No pier, no road, no residents: Prince Charles Foreland — Prins Karls Forland to the Norwegians, or simply Forlandet — stretches 86 kilometres off the west coast of Spitsbergen, in the Svalbard archipelago. This is an expedition stop in the strictest sense: the ship anchors in the Forlandsundet strait, zodiacs approach the shore, and the landing depends on the wind, the swell, and who else happens to be occupying the beach. Because here, the occupants come equipped with ivory tusks.

Poolepynten, the Walrus Beach

On the island's eastern coast, a spit of sand and gravel called Poolepynten is home to one of Svalbard's most reliable walrus colonies. Dozens of males pile up here between feeding trips for shellfish, a gleaming brown mass punctuated by sighs, grunts, and clacking tusks. Guides lead visitors in small groups, at a regulated distance, through the relative silence imposed by the wind and the sheer emotion of the moment. Watching these animals, weighing over a tonne each, haul themselves onto the sand, jostle one another, and then slip into the grey water with sudden ease: this is the kind of moment that justifies an Arctic voyage all on its own.

An Island That Is a National Park

All of Forlandet, along with its surrounding waters, has formed a national park since 1973. It carries a ridge of sharp peaks — the highest, Monacofjella, rises above a thousand metres — separated by glaciers that descend toward coastal plains of tundra. A remarkable fact: the waters of the Forlandsundet are home to the northernmost population of harbour seals on the planet, at the very edge of the species' range. Brünnich's guillemots, eiders, Arctic terns, and skuas frequent the shores, while Svalbard reindeer graze the sparse tundra and the Arctic fox patrols the slopes. The national park status, one of the first established in the archipelago, exists specifically to protect these colonies of seabirds and mammals that give the place its value.

The Ghosts of Hunters Past

The English named it in honour of the future Charles I in the early 17th century, at a time when whalers and hunters combed these waters. Its shores still hold quiet traces of that history: remnants of hunting stations, wooden crosses, the foundations of trapper huts built later by Norwegians who came to trap Arctic fox. Guides point them out without touching them — in Svalbard, any human trace predating 1946 is protected by law as an archaeological site in its own right.

The Art of an Arctic Landing

A shore excursion here follows a precise ritual. Guides land first as scouts, rifle slung over the shoulder — a mandatory precaution in polar bear country — to secure the area, and passengers then come ashore in successive zodiac runs. The group walks together, speaks in low voices, and stops whenever the wildlife decides to approach. Far from restricting the experience, this discipline is what makes it valuable: every step on this tundra feels like a privilege. Depending on conditions, the outing can instead become a zodiac cruise along the cliffs and glacier fronts, equally striking.

What to Expect

• Landing by zodiac only, dependent on weather and the presence of wildlife.
• Warm, layered clothing; boots provided by most expedition ships.
• A regulated distance must be kept from the walruses; a telephoto lens is strongly recommended.
• No facilities whatsoever: everything you need comes ashore with you from the ship.

You don't visit Forlandet; you're admitted onto it, for a few hours, on the Arctic's own terms. The walruses go on magnificently ignoring the row of red-clad figures on their beach, the terns cry out, the wind sweeps over the tundra. Then the zodiacs head back to the ship, and the island returns to its vast solitude. That, perhaps, is the true luxury of the high latitudes: leaving again having changed nothing about the place.