Goose Roost

By Endre Harvold Kvangraven

We stop to half load the rifle under a streetlight near the Port of Longyearbyen. The polar bear sign is up ahead, and there is silence all around, no people, no traffic. It’s just after two in the morning, the twentieth of September, and we’re on our way to Hotellneset to see the barnacle geese at their communal roost in the bird lagoon. They’ll be flying south any day now, and we’re hoping they’re still around. We discovered the roost a couple of nights ago when we were out looking for a lunar eclipse that had been forecast. In mist and drizzle, there was no chance of seeing the moon, but we found the geese, and now we’re going back to spend more time with them.

My fellow Artica resident, Nastassja Simensky, carries the rifle, while I carry the flare gun. The sky is a dim, deep indigo, partly cloudy, but there’s no mist. As we walk past the coal harbour, the wind picks up, and by the time we reach the open fjord there’s a fresh breeze blowing. Sharp red and yellow lights mark out the airport, while up on the slope in the background, a mellow turquoise shines from Svalbard Global Seed Vault. The sun set several hours ago but still emits a faint orange-purple glow on the horizon. Yet, cloud cover is thickening, visibility limited, and as we venture off the road, opting to follow the shore instead, I turn my head torch on. The shoreline is a wide stretch of rounded cobbles. On our right, low waves lap at the shore, and to our left, the campsite is dark and abandoned.

Approaching the lagoon, we pause at the edge. I turn my torch off again, realizing its range is too limited, and as we scrutinize the body of water before us, my eyes get used to the darkness. There are no signs of geese, but just when we’re beginning to suspect that they’ve left already, there is movement in the water, and a flock swims into view, black silhouettes passing briefly across reflected airport light. Soon, scattered barking emanates from the further reaches of the lagoon. Through my binoculars, I make out the contours of more geese, and more still. It’s too dark for an exact count, but there must be at least 350 of them, probably over 400.

While the geese softly honk, the whooshing of the wind and rumble of waves add a dark ambient soundtrack. Nastassja unpacks a microphone, equipped with a furry wind muff, and records some audio. It is an eerie scene, indistinct geese in vague blue shadow drifting slowly by. Birding can be analytical, almost forensic, or it can be a chase, but this is more contemplative. We hear the geese more than we see them and are not so much observing their behaviour as immersing ourselves in their environment, taking in the atmosphere. In July and August, this lagoon was a hive of activity day and night, Arctic terns attacking anyone who happened along the road, but now there are only geese, who have a more peaceful demeanour. Through the summer, barnacle geese come here to breed and moult, but only in September do they gather here in their hundreds. A quick search in the Species Observations System (Artsobservasjoner) reveals a handful of records of this goose roost, all made in September but dating to several years ago. With the geese gathering at night, arriving after sunset and departing before sunrise, records are scanty, but it’s probably an annual event.

The temperature hovers around three or four degrees, not that cold, but the wind adds a chill. After a while, we move a little closer to the geese, but soon regret it, as the nearest flock begins barking in alarm, a cacophony of high-pitched honking followed by splashing as they take wing and disappear past us, out over Isfjorden. Their outlines are soon lost in the darkness, and we can’t tell where they went, but from now on we take care to keep our distance. We walk down to the sea and follow the shoreline, concealed behind the bank of stones until we reemerge on the west side of the lagoon for a different view.

In Longyearbyen, barnacle geese are respectable citizens. No longer confined to breeding on cliffs and crags, they’ve learned to make use of anthropogenic habitats. With vegetation fertilized by sewage spills, while human activity keeps predators at bay, breeding conditions in Longyearbyen can be good, though some habitat has been lost to parking lots and housing developments. By late August, their young have fledged, the vicinity of Longyearbyen is heavily grazed, and most of them move further into Adventdalen for a while. With familiar feeding areas that they visit at different times of year, they know what to look for, and when. At the same time, barnacle geese from more remote parts of Svalbard pass through, recognizable by their shyness. Unlike geese from the Longyearbyen colony, who are used to people and reluctant to move out of their way, these are quick to take wing.

Tonight, all remaining barnacle geese in the area seem to have gathered in the lagoon, all except for the one with the broken wing, who was last seen near the dog kennels. I imagine they must be tense with anticipation. Soon, they’ll be migrating, but the time is not ripe just yet. In a few days, perhaps, or in a couple of weeks, depending on snowfall and when the lagoon freezes over. The first stop on their journey will be Bear Island, where they’ll pause to feed. Then, when weather allows, they’ll head to mainland Norway, making one or more brief stops along the coast before they continue to their wintering grounds in Scotland.

We hear another flock rise up from the far side of the lagoon and glimpse them flapping against the grey blanket of clouds as they vanish over the fjord. Dawn is seeping in when we spot some glaucous gulls among the geese, ten adults standing in a loose group on a mound of gravel. They’re probably the same gulls that hang out by the shore east of the lagoon in the daytime. A week ago, I counted 36 of them, but some have left, and I expect the rest will soon follow. Changing into winter plumage, they’re developing some greyish-brown speckling on their chalk-white heads, as if they’ve rubbed them in mud or poked them into a carcass.

The barnacle geese fly off in small flocks, one after the other. Many head north over Isfjorden, and some go west towards Bjørndalen, each to its grazing grounds. Gradually, shadows lift and contours are coloured in. By the time we can see the lagoon in its entirety, there are only four geese left, and soon, they too are gone. It’s five in the morning and the lagoon has emptied out. Sunrise is still over an hour away as we begin the walk back to town.

Endre Harvold Kvangraven is a writer, researcher and wildlife enthusiast. He holds a Ph.D. in Nordic literature from the University of Stavanger and is the author of Ulv i det norske kulturlandskapet (Res Publica, 2021).