There are few things that make you feel smaller in a sea kayak than a glacier. Mountains can be enormous. Icebergs can dwarf you. Whales can surface alongside your kayak and make a five-metre boat suddenly seem ridiculously insignificant. But a glacier is different. A glacier is a landscape that moves. Croker Bay is one sure place, especially when you are paddling beneath the glaciers of Devon Island.
Croker Bay, on the southern coast of Devon Island in the Canadian High Arctic, had been one of the places I was particularly looking forward to paddling. The great attraction is obvious: mountains, glaciers, floating ice and Arctic wildlife all come together in one spectacular inlet. But, as we were discovering on this journey, the Arctic doesn’t necessarily cooperate with your plans.
For most of the day, Croker Bay was hidden in fog. Thick, persistent Arctic fog had wrapped itself around the mountains and obscured much of the landscape. We waited, watched and hoped, but as the hours passed it increasingly looked as though our chance of getting the kayaks onto the water had disappeared. Then, at about three o’clock in the afternoon, everything changed.
The fog finally began to break.
Suddenly there was enough visibility to paddle, and there was no hesitation. We loaded the kayaks, jumped into a Zodiac and headed away from the ship with the boats trailing behind us on a stringer. After spending so much of the day wondering whether we would get onto the water at all, simply seeing those kayaks bouncing along behind the Zodiac felt exciting.
We launched amongst icebergs, growlers and scattered pieces of sea ice, and almost immediately Croker Bay became one of those wonderfully atmospheric Arctic paddles. The fog hadn’t completely vanished. Instead it drifted around the bay, revealing and concealing the surrounding mountains and ice, giving the whole place an almost otherworldly quality. There was no need for brilliant blue skies. In many ways, the lingering mist made it better.
At kayak level, the floating ice became a landscape in itself. Some pieces were small enough to pick up, and we lifted beautifully clear pieces of sea ice from the water and held them in our hands. Around us were growlers and larger fragments of ice, each sculpted by melting, waves and weather into different shapes. Above us kittiwakes called and skuas passed through the bay, while the water was alive with harp seals. Heads appeared above the surface, watched us briefly and then slipped beneath the water again.
It was exactly why I love exploring places like this by sea kayak. From a ship you see a magnificent Arctic landscape. From a kayak you become part of it.
Croker Bay cuts deeply into the southern coast of Devon Island, facing towards Lancaster Sound and the waterways of the Canadian Arctic Archipelago. Devon Island itself is enormous. Covering around 55,000 square kilometres, it is the world’s largest uninhabited island. But “uninhabited” only means that there is no permanent community here today. Inuit and their ancestors have travelled, hunted and lived throughout this region for thousands of years. European explorers later sailed these waters searching for the Northwest Passage, while Canada subsequently established remote outposts as it sought to reinforce sovereignty over its Arctic territory.
Today there are no towns on Devon Island and no roads linking settlements because there are no permanent settlements to link. For modern visitors, almost everything happens from the sea, which somehow makes arriving by kayak feel particularly appropriate.
The great feature of Croker Bay is its glacier. At the head of the bay, ice descends from the mountainous interior of Devon Island towards the sea. We gradually paddled towards it, although deliberately not too close. A glacier front is one of those places where being cautious is far more important than getting the perfect photograph.
Glaciers are sometimes described as rivers of ice, and that is remarkably accurate. Snow falling on higher ground accumulates year after year and is gradually compressed into increasingly dense ice. Under the enormous pressure created by its own weight, the ice deforms and gravity slowly pulls it downhill. It may appear static when viewed from a distance, but it is moving.
Look around Croker Bay and you are also looking at a landscape largely created by that movement. During repeated Ice Ages, glaciers expanded across the Canadian Arctic. Rocks frozen into the base of the ice acted like enormous sheets of sandpaper, widening and deepening valleys, scratching and polishing rock surfaces and transporting huge quantities of sediment.
When the climate warmed and the glaciers retreated, the sea flooded many of the valleys they had created. The result is the spectacular network of fiords, channels and bays that characterises so much of the Canadian Arctic coastline.
