supply food, and coal mines have been worked for many years which yield an ample supply of fuel for the islands with vast shipments also to the mainland of Norway.
The largest of the group of islands known as West Spitsbergen, although only about 650 miles from the Pole, is so situated as to be modified in temperature by the warm ocean currents which provide an ice-free passage for boats during the summer months of June, July and August, although the eastern and northern shores are always ice-locked and have been explored only in the face of the most extreme hardships.
It was this group of islands to which our cruise ship was bound, it was to this faraway haven that the precious books which lay in our cabin were to find their way! But these were gray days at sea, days and days when there was no ray of sunshine—no cessation of the heavy blanket of fog which enveloped the ship! No signs of life, no birds, no swimming things, no relief to the tragic monotony of foglike gray wool which choked the lungs and chilled one to the bone. The water temperature showed the presence of ice which could not be seen and yet cautiously the boat felt her way, a spectre in the gray mist. New York lay ten days behind us, Iceland had been left behind four days before. It was lonely —no friendly sail drifted into sight, no seagull’s sharp note broke the awful stillness, the sky and sea were one, merged together as in infinite space. And then—on the port side, little by little, the heavy curtain of fog lifted and disclosed a sea of floating ice. Strange weird shapes rose from the water, disintegrating icebergs doomed to lose their identity in the warmer atmosphere of the Gulf Stream already dissipated and yielding to the frozen north.
For hours the boat cruised along amid the broken ice, the distance between the floating cakes becoming narrower and narrower until it became evident that we had reached the great ice barrier, that greedy monster that holds within his breast the secrets of the Poles, and as if alarmed lest we penetrate his domain, had come a hundred miles farther south than ever known to block the passage. Disappointment shrouded the faces of the travelers as word came from the Captain that our course would have to be retraced if indeed we were to find a break in the barrier which would permit our progress to Magdalena Bay, and thus to the land of Spitsbergen. After a night of tense nerves and ears strained for the crunching of the ice floe the morning broke clear and bright, and in a few hours the glory of Magdalena Bay broke upon the sight like a vision so wonderful and so breath-taking that it seemed as if one had been translated from earth to heaven—a heaven of brilliant, glistening ethereal beauty. Around this bay the sharp, jagged mountains rose in their ice mantles from a sea as blue as that of Italy and overhead there blazed a sun so bright that it might have been the tropics.
At last the steamer came to anchor and
put off a launch laden with sailors who went
to set up an emergency landing stage on
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the shore of Magdalena
Bay. No life
breathed there, only a few gulls
and an occasional auk shrieked their resentment at
this invasion of their domain. Near the
water were the crumbling ruins of a stone
structure which had served many years ago
as a research station.
Wandering over the loose rocks and approaching the foot of the gigantic glaciers which moved in their majestic and imperceptible rhythm, casting off their iceberg progeny to fare for themselves and form a bulwark against the invasion of mankind, suddenly we saw among the rocks a pile of human bones. Tradition says these once were sailors and that they slew each other. What the tragedy may have been, whether starvation or cold, whether they marked the fateful end of some long cherished grudge fought to the finish here is not known, but the bones seemed to bear witness to this age when every man’s hand is raised against his brother! . . . How tragic the thought and how the heart swelled with gratitude for the blessing of the Message in this day which is to dispel the darkness of human greed and competition and warm and melt the ice of human prejudice and hate! For was it not our intention to deliver this Message somewhere here in this frozen north? Was not the hand of the "Holy Mariner” unveiling His glorious sunshine and spreading His heavenly calm upon the sea that this very thing might be accomplished?
Leaving Magdalena Bay the boat cruised along, revealing at every turn a new glory of ice and sea until finally the little habitat of Spitsbergen came into view, the harbor of King’s Bay, bidding us land and share the news of the great world with its isolated inhabitants. This then was our goal! This the land upon which was to be deposited for the first time in history, the Message of the Coming of “Him Whom God had made manifest,” the Glory of the Lord; through the humble efforts of these wayfarers in the path of service, souls were to be awakened, a new life was to pulsate and these regions were to be summoned to the glory of the New Day! It all seemed too wonderful to be true and the beauty of it all struck awe to the very soul. Here we would land—here we would surely find, even in the brief hour allotted to us, the one prepared of God to receive His Message and to herald the glad tidings of a New World Order.
Our landing was effected by climbing on an old, unused trestle which had served for the hauling and dumping of coal some years before. A long, uneven roadbed led to what would have been the center of town, had there been a town, but which now proved to be a settlement of about thirty houses, the most conspicuous of which was the “Boutik” or store. Although groups of men had stood at the landing, no face gave evidence of being the one upon which the Light was first to shine. Stolid faces they were, weathered by wind and sea, furrowed by lines of hardship, grim with the struggle of life, still unready and unaware—we must look further for the object of our search to whom was to be given a copy of Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era, in its Norwegian translation.
As we entered the store where there seemed to be nothing negotiable save a few postal cards and a pile of raw pelts, one young man at once attracted our attention. He was a bright-eyed Norwegian who was serving as postmaster, though his duties must have been ordinarily very light, and to him we felt drawn at once. His knowledge of English was sufficient for him to understand that he was being presented with some very wonderful books which he was to share with his associates. On discovering that the books were in Norwegian his face beamed with gratitude and he seized the package in eager anticipation!
After a brief interview in which we sought to convey the mighty significance of the contents of the books, our mission accomplished, we gave way to the curious, jostling crowd of our fellow passengers and leaving the store we started on a tour of investigation of the island.
It is possible to conceive of this place in
its winter atmosphere, in the darkness of its
six months’ night, in its blinding,
storm-swept isolation, the angry Arctic ocean
pounding on its shores, its manifold
privations, but to us on that memorable day it
showed only its softer side, its golden carpet
of moss, its glistening, icy mountains, its
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low-growing, orchid-colored
flowers, its
myriads of birds sweeping down upon their
nests, or rising in their winged freedom
leaving their eggs a plentiful harvest to
supply the needs of the islanders. To us it
lay like a jewel in the hand of God, His to
have and to hold, to warm and to quicken,
to love and to preserve in His great wisdom
for the completion of His design for
mankind!
