A second day riding across Svalbard, where snowmobiles outnumber people

I woke up to the Svalbard sun streaming through my windows. Despite this being a luxury hotel, the night before, I resorted to hanging bathrobes and sweaters on the curtain rod in a futile attempt to block out the relentless light of Arctic summer. In the Earth’s extreme altitudes, as anyone who has experienced the polar day quickly discovers, the sun’s photons snake through every last crack and crevice. It is astonishing and maddening. And yet the hotel still decided not to invest in blackout curtains.

Fortunately, the coffee at the breakfast buffet was strong. I knocked back four cups of the black gold alongside my waffles topped with brunost (perfectly rounded rectangles of caramelized Norwegian’s goat cheese) and raspberry jam to fuel up for the second day of snowmobiling that lay ahead. The day before, we had journeyed from Longyearbyen to the Isfjord Radio Hotel. Today, we would skirt the coastline and meander into the mountains.

Snowmobiles originally came to Svalbard in the 1950s to support coal mining on the archipelago. During and after the Second World War, the vehicles quickly spread across the Arctic. A 1942 article from The Evening Star, a Washington, D.C newspaper, described their arrival in Goose Bay, Labrador, where a Canadian Forces air base had opened the year before. “Little [Inuit] boys gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the snowmobiles–airplane-propellered sleds–which the white men use in lieu of dog teams,” the reporter observed.

Arctic Indigenous Peoples did not only look on at the rip-roaring machines. They adopted them, too, for transportation, hunting, and reindeer herding. In the Soviet Union, they were especially popular given the country’s vast distances. In the 1970s, the Soviets purchased a few Canadian Bombardier ski-doos to study (and copy). They modeled their own variation, the Buran (meaning ‘blizzard’ – coincidentally, the same name was given to their reusable space shuttle) on the Canadian invention, selling over 100,000 models across the communist empire.

A Soviet Buran snowmobile.

A Swedish family with their dog and snowmobile in Käringsjövallen (central Sweden), April 1967. Source: Länsmuseet Göteborg.

For many Arctic Indigenous peoples, the rapid adoption of snowmobiles introduced a whole set of other problems. Finnish-American anthropologist Pertti Pelto’s book, The Snowmobile Revolution: Technology and Social Change in the Arctic, spells out the calamitous consequences of the technology for Skolt Sámi. Replacing draught reindeer with the fossil-fuel powered vehicles lowered contact between people and their animals, leading the reindeer to be “de-domesticated” and harassed. Reliance on an expensive technology sourced from the outside also catalyzed new concerns over maintenance, cashflow, and social hierarchy.

Despite these ills, Skolt Sámi and many other Arctic Indigenous Peoples continue to use snowmobiles. Much like with automobiles, once society speeds up, it is hard to reverse course.

Other factors, however, are leading snowmobiles to slowly go out of fashion in certain places, particularly south of the Arctic. Just as shortening winters are making it harder for ski resorts to stay open, snowmobilers are finding that their seasons start later and end earlier each winter. In New York State, the number of snowmobile registrations has halved in the past two decades, going from 166,000 in 2004 to 80,000 in 2024.

Besides the environment, there is also the economy. Young people also simply can’t afford new snowmobiles. Entry-level “sleds”, as they are sometimes called, cost around $8,000, while mid-range ones will set you back $14,000. The average age of a recreational snowmobiler in North America is thus fast ticking upwards.

Svalbard: where snowmobiles are still the name of the game

Svalbard is bucking the downward trend of snowmobiling. On the Norwegian archipelago, there are more snowmobile registrations (3,008 in 2024) than there are people (2,595). Judging by the ridiculous stunts I saw out on the trails, many of the registrants are young men. Whether veering up steep precipices before pulling a sharp u-turn to tear down a mountain face or racing 100 kilometers per hour across the snow while standing, they had turned Svalbard into their own little snowpark.

Snowmobiles also allow Svalbardians keen on ski mountaineering to access a great deal more terrain. In North America or mainland Europe, their counterparts would most likely rely on a car to reach these same sorts of places.

