Breaking the ice

You can keep them. You know the kind of cruises I mean: tropical cocktails, gift-shop islands, sun-and-deck chair afternoons. When I'm at sea, I want adventure. Cresting waves, puffs of wind, the works.

This is why I find myself aboard a Russian icebreaker that is hardened to cut through bergs and glaciers and is churning north. Next stop: the Arctic Circle and the coast of Greenland. Polar bears will be there, I hope, and maybe whales and snowy owls. If we make it, I will down a shot of Smirnoff with the crew, not a pina colada.

My icebreaker for 14 days, the Kapitan Khlebnikov, is chartered by Quark Expeditions and outfitted for 108 passengers. To get to the ship, we had to fly to Resolute Bay, five hours north of Ottawa, Ontario, then load up a little fleet of rubber Zodiac boats to cross an icy sound and stagger onto the Khlebnikov's gangplank and deck.

That sounded good to me. In business since 1991, Quark is one of several lines that specialize in ferrying ordinary cruise passengers to the snowy ends of the world. Sometimes those on board get to be part of exploration "firsts." In 1999, passengers and crew members sailed completely around the top of the globe (the first-ever Arctic circumnavigation).

My cruise isn't supposed to break new ground for explorers. But being this far north is itself an adventure. Like all Arctic voyages bringing passengers, this one kicked off in a relatively ice-free month. It was September, but the wind was whistling like winter, zeroing in on exposed skin.

"I've lost my gloves!" squealed Emma Hambly of Bodmin, England. She rifled through pockets and knapsacks. No luck. We were thinking "frostbite" until she was saved by someone's overpacking: Another passenger had found an extra pair.

We zipped up our Quark-issued orange parkas on the Zodiac ride through rising swells to the ship. There were layers of freezing sea foam. And over there were floating ice chunks. It looked like a cake that had exploded.

Our first days at sea are prism clear. When we pass near Cape York, we hear a sound like vegetables being chopped. There are helicopters on deck and it is time to load them up for a flying tour. On top of a snowy hill sits a memorial to Arctic explorer Robert Peary and we are buzz-bombing it, bouncing and diving in the hard blue air.

Back at the ship we land on the deck and duck under the whirring blades as if this were wartime Vietnam. Helicoptering makes us hungry, hungry as a Russian bear. What's for dinner? We have soups, stews, cabbage, cutlets, bread and cakes. There's plenty of vodka, wine and beer.

Talk at the table turns to food of the far north. Someone claims to have tasted polar bear. "Not very good," he says, "but better than if it tasted me. It was slow-cooked in a casserole with mushrooms and onions."

I want to meet my Arctic animals live, I say, not cooked.

The next morning, early, I get my wish. Just before the ship reaches Qaanaaq, Greenland, there's an announcement from the bridge that blasts us out of bed and launches us on deck. It's hard to get near the rail. Parkas are jostling, hands encased in mittens fumble with cameras to get a shot.

I open my camera and realize something's wrong. The lens is frozen. Just as I'm ducking inside to let it thaw, the shouts begin. "There he is!" "He's swimming, near that blue-gray ice chunk. See the wet, white head?"

All I see is fur. Part of a claw, some paw.

A polar bear. Alive and enormous, bobbing down and up in waves and tilting like a buoy.

I'm back inside, wiping my lens with my shirt, dropping my down-filled gloves and woolly hat. By the time I'm at the rail, there are only bubbles in the water. Someone has spied the coast of Greenland. But the bear is gone.

•••

When a foghorn blows, there is a whine from Qaanaaq. It doesn't stop. On the contrary, it gets louder. The sound grows into a full-moon howl. Is it a wolf pack? Not exactly. It is hundreds of Husky-like sled dogs crying from every corner of the town.

When we go on a walk, I want to try and pet the dogs or throw them a roll I've pocketed from breakfast, anything to calm them down, but it's not allowed.

So instead I check out the display of sled-dog dry food in a Qaanaaq store. No Alpo or Purina here. But you and your pack can pick up Nukik "Polar Nuggets" sold by the bag.

Groceries for humans look like they were shipped from Mars. I consider buying a can of "Mork Syrup," but decide against it. Dr. Oetker's Shake n' Bake Chokolad Muffins might work. But I'm not sure Dr. Oetker's is a brand I can trust. I leave the checkout line and stick the package back on its shelf.

On the streets of town, I pass houses that are as tight as drums to keep the weather at bay. Some are painted pink, and some are blue. I try a walk on the pebbly beach. Local vendors are selling seal meat. Pungent slices. Some of it is stretched on strings to dry.

HOOOOOOMMMMMMMM.

It is the Khlebnikov's whistle.

Now, from Qaanaaq, comes the eerie trailing whine. AIEEEAAOOOOO!

The dogs are hungry for their Polar Nuggets. And it is time for us to get back on board.

•••

Our helicopter flights surprise herds of musk oxen. Above a glacier, we see specks of glowing white -- whiter than the snow. "Arctic hares!" shouts our guide, making a hopping motion with his hands just in case we don't know what a hare can do.

Finally, at breakfast, there is a special announcement. "We've reached our apex," says the captain, "our northernmost point on this trip."

The ship's latitude is 82.31 degrees north. We roll this around in our heads. Someone unrolls a map. Not the geographic pole, but not bad at all.

We are farther up, by far, than Norway, Finland or Alaska. Farther up, we're told, than the North Magnetic Pole. And our icebreaker has hit the edge of pack ice. It is happy.

At first the sea ice is Saran Wrap, shaped like waves. It thickens into glass -- sliding, surfing panes that crack and splinter into bits. The plates grow plexiglass-fat. They flatten every swell, pressing down, ironing things out. Now, instead of ocean, there are continents of ice. Whatever is below -- Arctic fish and seals, and probably our bear -- are hidden underneath this frozen ceiling.

Peter Hui of Bethesda, Md., is right at the icebreaker's prow. Snap. Snap. Flash! He's got it. An Arctic souvenir shot of a traveling pal. Hui's friend is a yellow rubber chicken that goes where he goes.

"This is one of his best adventures," says Hui.

He doesn't mind the wind? I ask.

Hui considers. "See the chicken's goosebumps? That means he is excited, but also a little cold."

I nod my head. I know how it is. I can feel the spray and the thrust of the ship. I am shivering despite my parka. Under my boots, the Khlebnikov's giant engines churn.

It may be a soft afternoon off the coast of Aruba, Barbados, Bermuda. Passengers on ships there may be ordering drinks. They may be smiling and tasting fruit and just beginning to tan.

Passengers on ships there may be happy as the sun itself. This I understand.

But let them keep their tans and tropics and easy seas.

None is as happy as I am.

Peter Mandel is the author of nine books for kids, including "Boats on the River" and "My Ocean Liner." He lives in Providence, R.I.