LIGHTS OUT: Today the sun appears in Longyearbyen for the last time in nearly four months. It might be a challenge getting a look at it
By Mark Sabbatini on October 26, 2018
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The good news: if you’ve got a job with “normal” hours that includes an hour-long lunch break at noon you’re in a near-ideal situation at catch Longyearbyen’s last sun rays of the year and well beyond.
The bad news is you might have to fight the cloud cover or make a hasty hike to a high hill to see the last sunset before the polar night begins.
Friday’s weather forecast by the Norwegian Meteorological Institute offers at least a hope of seeing the last sunset.
The sun will rise at 12:08 p.m. and set at 1:13 p.m. Friday before it sinks below the horizon until mid-February of next year (and even then it won’t be visible to most of Longyearbyen until early March due to the surrounding mountains). But the weather forecast for Friday is iffy since cloudy skies are forecast most of the day, although a bit of clearing is predicted right about the time the sun makes its final appearance.
For those not familiar with Longyearbyen’s sunlight cycle, the final sunset will be over the horizon of Isjforden northwest of town.
There will be perhaps two weeks where useable twilight gradually dimishes, followed by total darkness until the latter part of January. The next official sunrise is Feb. 16, 2019.
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation.
Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads.
But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation.
Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads.
But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
Icepeople is again facing an immediate existential crisis due (of course) to hardships largely inflected by the pandemic. In short, 1) the website needs $22 U.S. (190 NOK) to stay online for another month and 2) the editor needs any and all help possible to avoid homelessness in the middle of polar winter (not that it’s legal here any other time of the year).
So if you appreciate Icepeople for its unique stories about Svalbard and/or critical news during these critical times, as well as its features about the more colorful aspects of life here (today’s feature about the upcoming Polarjazz festival is for the event that first drew our editor’s attention to Svalbard way back in 2008) please do whatever you can during what are admittedly incredibly harsh times for many.