30/09/2024
Tusks and Time:
The Majesty of an Aging Walrus
In 1992, while on assignment to photograph narwhals, belugas, and bowhead whales off Baffin Island, something unexpected captured my imagination—something that I hadn’t come to the Arctic to seek, yet couldn’t ignore: the walrus.
For days, I observed a massive colony of these extraordinary creatures from afar, studying their behavior and trying to assess whether it was safe to dive with them. The males with their enormous tusks seemed to govern a strict hierarchy, while the females tended to the young, all of them moving in a slow but deliberate dance on the ice. Through the binoculars, I took in the intricacies of their world, but something caught my eye that broke my focus—a lone walrus resting at the edge of the ice shelf, about 500 meters away.
Curiosity took over. I zipped up my drysuit, grabbed my camera and fins, and began pulling myself along the edge of the ice, one hand gripping the cold surface, the other holding my Nikon RS, fitted with a custom 18mm lens. Every few meters, I would stop and check through my lens to make sure the walrus was still there. For over an hour, I crept forward, the vast Arctic landscape swallowing all sounds except the crunch of ice beneath me.
As I finally closed the distance to about three meters, I paused. Before me was the great male walrus, his giant tusks glinting under the low Arctic sun. My heart raced as I raised the camera, framing the creature within the wide 105-degree field of view. Despite his imposing size, the walrus looked small through the lens, swallowed by the vastness of the scene. I clicked a few frames, ensuring I captured something in case the animal became aware of me and I had to retreat.
But I wanted more. Slowly, with calculated patience, I inched closer—one foot at a time, my movements synchronized with the rhythm of my breath. All the while, the walrus remained still, the only motion in the glimmer of its large, knowing eye. The cold began to seep into my bones; my hands were numb from holding the camera, and the icy wind cut through my suit. But the moment was too captivating to abandon. By now, I had closed the gap to just two feet.
I shifted the camera into a vertical position to better frame the tusks, their sheer length etched with black markings that spoke of the walrus's age. The scene was almost perfect, but the sun, which had been my ally, was now working against me. Its light cast long shadows across the walrus's face, muting the vibrancy of its whiskers and dulling the colors of its body.
I knew I needed to change my position. With deliberate care, I retreated back into the icy water, circling around until I was 50 meters away on the other side. The sun now illuminated the walrus perfectly, highlighting the creature’s tusks and whiskers in a radiant glow, each detail standing out like a brushstroke in a masterful painting. The Arctic sky above was a rich blue, the kind you only see in the farthest reaches of the earth, and I held my breath, waiting for the walrus to acknowledge me.
Then it happened—the walrus turned its gaze, locking eyes with me. In that moment, there was a shared understanding, a silent exchange between two beings from different worlds. I captured frame after frame, the sunlight dancing across the walrus’s weathered face, its long tusks glistening like ancient relics from a forgotten era.
When I returned to camp, I spoke with the Inuit guides about the encounter. They had been watching me from afar and confirmed what I had suspected. The walrus was an old male, nearing the end of his life. His immense tusks and heavy body were signs of age, and, according to my guide, he had likely left the colony for his final "walkabout"—a solitary journey to die in peace.
The Inuit, who have lived alongside these animals for generations, spoke of this behavior with reverence. It was a ritual as old as the ice itself, a quiet farewell to the life the walrus had known. Hearing this filled me with a deep respect for the creature I had just encountered—an animal nearing the end of its journey, yet still radiating strength and dignity.
The walrus’s tusks—elongated canines, present in both males and females—can grow to an astonishing three feet and weigh up to 12 pounds. For this old bull, they were his legacy, used not only for fighting and dominance but also for climbing out of the icy waters and forming holes in the ice. These tusks, marked with the wear and tear of a lifetime, were a testament to his resilience.
As I look back on that day, I am reminded not just of the stunning images I captured but of the profound connection that exists between humans and the wild. There’s something deeply humbling about being in the presence of such creatures, observing them in their world on their terms. It’s moments like these that remind me why I continue to venture into the most remote corners of the planet—to bear witness, to learn, and to share these fleeting encounters with others.
Baffin Island, 1992. Nikon RS, Nikon 18mm lens, 1/250 sec, f-11, Kodachrome film 64 ASA.
