Winter Whales
Some time ago, a friend asked me when my fascination with whales began. Was it, like many people, a childhood love sparked by Free Willy or some other movie? I thought about it for a moment… and honestly, I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started. In fact, it might even be the other way around – I’ve always been drawn to wolves and all things fluffy. But I think my admiration for cetaceans grew steadily over the last decade, as I spent more time in the Arctic regions and along the coastlines of Norway, Iceland, and Greenland. Once you’ve seen a humpback whale’s tail disappearing into the calm, shimmering sea beneath the midnight sun, with its mesmerizing colors reflecting off the water – there’s no way not to fall in love with these majestic creatures.
Over time, as I became more aware of our fragile planet, I began to understand the profound role whales play in the health of our oceans. The more I learned about them, the more I realized how deeply intertwined their fate is with the future of our world. And with that understanding, came a powerful urge to protect them – to safeguard their oceans, their home, and the delicate balance of life that sustains us all.
In the past few years, I've fully embraced the role of a "whale nerd," devouring anything and everything I could get my hands on. I watched countless documentaries, read books about cetaceans, and went on as many whale-watching tours as I could. Their beauty, intelligence, and importance to our ecosystem captivated me. And so, I discovered there was one species that fascinated me above all others: Orcinus orca – the wolves of the sea.
Historically, sailors observed orcas hunting and feeding on large whales, which led to their nickname "killer whale." Their Latin name, Orcinus orca, reflects this as well: Orcinus means "of the kingdom of the dead," and orca refers to a kind of whale. Despite their hunting prowess, orcas are also known for their compassion, strong family bonds, and sense of community. These qualities make them some of the most complex and socially advanced creatures on Earth, and for me, they are the perfect embodiment of what makes a favorite animal.
After watching Norwegian orcas from land and small boats, my dream of photographing them underwater grew stronger. The call of the sea became impossible to ignore. So, I threw myself into underwater photography, investing in gear and spending the summer training along Norway's northern coast. I practiced capturing jellyfish, crabs, and friends kayaking, but nothing could compare to the anticipation of what was to come. Winter 2024 was my chance – the opportunity to spend as much time as possible with the Winter Whales of Norway, and immerse myself in their world.
Every winter, herring flood the fjords of northern Norway. These tiny, shimmering fish follow a long migration route from Iceland to the Barents Sea, returning to the fjords in winter to spawn. Their arrival marks the beginning of the herring feast – the season of the Winter Whales. Orcas, humpbacks, and fin whales follow the herring, sometimes even joined by sperm whales. It’s a spectacle unlike any other on Earth, and after years of watching documentaries, I longed to see it with my own eyes. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the reality.
In early November, I boarded the RV Kinfish in Tromsø. The excitement in my chest was almost unbearable. I was finally going to witness the wild beauty of these creatures up close, during the fleeting daylight of the approaching polar night. Our destination: Kvænangen Fjord, a place where the herring season unfolds year after year. The landscape here is stunning, with rugged mountain peaks, remote islands, and small villages shaped by Sami culture and fishing traditions. Located at 70° North, the entire region is bathed in the icy blue light of winter, and at night, the aurora dances across the sky. It was the perfect setting for photographing whales, and that’s where my mission began.
For any whale lover, experiencing the herring feast in the Arctic is a dream come true. But to actually be there, surrounded by hundreds of whales and dolphins, felt surreal. Even now, as I write these words, I still can’t fully believe it happened. Watching these creatures from a boat is one thing, but seeing them underwater, hunting and playing, was beyond extraordinary.
As I prepared to dive, my heart was racing. I checked my camera settings one last time, adjusted my goggles, and placed the snorkel in my mouth. Slowly, I slid into the dark Arctic sea. The ice-cold water enveloped me, and as I dove into the deep, my body gently moved with the waves. My breathing slowed, and everything around me became silent.
Then, I heard them.
Many people might feel intimidated by the idea of jumping into cold, dark water with such massive animals, but for me, it was the opposite. The instant I entered the water, a wave of calm washed over me. The freezing cold numbed my skin, but my heart was warm with anticipation. The soft, haunting calls of the whales echoed through the water, and it felt as if time itself had slowed. I was no longer an observer – I was part of their world. For a few fleeting moments, everything else faded away.
Floating in the water, surrounded by orcas and humpbacks, I felt a strange mix of emotions – awe, gratitude, and overwhelming happiness. And then, they noticed me.
