Under the Arctic Moon: The Extraordinary Trips of Mark Evans
He spent a year on Svalbard in an Arctic tent, explored Greenland with just skis and a parachute, and discovered lost relics from historic expeditions. Now a guest lecturer aboard Swan Hellenic, Mark Evans inspires travellers with a profound passion for the icy wilderness, inviting us to understand, admire, and protect one of Earth's last great frontiers.
700 days in the Arctic: tent on Svalbard, parachute on Greenland
Mark, how did your fascinating connection with the Arctic begin?
It started in my twenties. Since then, I spent significant time in the Arctic, especially on expeditions to Svalbard. Most of these involved young people, brilliant minds eager to collect scientific data on environmental and biological phenomena. In total, I've spent around 700 days in the Arctic, 365 of them I lived in a tent on Svalbard — immersed completely in Arctic nature. When you live that way, you become deeply attuned to the landscape and the extraordinary life here.
Tell us about crossing Greenland using a parachute—how did that even work?
(Laughs) It sounds unusual, doesn’t it? About 20 years ago, just two of us crossed Greenland from east to west on skis, pulling sleds. The parachute was clipped to a harness around my waist. It acted like a sail, skimming across the ground. It was fantastic—well, except that the person I bought it from claimed the wind always blows from east to west in Greenland, which of course it doesn’t. So only two out of 26 days we had wind in the right direction. But on those two days, we covered over 120 miles, just gripping those parachutes. It was incredible.
It started in my twenties. Since then, I spent significant time in the Arctic, especially on expeditions to Svalbard. Most of these involved young people, brilliant minds eager to collect scientific data on environmental and biological phenomena. In total, I've spent around 700 days in the Arctic, 365 of them I lived in a tent on Svalbard — immersed completely in Arctic nature. When you live that way, you become deeply attuned to the landscape and the extraordinary life here.
Tell us about crossing Greenland using a parachute—how did that even work?
(Laughs) It sounds unusual, doesn’t it? About 20 years ago, just two of us crossed Greenland from east to west on skis, pulling sleds. The parachute was clipped to a harness around my waist. It acted like a sail, skimming across the ground. It was fantastic—well, except that the person I bought it from claimed the wind always blows from east to west in Greenland, which of course it doesn’t. So only two out of 26 days we had wind in the right direction. But on those two days, we covered over 120 miles, just gripping those parachutes. It was incredible.
Buried in Stone, Sealed in Time
You also led expeditions into the legendary Northwest Passage. What was most memorable about those trips?
One time, we followed in the footsteps of William Edward Parry, a British explorer who nearly completed the Northwest Passage in 1820. His ship became trapped in ice as winter approached. Back then, explorers built rock cairns—huge stone markers—leaving messages inside metal canisters, so anyone following would know their fate.
On an uninhabited island, after days retracing Parry’s diary steps, we found one of these cairns. Inside was a metal canister. It turned out we weren’t the first—a Canadian explorer had discovered it decades earlier, but kindly left a copy of the original message inside. We were only the second people to open it in over a century. That moment was electrifying.
One time, we followed in the footsteps of William Edward Parry, a British explorer who nearly completed the Northwest Passage in 1820. His ship became trapped in ice as winter approached. Back then, explorers built rock cairns—huge stone markers—leaving messages inside metal canisters, so anyone following would know their fate.
On an uninhabited island, after days retracing Parry’s diary steps, we found one of these cairns. Inside was a metal canister. It turned out we weren’t the first—a Canadian explorer had discovered it decades earlier, but kindly left a copy of the original message inside. We were only the second people to open it in over a century. That moment was electrifying.
Darkness, Silence, and Light: Hidden Truths of the Arctic
Having spent so long in the Arctic, could you share some lesser-known facts about this region?
Certainly. One thing people misunderstand is the total darkness of Arctic winters. Many assume it’s depressing, linked with seasonal affective disorder. But for me, that darkness was incredible, adding a profound dimension to the landscape. During three months of total darkness, the moon never sets—it shines brightly on the snow, creating beautiful, ethereal illumination. Your eyes adapt quickly, making travel easy even at night. And above, you have the aurora—a breathtaking natural spectacle. Swan Hellenic deliberately chooses September for trips to Greenland and the Northwest Passage precisely to showcase these incredible northern lights.
Another thing people don’t realise is that the Arctic—especially Svalbard—is essentially a desert. A desert is defined as a place with less than 250 millimetres of rainfall a year—and that applies to Svalbard just as much as it does to Arabia. Probably even to Cyprus nowadays, with global warming. During one year-long expedition on Svalbard, this fact caught us completely off guard. By September, snow had vanished, leaving no fresh water. We ended up sending groups to glaciers kilometres away to chip ice into backpacks just to melt it for tea. That struggle vividly showed me the Arctic's desert reality.
