In January 2025, the Norwegian government introduced new environmental regulations for Arctic tourism. The days of chasing polar bears for the perfect close-up are over; the new Arctic experience is about respectful observation, citizen science, and embracing the privilege of seeing this fragile ecosystem.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have bad news and good news.” The voice of expedition leader Katya Uryupova crackles over the loudspeaker. “The bad news is that this afternoon’s landing has been canceled. The good news is… ” she pauses for dramatic effect, “we have spotted a polar bear.”
Wrapped up against the chill, we crowd onto the front decks. Guides in yellow parkas are stationed with binoculars, pointing towards the snow-draped island ahead. That fuzzy white blob? Nope, that’s a rock. I squint harder. Even through my professional lens, the bear is still a blurry smudge, but by zooming and cropping, I finally make it out, its face blackened with blood as it feasts on a seal.
This is the new reality of tourism in Svalbard, the Norwegian archipelago that sits inside the Arctic Circle, about 400 miles from the North Pole. Its icy wilderness is home to polar bears, walruses, and millions of seabirds, but its proximity to northern Europe also makes it uniquely accessible for cruise tourists like me.
I’m traveling on Swan Hellenic’s luxury expedition ship SH Vega as we circumnavigate Spitsbergen, Svalbard’s main island. This is no floating city with five restaurants and a casino; instead, we have lectures on history and conservation, a citizen science lab, and space for just 152 passengers, making us small enough to navigate Svalbard’s narrow fjords and pristine nature reserves.
We begin in Longyearbyen, the northernmost town in the world and a former mining community. En route to the port we pass old wooden pylons, once part of a coal transportation system. “The last Norwegian mine just closed,” explains Driss, our guide. “There’s still coal, but it’s not profitable anymore.”
Falling coal prices and declining demand as the world moves away from fossil fuels, coupled with the high cost of operating in such a remote location, have brought Svalbard’s mining era to an end.
New rules include banning ships with more than 200 passengers, limiting landings to just 43 approved sites, and extra rules about how many people are allowed on shore.
Once Longyearbyen’s raison d’être, coal has been replaced by a new product: Cruise tourism. In 2024, 506 cruise ships hosting 67,000 passengers arrived here, a number that has doubled in under 15 years. Almost all of them were, like SH Vega, expedition ships offering shore landings by zodiac and more intimate encounters with Svalbard’s wildlife and habitats. Larger, ‘conventional’ cruise ships may dock in Longyearbyen, but a ban on the heavy fuel oil they use means they’re not allowed in protected areas.
Cruising is an important revenue generator: In 2024, it brought in almost USD$36 million—that’s about nine percent of Svalbard’s economy. But with increased traffic comes increased pressure—on the community, the wildlife, and the environment.
That’s why a package of new rules has been introduced to minimize the impact of tourism and protect fragile ecosystems. They apply in Svalbard’s 29 protected areas which cover 65 percent of its land and 86 percent of its territorial waters, and include banning ships with more than 200 passengers, limiting landings to just 43 approved sites, plus extra rules about how many people are allowed on shore. The rules have also introduced minimum distances from wildlife: 300-500 meters from a polar bear; 150 meters from a walrus colony.
We had regulations before, but they’ve been strengthened,” explains Frigg Jørgensen, executive director of AECO, the Association of Arctic Expedition Cruise Operators. “For example, you used to be able to land anywhere except a few sites like bird sanctuaries, and ships up to 500 passengers were allowed, so these are major changes.”
My first hands-on encounter with the frozen Arctic wilderness comes on day two, when we paddle our kayaks through a glassy fjord littered with ice chunks from the Lilliehöökbreen glacier. It’s a glorious midsummer afternoon: Blazing sunshine and 46° Fahrenheit (7.7° Celsius), too warm for my thermal base layers. In the immaculate stillness, the melting ice crackles and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies, while ahead of us, the soaring spires and folds of the glacier rumble and shift like cogs in an antique machine.
Svalbard has warmed by four degrees since the 1970s, and continues to warm at six times the global average. Experts predict the Barents Sea (a marginal sea of the Arctic, off the northern coasts of Norway and Russia) could be completely ice-free in summer within a decade. Are the new rules a futile attempt to hold back an unstoppable tide?
“It’s never too late,” insists expedition leader Katya Uryupova. “Even small contributions help. And this is not just about climate change but also protecting wildlife and habitats. By giving nature a break, ecosystems can adapt and recover.”
Paradoxically, the warming climate is creating new opportunities for Arctic tourism. The season is getting longer as ice melts earlier and refreezes later. Ships can push into previously inaccessible areas: In 2022, a French tourist vessel reached 90 degrees north for the first time. Even the polar bears are adapting, coming onto land to hunt reindeer instead of their favorite seals.