I have to admit that as someone with a need for speed myself, I was a bit envious of all the adventuring unfolding around me. So, on the second day, having gained confidence in the sled, I pushed the throttle as hard as it would go. Eventually, on a straight stretch, I got up to 70 kilometers per hour. That was enough for me – and the little engine, too.

Not everything was smooth sailing on our second day of snowmobiling. Early on, we gingerly trundled down a steep and snowless hill. We tried to stay on the patches of ice to avoid getting caught in the dirt, but the first snowmobile flipped over, sending both of its riders into the terrain. Though they fortunately escaped with just a few bumps and bruises, both were a bit shaken.

After the incident, our guide suggested sticking o more snow-sure areas. So, we rode back to the the lodge, dropped off one of the snowmobilers who’d been caught up in the accident, and then made our way along the shore to the east of the hotel.

Out on the snowy plateau, we could see for miles across the land and sea. It seemed like the perfect conditions for spotting polar bears, but the closest we came were a few old paw prints by the water.

Defeated, we headed into the mountains, slashing through the brisk air with the skies ablaze. The sun-softened snow felt soft and pliable, making for great carving. While my curmudgeonly self can’t stand the sound of loud engines when I’m trying to concentrate, when I’m the one generating all the racket, my adrenaline starts pumping.

After breaking for lunch in a quiet valley, we rumbled up and over a mountain pass. On our way up the angled slope, one snowmobile fell over into the snow, necessitating a quick assist by our guide. Then, towards the very top, one of the snowmobiles got stuck in the deep snow. It took over half an hour for us to dig it out. This was a clear lesson in why one should never ride alone. It’s all too easy for a snowmobile to fall onto you, or for you to end up stranded miles from safety.

After much digging and sweating, finally, the snowmobile was free. We took our victory photo at the top of the pass before cruising back towards the hotel. A line of snowmobiles unfurled in front of me, whirling in and out of the lengthening shadows.

A dip in the Greenland Sea

As if being exposed to the cold for eight hours wasn’t enough, upon our return, we decided to go for a dip in the Greenland Sea. I was game, as I always am for Arctic swimming – especially when a sauna is involved.

After warming up my body, I plunged into the same waters emptied of whales four centuries ago. Behind me on shore was the rebuilt infrastructure of an old radio station first evacuated and destroyed by the Norwegians in 1941 during the Second World War in an effort to ensure that the infrastructure would not fall into the wrong (read: Nazi) hands. The enemy from the south would later destroy everything once they arrived the next year on Svalbard.

Now, in this land of leisure, whaling and war are distant memories. The Arctic looks pristine, but it is a palimpsest.

I emerged from the water feeling fine. Quickly, though, I realized I was unable to pull my tight snow boots over my wet feet. Beginning to freeze, I decided to run across 100 meters of snow in bare feet back to the sauna. It ended up not being my brightest idea. My feet were so cold they burned.

While waiting for my toes to come back to life, I sat in the sauna chatting with four of the other snowmobiling expedition participants, two women from Longyearbyen who had decided to ride out to the hotel for the weekend, and a young man. Suntanned and lithe, the Norwegians gabbed away over cans of beer and bags of chips they’d brought into the sauna – along with their rifle. A polar bear could easily enter the wooden structure, which is why they’d opted to bring it the weapon for self-defense rather than leave it outside.

Back in the hotel lobby, we talked with the same young Norwegian man and his friend, who’d been out snowmobiling and skiing all day. The two daredevils had met each other through the sport of “death diving,” which involves jumping from a high precipice into the water below while trying to make the biggest splash possible – basically, extreme belly flopping.

Just when you think you’ve done something mildly extreme, you discover the limit is far, far beyond – especially for the winter sport enthusiasts one encounters in the High Arctic. Suffice it to say that while I don’t mind speed, heights, or the cold, death diving is one sport I will not be trying anytime soon. Snowmobiling, I think, is enough for me.