Croker Bay allows us to see that process continuing today. Ice is still moving through the landscape. Rock still falls onto glaciers. Sediment is still being transported. And pieces of ice still fracture from the glacier front and fall into the sea.
As we approached the glacier, we kept our distance. There is a temptation when kayaking near a glacier to creep closer and closer, particularly when everything appears quiet. But glaciers aren’t predictable, and the apparently inactive wall of ice in front of you can change remarkably quickly.
Then it happened. The glacier calved. First came the noise. It is difficult to convey just how impressive the sound of a glacier calving can be. There was an enormous crack and roar as part of the ice fractured, followed by the movement of a huge quantity of ice. From our little kayaks, safely away from the glacier front, we watched the whole event unfold.
It was one of those genuinely unforgettable Arctic moments. After spending most of the day thinking we wouldn’t even manage to launch the kayaks, we were now sitting on the water watching a glacier actively reshape itself in front of us.
Calving occurs when part of the glacier fractures away from its front. Sometimes the pieces are relatively small; at other times thousands of tonnes of ice can move almost simultaneously. When that ice enters the water it can create substantial waves, while submerged pieces can surface some distance from the glacier. Newly calved icebergs can also roll or split as they find a new balance.
That is why giving glacier fronts plenty of space is so important. The same applies to large icebergs. Around 90 per cent of an iceberg’s mass may be below the surface, although the exact proportion depends on the density of the ice and seawater. The familiar phrase “tip of the iceberg” is particularly easy to understand when you are paddling amongst them.
The shape visible above the water tells you relatively little about what is beneath you. A seemingly modest piece of ice can extend much farther underwater, while larger icebergs may become unstable as they melt. As the shape changes above and below the waterline, so does the centre of gravity. Eventually an iceberg may reach the point where its existing orientation is no longer stable, and it rolls.
Watching a large iceberg roll from a safe distance would be spectacular. Watching one roll while sitting immediately beside it would be considerably less enjoyable.
One of the other extraordinary features of glacier ice is its colour. Fresh snow appears white, yet old glacier ice can be an intense blue. As snow accumulates it becomes compressed, reducing the air spaces between individual crystals and creating increasingly dense ice. When light enters that ice, different wavelengths are absorbed differently. Red wavelengths are absorbed more readily, while blue light penetrates farther and is scattered back towards our eyes.
The result can be astonishing. Cracks, caves and freshly exposed surfaces in old ice can glow with an almost electric blue, and from a kayak, with your eyes barely a metre above the water, the effect can be spectacular.
But perhaps the thing I love most about paddling amongst ice is the sound.
Kayaks are quiet. Stop paddling and suddenly you begin hearing things that might otherwise disappear beneath engine noise. Small fragments of ice crack and pop. Pieces grind gently against each other. Air that has been trapped under pressure within ancient ice escapes as the ice melts. Somewhere farther away there may be the deeper rumble of movement within the glacier.
Occasionally there is a sharp crack like a gunshot. Then everything becomes quiet again. Sitting amongst scattered ice in a sea kayak can be one of the most atmospheric experiences in the Arctic. You don’t necessarily need to paddle anywhere. Sometimes the best thing you can do is simply put the paddle across the cockpit and listen.
There was plenty of wildlife to watch as well. Harp seals were particularly noticeable during our paddle, repeatedly appearing around us. Like so many seals, they seemed to combine curiosity with caution, popping their heads above the surface for a look before disappearing again.
Above us, kittiwakes were a constant part of the Arctic soundscape, their distinctive calls carrying across the water. Skuas were also around, powerful birds perfectly suited to these northern seas. In a place dominated visually by glaciers and mountains, it is surprisingly easy to forget to look for wildlife, but the waters surrounding Devon Island form part of a remarkably productive High Arctic marine ecosystem.