A group of orcas approached, their sleek black-and-white bodies cutting effortlessly through the water. They moved gracefully, circling me, scanning me with their echolocation. Our eyes met, and I could sense their curiosity. One rolled onto its side, exposing its belly – a sign of trust. Another swam past, turning its head slightly to get a closer look at the clumsy human with a camera. In that moment, I felt something I never expected: welcome. It was as if they had allowed me into their world, if only for a fleeting moment.
I wanted to capture everything – the movement, the light, the connection. But I was torn between documenting the experience and simply existing in it. Tears filled my mask as I floated among them, overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. For the first time in my life, I felt truly complete.
Suddenly, the hunt began. Orcas moved with practiced ease, as if they had rehearsed this moment for generations. A swift slap of a tail sent shockwaves through the water, stunning the herring. Unlike many predators, orcas don’t simply devour their prey. They eat with remarkable precision, picking up individual fish and consuming only the fattiest parts: the head and belly. Then, just as effortlessly, they discard the remains.
This ritual repeated itself, a mesmerizing dance of power and control. But then, chaos. A massive humpback whale emerged from the depths, its mouth wide open, and crashed through the carefully herded bait ball. The orcas, masters of strategy, were momentarily outmaneuvered by the sheer size and appetite of this giant. The water erupted in chaos as the herring scattered, and the orcas regrouped to continue their hunt. It was a reminder that, no matter how calculated or skilled, nature’s wildness is always unpredictable.
Drifting in the aftermath, a jellyfish crossed my path – a lion’s mane jellyfish. Its long, trailing tentacles had been eaten, possibly by an orca, leaving behind a fragile, pulsing body. A quiet reminder of how power and vulnerability coexist in these waters. Nature is a balance of strength and fragility, dominance and resilience. The orcas, precise and strategic, command the Arctic seas, while the jellyfish, seemingly defenseless, continues to drift. The humpbacks, colossal and unpredictable, disrupt the balance with a single gulp. And I, floating between them, felt caught between the raw power of the Arctic and the delicate beauty of this fleeting experience.
As I surfaced, the cold air stung my skin, and for a moment, the line between sea and sky blurred. The ocean below, vast and mysterious; the sky above, equally infinite. Here in the Arctic, darkness stretches beyond the water, filling the land, the mountains, and the air itself. While some might find the long polar night oppressive, to me, it is a season of magic. The civil twilight brings only a few hours of daylight, creating an ethereal glow. Even without direct sunlight, the eternal blue hours, the soft radiance of the moon, and the northern lights transform the sky into a spectacle of beauty.
In total, I spent two months in Kvænangen Fjord, photographing the whales. During this time, the nights were as spectacular as the days. Over the deep Arctic waters, flickers of green shimmered above, stretching and twisting in fluid motion. The aurora danced across the fjord, reflecting the vastness of the universe in the water below. It was truly magical.
A silent reminder that no matter how much we think we’ve seen, there will always be something greater, something more powerful, waiting just beyond our reach.
Photo by Daniel Ernst
About my gear
All photos were taken with my Canon EOS R5, both underwater and topside. Underwater I focused on photography, but I also attached a GoPro to my underwater housing to record some videos for the memories.
I used a SeaFrogs SALTED LINE underwater housing for the R5, equipped with an 8" glass dome port and a zoom gear for the 15-35mm lens. Overall I was happy with my choice, as I encountered no real issues. I'm sure there are higher-end housings out there, like those from Nauticam, but the price-to-performance ratio of SeaFrogs really convinced me when I was researching options. One key factor for me was having a real glass dome to ensure maximum clarity in my photos. It’s said that glass domes can perform slightly better than acrylic ones, which are more prone to micro-scratches and tend to attract water droplets more easily – especially when taking split shots.
Most of my underwater photos were taken between 20 and 35mm, so in retrospect, I can say the zoom gear was definitely worth it. I mainly used the Canon RF 15-35mm f/2.8 because I love the flexibility it offers with its range of focal lengths.
Unfortunately, my GoPro let me down at the most important moment and simply wouldn’t power on, even though the battery was fully charged. That’s why I’d opt for a DJI Osmo next time.
A huge thanks to Canon Deutschland for giving me the opportunity to capture everything above water with my dream lens. For me the RF 100-300mm f2.8 is the ideal lens for winter in the Arctic. It's incredibly sharp and perfect for low-light situations. I also used it a few times with a 1.4x and 2x teleconverter, which gave me the chance to capture even more details at 600mm f5.6.
If you have any questions please let me know in the comments. :)
Photo by Timo Schönfelder
