Excerpt from the book: Born to Ice

Arctic

It is a cold winter dawn in the northern fjords of Norway, far above the Arctic Circle. Our small inflatable boat pitches and rolls in the inky black sea as the waves and deep swells reach towards the barely lit horizon. It is high noon in January, and the sun will not rise above the skyline for another week. We strain our eyes and can barely make out the 6-foot-tall curved fins of the larger male orcas that slice effortlessly through the surrounding waves. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined being completely surrounded by a hundred orcas, faced with the imminent decision to enter their liquid world or not. I am perched at the edge of the heaving boat, watching for the shape of their bodies to break the surface in order to get a read on their direction and behavior. They are calling, and their complex communications reverberate through the hull making us a loudspeaker for some of the most sophisticated vocalizations in our oceans. I have waited a lifetime for this moment. With my large underwater housing clutched firmly in my hand, slowly and silently, I slip over the side into the midst of the wild pod. My heart is pounding and my stomach is in a knot. I am light-headed with exhilaration and apprehension.

Fear and fascination are often two sides of the same mind, and in an internal standoff, one will ultimately prevail. Even as fear fights a robust battle within me, fascination almost always tends to win. I am driven to spend weeks and months in the most extreme places on earth—deep under the icy Antarctic seascape and alone in the vast swirling blizzards of the Arctic. I was born to do this. My mind, body, and soul are more at home here than anywhere else. Through the risks and challenges, my innate comfort on sea ice has become my strength, allowing me to open a window into the rarely-seen world of both polar regions.

Still, fear is a powerful motivator, and, in its face, I can now only challenge it. Fear no longer holds me back from diving headlong into foreboding places on the quest to discover new scientific truths, create meaningful art, and conserve what we hold most dear. However, fear of loss does fuel my sense of urgency. The impending defeat of this vital ecosystem—and the insistent cry to harness our collective power to save it—motivates every press of my shutter button. This book is an answer to that call. Born to Ice is a photographic retrospective of my lifetime spent in the Arctic and 15 years in Antarctica and a curation of what I believe are among the most moving images of the millions I have taken over the decades.

My journey to this point may seem unique, but maybe it is also familiar to dreamers who successfully insist on their dreams. I grew up in the isolated and dramatic landscape of Baffin Island in Northern Canada. We were one of four non-Inuit families living in a tiny community with fewer than two hundred people, where the frozen ocean, glacial mountains, and Arctic sky meet up in a single location. Our groceries arrived by ship only once a year, and we learned to be materially resourceful. We never had a television, telephone, or radio, but we had stacks of Jacques Cousteau books, which I devoured with fascination and an ever-growing curiosity. My mother made her own darkroom out of our pantry, and I was in awe of the creative process, watching her dip the paper into emulsion and swirl it around until each black-and-white image of our life in the North sprang to life. Yet, I never, ever thought a camera could be available to me, and I didn’t dare to think photography could be a part of my life.

As a child, all of my energy came from nature. My formative years were filled with exploring my polar playground, from the wild rides to forbidden places on my snowmobile to the long quiet hours creating soapstone carvings of wildlife. I would spend my days exploring the shore of the ocean’s edge in tidal pools or out on the sea ice where I’d navigate the pressure ridges from massive tidal exchanges and read the ever-changing cracks in the sea ice. On clear winter nights we would run, whistling and clapping under the dancing lights of the aurora borealis, the greens, reds, and blues sweeping down, swirling around us like arms that felt like they might grab us and pull us up into the night sky. We were told that if the aurora borealis got too close it would chop off our heads and play catch with our skulls. Terror, curiosity, and beauty compelled us at every age.

I still love to watch the light play shadow games, skipping across the sea ice. Being alone out there in the wind and cold, with the sting on my cheeks, always calms me and allows me to realize that I am truly home. Growing up, I was immersed in a culture where I both learned practical survival skills and developed the creative-visual side of my brain. When I left this childhood home to study biology at University of Victoria, the Arctic remained etched in my heart and mind. On many nights I dreamt about growing up in this magical landscape, and I always knew that I would someday work to preserve this special place.

Only in hindsight do I see the tug and pull between what I believed I should do and the call to follow my passions, no matter how lofty they seemed. There were pivotal experiences that whispered to my soul about the way I wanted to live. My vision crystallized, and I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

But simultaneously, there were decisions to be made on the path to a responsible adulthood. Even as I knew in my heart that becoming an underwater National Geographic photographer was the penultimate goal, that trajectory seemed too distant a star to reach. Instead, I began a career as a wildlife biologist; still, during nights on the job in Yellowknife, when the aurora would start to dance across the Arctic sky or a wild Canadian lynx would walk out in front of my snowmobile trail, I would reach for my camera. I hoped to be an influential photographer and also a scientist who was making a difference. But, as a biologist, all I had to show for each wildlife encounter was a stack of data sheets. Yet, the unattainable goal of being a professional wildlife photographer still never felt like a viable path forward. Disillusionment and frustration mounted, and eventually, with a conflicted heart, I decided to quit my job as a wildlife biologist.