It is also impossible to visit a place such as Croker Bay without thinking about what is happening to Arctic ice. The Arctic is warming considerably faster than the global average, a process known as Arctic amplification. Snow and ice reflect a large proportion of incoming solar radiation, but when they disappear, darker ocean and land surfaces are exposed. Those darker surfaces absorb more heat, contributing to further warming and melting.
Glaciers and ice caps across the Canadian Arctic have consequently experienced substantial losses in recent decades. That matters far beyond places such as Devon Island. Melting land-based ice contributes to global sea-level rise, while changes in sea ice affect Arctic ecosystems, wildlife and the lives of people throughout the North.
Photographs taken decades apart can demonstrate those changes extremely effectively. But there is something different about sitting in a kayak and looking directly at the ice. Suddenly the glacier isn’t an abstract graph or satellite image. It is there in front of you: cracking, moving and, occasionally, collapsing into the sea.
Devon Island also provides a wonderful lesson in geological time. The rocks beneath and around the ice preserve a record extending hundreds of millions of years and, in some parts of the Canadian Arctic, vastly longer. Ancient seabeds have been lifted above today’s oceans. Sedimentary rocks preserve fossils from seas that disappeared unimaginably long ago, while glaciers have cut through those layers and exposed them again.
Everything around us is therefore operating on completely different timescales. Rocks record hundreds of millions of years. Glaciers advance and retreat across centuries and millennia. Sea ice forms and disappears with the seasons. An iceberg beside our kayak may alter dramatically within a few hours.
Then there is us, passing through for just an afternoon.
And perhaps that is why kayaking somewhere like Croker Bay is so memorable. From a large expedition ship, the landscape is unquestionably impressive. From a sea kayak it becomes something altogether more intimate.
Your perspective drops until your eyes are barely above the water. Mountains seem larger. Icebergs become enormous. Floating pieces of ice drift past at arm’s length. Birds fly almost at eye level. A seal’s head suddenly appears, watches you for a moment and vanishes beneath the surface.
And dominating the head of the bay is the glacier.
Croker Bay: Paddling Beneath the Glaciers of Devon Island
We didn’t cover a huge distance that afternoon, and that really didn’t matter. Sea kayaking in the Arctic isn’t always about kilometres or paddling quickly from one place to another. Sometimes it is about being able to sit quietly in a tiny boat in an unimaginably large landscape and absorb what is happening around you.
Our paddle in Croker Bay had nearly not happened at all. For most of the day we had stared into fog and assumed that the kayaks would remain out of the water. Then, at three o’clock, the Arctic gave us a brief window.
We grabbed it.
Within a short time we were paddling amongst icebergs and growlers, picking up pieces of clear sea ice, watching harp seals, listening to kittiwakes and skuas and slowly making our way towards the glacier.
And then the glacier calved.
The roar of moving ice echoed across the bay while we sat in our kayaks and watched from a safe distance.
It was the perfect reminder that Croker Bay isn’t a finished landscape. It is being created in front of us. The glacier is moving. Ice is fracturing. Rock is being eroded. Sediment is being transported. Icebergs are melting, splitting and turning. Wildlife moves through with the seasons, while a changing climate is altering the processes that have shaped this landscape for thousands of years.
We were there for only a few hours.
But after a day of fog, simply getting onto the water had felt special. To finish the paddle by watching a glacier calve in front of us made it one of those Arctic experiences that I suspect will stay with me for a very long time.
Why not take the opportunity to read our other blogs about Nunavut and the Canadian arctic;
- Beechey Island: Polar Bears, Franklin and Three Graves Beside the Sea
- Kayaking with Arctic Wildlife: Staying Safe Around Polar Bears, Walrus and Whales
- Dundas Harbour: Ghosts in the Fog on Devon Island
- Duart Bay: Sea Kayaking into a Scottish Corner of Baffin Island
- Isabella Bay: In the Realm of the Bowhead Whale
- Qikiqtarjuaq: Gateway to the Wild Mountains of Baffin Island
- Port Leopold: Paddling Through the Search for Franklin
- Prince Leopold Island: Paddling Beneath a City of Seabirds
- Radstock Bay: Paddling Through a Thousand Years of Arctic History