Operators are adapting too. We land at Kapp Lee, where a shingle beach heaves with a bloated pile of 50-60 walruses. They sprawl and loll like sunbathers after too many trips to the resort buffet; tusks sticking out in all directions like two-pronged forks, as though they’re still wielding their dinner cutlery. It’s mesmerizing. And in line with the new rules, the site is now restricted to 39 people, so we must go ashore in small groups for 45 minutes at a time.
“If we’re serious about our climate commitments, we need at least to stop the growth in the number of ships. And we should encourage visitors to take tours with local operators so the money goes into the community.”
- Halvor Dannevig, professor, Western Norway Research Institute
As a photographer, I admit I find it a little frustrating. It’s impossible to get great wildlife images with so little time. But later, warming up in the on-deck hot tub, other guests tell me the new rules were of little to no impact to their experiences. “I’m just excited to see my first polar bear,” a fellow traveler from Minnesota tells me. “Anyway, I’d rather not get too close—I don’t want to be eaten!”
“I had no concept of how far 500 meters is,” shrugs another guest, Danny Tang, who’s trying out a new camera. “Though I did buy an extender for my lens. Overall, it’s just amazing to come to the Arctic.”
Serious photographers might prefer to choose dedicated micro-cruises with fewer than 12 passengers, so they can spend longer ashore. Back home post-trip, I speak to photographer Trai Anfield, who’s just returned from leading a Svalbard tour. “I’m a supporter of regulations because I constantly see how disrespectful people can be towards wildlife,” she tells me. “I wouldn’t want Svalbard to end up with the kind of chaotic scenes I’ve witnessed in less regulated parts of the Maasai Mara.”
Yet not everyone agrees these rules are the right response. “We need regulation,” says Halvor Dannevig, research professor in climate change at Western Norway Research Institute, “but there’s very little scientific data on human impact, and it’s almost impossible to separate that from climate effects. Many local operators feel the rules aren’t supported by evidence and their views were not considered.”
“With cruising, the main issue is the carbon footprint,” he continues. “If we’re serious about our climate commitments, we need at least to stop the growth in the number of ships. And we should encourage visitors to take tours with local operators so the money goes into the community.”
These concerns have been well-reported and documented. In an opinion piece for Discover Wildlife, writer, photographer, zoologist and environmental activist Mark Carwardine calls the new regulations “hypocritical” and that they don’t make sense.
“Tourist vessels are already forbidden from approaching a polar bear in any way that would involve disturbance or a danger to the bear or people,” he writes. He also notes that Norway continues to hunt minke whales around Svalbard and pursue oil and gas exploration in the Norwegian Arctic, home to nearly 1,000 polar bears. For Carwardine, Dannevig and others, the fundamental issue with ecotourism is visitor numbers: “Personally, I think the largest cruise ships shouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere.”
We stop at another former coal mining settlement, Ny-Ålesund, now a polar research base staffed by scientists from 11 nations. Reindeer graze in front of red- and yellow-painted huts, and an Arctic tern nests close to a statue of Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen, who launched his 1926 airship expedition over the North Pole from here. In the on-site museum, miners’ lamps and sepia photos of coal-blackened men provide a glimpse not only into Svalbard’s past, but also into an alternative future.
“The Arctic was used for mining and whaling,” explains Zane Jerome, SH Vega’s assistant expedition leader. “So I would rather see responsible tourism, where people respect the environment and help protect it, than the return of industry.”
With its history and picturesque landscape, Ny-Ålesund is also a reminder that the Arctic cruise experience is about so much more than seeing animals. “We’ve got too used to getting up close and personal with everything. Some people will never be satisfied unless they can pet the polar bear,” says Jerome, laughing. “But just being on the ship, in this incredible landscape, learning about the history and yes, seeing some wildlife—it’s all part of the thrill.”
While some may find the new rules clumsy or frustrating, and they won’t stop the ice from melting or the seas from rising, they might, at least, buy some time. By accepting that we need to take a step back, and by choosing smaller boats and local operators, tourism can remain a force for good in Svalbard. And if a few disappointing photos is the sacrifice it takes to preserve one of the planet’s last wild frontiers, it seems a pretty fair price to pay.
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The writer traveled on the eight-day Svalbard Cruise and was supported by Swan Hellenic
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Bella Falk is a travel writer, photographer and documentary director from London. She writes the travel blog Passport & Pixels, which has won or been a finalist for more than 20 industry awards, including winning Blogger of the Year at the British Guild of Travel Writers’ Awards 2023. Her words and images have been published by National Geographic Traveller, Wanderlust, BBC Travel and Lonely Planet among others.
