PHOTO PRO
Behind The Lens: The Narwhal – Unicorns of the Arctic – Photos and text by Amos Nachoum, Big Animals Global Expeditions
For two weeks, we had been ex- ploring the ice around Admiralty Inlet, Baffin Island, Canada, chas- ing the elusive dream of photo- graphing narwhals. The Inuit guides led us across the frozen expanse with the quiet con-
gliding across the sparkling, still water. Among them, a male stood out, his long, spiraled tusk rising like a spear from the waves. This was the moment I had envisioned, the one I had waited for through sleepless nights and bone-deep cold. The narwhal swam with purpose, aiming for a crack in the ice where the pod would dive deep into the inlet, hunting for Arctic cod and Greenland halibut. The male’s tusk – the fabled "unicorn horn" – was a mar- vel. Up to nine feet long and weighing as much as 16 pounds, it is not just a tool but a symbol. Some say the tusk helps males assert dominance; others believe it acts as a sensory organ. Whatever its purpose, it adds to the narwhal’s mys- tique, making it one of nature’s most extraordinary creations. Framing the shot, I adjusted my Nikon F4, fitted with a 300mm lens. The narwhal surfaced again, its tusk catching
fidence of those who have lived here for generations. They carried metal poles, each about five feet long, and tested the ice with every few steps. The cracks and echoes of their probes spoke volumes to them in ways I could only imagine. The ice here is deceptive; its stability can only be understood by those who have inherited the knowledge of survival in this unforgiving environment. For them, this is home. For us, it was a stark reminder of our own fragile nature.
The cold was unrelenting, a dry chill that cut through even the thickest layers of clothing, made sharper by the wind that never stopped. Yet, we returned to the ice every day, waiting. Always waiting. It became a mantra among us: Today is the day. Be-
the low sunlight, and I pressed the shutter. The image captured a moment of connection between the ancient rhythms of the Arctic and the fleeting presence of a human observer. As I stood there, the Inuit guides watched silently, their expressions calm but know-
Narwhal – Unicorns of the Arctic
neath our feet, the Arctic Ocean stretched into unfathomable depths. Somewhere below the frozen surface, the narwhals swam, following ancient migratory paths that had guided their species for millennia. The Inuit had their own way of predicting when the whales would come. They took the wooden oar of a kayak, placed one end in the water, and pressed the other to their ear. Through clicks, knocks, and whistles, the narwhals an- nounced their presence long before we could see them. The guides, listening with a patience honed over lifetimes, couldn’t tell us exactly where the whales were, but they knew when they were closer. “Soon,” they said. And so we waited. Finally, after two weeks of anticipation, their method proved true. The faint calls of narwhals grew louder, carried to us through the wooden oar. The whales were coming. We scrambled into position, cameras mounted on tripods, scan- ning the horizon for any sign of movement. The hours passed, the anticipation made time feel electric, charged with possibility. And then, they arrived. A pod of narwhals broke the surface, their sleek bodies
ing. For them, the narwhal is more than a subject for pho- tography. It’s life. Its tusks, once used in traditional carvings and tools, have also been a source of tension between tradi- tion and conservation. Strict regulations now govern their hunting, a necessary step to protect a species whose survival depends on the delicate balance of the Arctic ecosystem. After a period of time that inevitably felt too brief, the nar- whals disappeared into the inlet’s depths, their whistles and clicks fading into the underwater vastness. The wind picked up again, and the cold pressed harder against my face. I packed up my gear, grateful for the moment I’d been given and humbled by these animals and their world. The Arctic teaches you patience. It teaches you respect. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it gives you a glimpse of its secrets. For those few moments with the narwhal, I wasn’t just a photographer. I was a witness to a story older than memory – a story of survival, beauty, and the quiet hum of life beneath the ice. Nikon F4, 300mm lens, 1/500 sec, f-5.6, ISO 200. Provia film pushed one stop.
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