Lastly, Arctic summers are surprisingly brief. Most wildlife migrates south, leaving the region almost lifeless for months. Cliffs bustling with thousands of seabirds become eerily silent until mid-May, when life returns explosively—but only until mid-August. It’s a fleeting, extraordinary cycle.
Certainly. One thing people misunderstand is the total darkness of Arctic winters. Many assume it’s depressing, linked with seasonal affective disorder. But for me, that darkness was incredible, adding a profound dimension to the landscape. During three months of total darkness, the moon never sets—it shines brightly on the snow, creating beautiful, ethereal illumination. Your eyes adapt quickly, making travel easy even at night. And above, you have the aurora—a breathtaking natural spectacle. Swan Hellenic deliberately chooses September for trips to Greenland and the Northwest Passage precisely to showcase these incredible northern lights.
Another thing people don’t realise is that the Arctic—especially Svalbard—is essentially a desert. A desert is defined as a place with less than 250 millimetres of rainfall a year—and that applies to Svalbard just as much as it does to Arabia. Probably even to Cyprus nowadays, with global warming. During one year-long expedition on Svalbard, this fact caught us completely off guard. By September, snow had vanished, leaving no fresh water. We ended up sending groups to glaciers kilometres away to chip ice into backpacks just to melt it for tea. That struggle vividly showed me the Arctic's desert reality.
Lastly, Arctic summers are surprisingly brief. Most wildlife migrates south, leaving the region almost lifeless for months. Cliffs bustling with thousands of seabirds become eerily silent until mid-May, when life returns explosively—but only until mid-August. It’s a fleeting, extraordinary cycle.
You Don’t Conquer the Arctic. You do what the Arctic lets you do
How do you practically survive such extreme conditions, especially during your year-long expedition?
Preparation is everything. Honestly, surviving Arctic conditions isn't difficult if you plan well. Arriving in summer helps your body adapt gradually—temperatures are around four or five degrees Celsius initially, which is comfortable. By winter, as temperatures drop significantly—down to minus 37.5°C in March—you've already acclimatised. Good equipment and meticulous planning make it manageable.
Interestingly, I genuinely believe it’s safer living in the Arctic for a year than crossing busy streets in London or Nicosia!
Preparation is everything. Honestly, surviving Arctic conditions isn't difficult if you plan well. Arriving in summer helps your body adapt gradually—temperatures are around four or five degrees Celsius initially, which is comfortable. By winter, as temperatures drop significantly—down to minus 37.5°C in March—you've already acclimatised. Good equipment and meticulous planning make it manageable.
Interestingly, I genuinely believe it’s safer living in the Arctic for a year than crossing busy streets in London or Nicosia!
And what did you do all day, for 365 days?
We did scientific research. There are scientists up here, but Svalbard is huge. And there are only two or three scientists working in the entire region. Other scientists in many other countries are desperate for data. They need people to record temperatures, note animal behaviour, gather information that helps us understand what’s going on up here.
So we helped. We were their extra eyes and ears.
For example, there is only one bird that sings on Svalbard—the snow bunting, this little black-and-white thing. It arrives in May, and as soon as it lands on the rocks, suddenly the silence of the Arctic is broken by birdsong. It’s like having a canary in the landscape. Beautiful. Every singer is a male—because it has to mark the territory and try to impress the females when they arrive.
So we’d record their songs, count how many different ones we heard in a square kilometre, and then study whether birds near the coast sing louder because of sea noise, compared to those in quieter mountain areas. Fascinating stuff.
We also watched seals on the ice—in March and April, you could see 300 or 400 of them lying there. We tried to determine whether they lay in particular orientations relative to the sun. Do they turn as the sun moves across the sky? Turns out, they don’t. But no one knew that before.
And then there is the barnacle goose—black and white. They nest on cliffs, hundreds of metres high, to avoid foxes. But their chicks can’t fly. So how do they get down to the safety of the sea?
We didn’t know. So we spent thousands of hours observing. First, we had to find the nests, set up a telescope to monitor them, then build a hide, a little shelter where we could lie inside for hours at a time, taking notes every 15 minutes to record what was happening.
When the chicks hatched, we watched—because they only stay on that little ledge for about a week. Then, suddenly, they just... jump.
They tumble down the cliff—bang, bang, bang—bouncing off the rocks. At the bottom, a fox waits, ready for breakfast. It’s heartbreaking. The survival rate is very low. Of six eggs, maybe only two chicks will make it to adulthood. The rest get eaten by foxes, gulls, or get trapped in the cracks between rocks.
It’s hard to witness—but it’s also amazing. You’re gathering new data, helping to fill the gaps in what we know about Arctic wildlife.
We did scientific research. There are scientists up here, but Svalbard is huge. And there are only two or three scientists working in the entire region. Other scientists in many other countries are desperate for data. They need people to record temperatures, note animal behaviour, gather information that helps us understand what’s going on up here.