When we don’t follow our dreams, we become deflated and blocked in so many ways, but we rarely see it; for the first time in my life, I felt completely rudderless. I was 26 years old, out of work, and possibly out of a career. It was May, and the only thing I could think to do was go to the place where I felt most at peace: the High Arctic. I packed 600 pounds of equipment—including two tents—and went to the coast where tundra meets the Arctic Ocean. I found a pilot and asked him to take me as far from human civilization as possible and to leave me there for three months.

Hundreds of miles out into barren lands along a frozen river, I set up my camp. The enormity of my decision finally set in, and here I was: alone, miserable, and angry. In those first days, I wept and yelled aloud with frustration and hopelessness. Everyone in my life had told me I could not possibly succeed as a photographer, disapproving of my choices. That chorus played over and over in my mind, creating tremendous negativity and self-doubt, asserting I would fail at this dream.

These are the moments that define us—the view from rock-bottom, where our deepest fears are met and we have the acute realization that time is running out, and we have not yet achieved what we imagined we could. And then something gave. After my first month in these isolated lands, I saw the world revealed in a new light: the complexity of this ecosystem and how utterly fragile and connected it is.

The snow had finally melted, and I sat by the river watching house-sized blocks of ice tumble in the flow towards the Arctic Ocean. On a particularly hot night, restless in my sleeping bag, I woke to loud sounds of splashing and snorting around my tent. I put on my boots and tore outside with my camera. Thousands of caribou surrounded me, swimming and running through a now-iceless river in an endless stampede. You could hear their grunts, their tendons and hooves clicking, as they migrated across the tundra. I stood there feeling the intense power of their energy, at one with their movement. Soon the wolves, bears, and mosquitoes helped complete the scene. For the first time in years, I felt light and happy, so comforted. They set me free, and I knew with absolute certainty that the decision I made was a good one; my dream and vision for a life with purpose was finally clear and certain.

In the 24 years since that wilderness sojourn, I have never looked back. Using my camera to dispel myths about some of the most feared and misunderstood animals in the polar regions, I document animal behavior and try to give wild creatures—especially those with an often undeserved reputation—a voice, an identity. My driving vision is to create work that speaks to the intersection of conservation, art, and science—photographs that act as a beating heart for progress and change.

And the orcas? Out along the Norwegian fjords, under the thin blue line of a chilled ocean, an orca ballet unfolds in a feeding behavior that few have ever witnessed. The orcas are working together, performing a highly coordinated exercise to herd the fish: huge schools of herring—larger than any other I have ever seen—are compacted together into a tight ball. This immense ball of fish—a mere five feet under the ocean’s surface—buckles and sways, trying to escape, but the orcas swim relentlessly around the ball, making it tighter and tighter. Every orca plays a role, and each member of the pod gets a turn to feed. Young calves mimic their mothers’ moves. They call out to one another, and the constant sound of echolocation clicking surrounds us. I hear laughter, and there is my dive partner, Göran Ehlmé, who, like me, is laughing out loud into his snorkel, elated. We were lost in a level of euphoria, adrenaline, and deep gratitude that only a scene like this could provide.

Our earliest memories, unlikely mentors, and the indelible impressions of the landscapes that shape us, all combine to create a life. For me, being a fine-art wildlife photographer and filmmaker is a dream I have aspired to, but it is not as a means to an end. I strive to be a photographer with vision and creativity but also with a passion and purpose behind my work—the urgency to save our planet is too great to not use our art for change.

These polar regions are fragile landscapes, and with sea ice melting at a rate far faster than scientists originally predicted, they are now imagining an ice-free summer in less than a decade if we do not act now. But, there is hope as we are not powerless. Collectively, it is still possible to reverse the dire circumstances that are causing the polar bears to starve, the displacement of the now-vulnerable walrus, and the diminishing annual sea ice extent from the punishing rays of the sun, which accelerate the melting process so rapidly that the ecosystem is literally melting before our eyes. Sea ice is like the soil in a garden: without it, nothing grows.

I am dedicating my life to being a bridge between the majesty of the polar regions and you, wherever you are in the world. I invite you to feel the care from a 1,000 pound leopard seal as she tries to feed you penguins so you don’t starve; to stand next to a dominant male polar bear as he walks effortlessly across the sea ice; to show you the awe of being surrounded by thousands upon thousands of penguins who do not know to be afraid—I invite you to immerse in both ends of the Earth. Be moved by the wonder of the aurora borealis dipping down and chasing you, experience the teeming life beneath the ocean’s surface, home to millions of organisms and the basis of an entire ecosystem and our own life supply. With Born to Ice, my journey now becomes our journey.

Come with me.