So we helped. We were their extra eyes and ears.
For example, there is only one bird that sings on Svalbard—the snow bunting, this little black-and-white thing. It arrives in May, and as soon as it lands on the rocks, suddenly the silence of the Arctic is broken by birdsong. It’s like having a canary in the landscape. Beautiful. Every singer is a male—because it has to mark the territory and try to impress the females when they arrive.
So we’d record their songs, count how many different ones we heard in a square kilometre, and then study whether birds near the coast sing louder because of sea noise, compared to those in quieter mountain areas. Fascinating stuff.
We also watched seals on the ice—in March and April, you could see 300 or 400 of them lying there. We tried to determine whether they lay in particular orientations relative to the sun. Do they turn as the sun moves across the sky? Turns out, they don’t. But no one knew that before.
And then there is the barnacle goose—black and white. They nest on cliffs, hundreds of metres high, to avoid foxes. But their chicks can’t fly. So how do they get down to the safety of the sea?
We didn’t know. So we spent thousands of hours observing. First, we had to find the nests, set up a telescope to monitor them, then build a hide, a little shelter where we could lie inside for hours at a time, taking notes every 15 minutes to record what was happening.
When the chicks hatched, we watched—because they only stay on that little ledge for about a week. Then, suddenly, they just... jump.
They tumble down the cliff—bang, bang, bang—bouncing off the rocks. At the bottom, a fox waits, ready for breakfast. It’s heartbreaking. The survival rate is very low. Of six eggs, maybe only two chicks will make it to adulthood. The rest get eaten by foxes, gulls, or get trapped in the cracks between rocks.
It’s hard to witness—but it’s also amazing. You’re gathering new data, helping to fill the gaps in what we know about Arctic wildlife.
So everything was planned in advance? Based on scientific needs?
Yes—partly on what the scientists needed, and partly on what the Arctic allowed.
You don’t conquer the Arctic. I know newspapers love that word—“conquering Everest” or “conquering the Arctic”—but it doesn’t work that way. You do what the Arctic lets you do. If there’s a hurricane, you do nothing but pray your tent doesn’t blow away. But when the weather is good you do everything you can to explore the region.
And there's just so much valuable data to be gathered—data that helps us understand climate change, ecology, and wildlife behaviour. So having reasonably educated eyes out here makes an enormous difference to the scientific community.
Yes—partly on what the scientists needed, and partly on what the Arctic allowed.
You don’t conquer the Arctic. I know newspapers love that word—“conquering Everest” or “conquering the Arctic”—but it doesn’t work that way. You do what the Arctic lets you do. If there’s a hurricane, you do nothing but pray your tent doesn’t blow away. But when the weather is good you do everything you can to explore the region.
And there's just so much valuable data to be gathered—data that helps us understand climate change, ecology, and wildlife behaviour. So having reasonably educated eyes out here makes an enormous difference to the scientific community.
Not Just a Cruise — a Mission to Protect the Arctic
Why did you chose Swan Hellenic? What makes these cruises special compared to others?
Exploration cruising, for me, is cruising with purpose. Swan Hellenic isn't about getting a tan and eating gourmet meals—though the food and hospitality are truly fantastic. People on board come with genuine curiosity, eager to understand something new. They return home as ambassadors for the Arctic, motivated to protect this fragile, rapidly changing environment.
If even a fraction of our guests take meaningful action—donating to conservation, raising awareness—then my work is worthy. Swan Hellenic combines comfort, intellectual engagement, and environmental passion beautifully. Being part of this inspires me endlessly.
What's your greatest hope for these Arctic expeditions?
To inspire understanding and action. You can't care for what you don't know. But once you experience the Arctic—its beauty, its harshness, its fragile ecology—you can't help but feel responsible. My greatest joy is seeing guests depart not only amazed but committed to protecting this incredible place. That’s what meaningful exploration truly is.
Exploration cruising, for me, is cruising with purpose. Swan Hellenic isn't about getting a tan and eating gourmet meals—though the food and hospitality are truly fantastic. People on board come with genuine curiosity, eager to understand something new. They return home as ambassadors for the Arctic, motivated to protect this fragile, rapidly changing environment.
If even a fraction of our guests take meaningful action—donating to conservation, raising awareness—then my work is worthy. Swan Hellenic combines comfort, intellectual engagement, and environmental passion beautifully. Being part of this inspires me endlessly.
What's your greatest hope for these Arctic expeditions?
To inspire understanding and action. You can't care for what you don't know. But once you experience the Arctic—its beauty, its harshness, its fragile ecology—you can't help but feel responsible. My greatest joy is seeing guests depart not only amazed but committed to protecting this incredible place. That’s what meaningful exploration truly is.
