The psychological challenges are less obvious, but arguably greater. For the most part, this seems to be a happy town. There are few places in the world where people are as affluent, healthy and friendly. But there is a new background hum of unease. Unreliable ground, unpredictable weather and unstable mountain slopes create a physically unsettling environment. People do not feel as safe as before. There is a sense of loss – of reliable seasons, familiar views and declining species. Many people are recalibrating their expectations and ambitions.

Audun Salte is a trained nature guide and student of friluftsliv, the Norwegian philosophy of open-air living that was popularised in the 1850s by the playwright Henrik Ibsen. The burly, friendly man adheres strongly to friluftsliv’s principal tenet of spending time in remote locations for spiritual and physical wellbeing. Salte owns 50 Siberian huskies, which he harnesses to take tourists on dog-sled rides across the tundra, sometimes for several days. He explains that a shift in the ski season – now 20 days shorter than in the past – means he has to switch from ice runners to grass rollers earlier each year. It is part of a bigger picture that he comes to terms with, in a spirit that is simultaneously mournful and cheery. The end of humanity might be OK, he says, as long as his dogs are fine. There are regrets. He used to dream of going to the north pole. That used to be possible from Svalbard, but the polar ice sheet is no longer frozen solidly against the island. “You can no longer go safely. Perhaps the last time that was possible was two years ago.”

A few are rethinking their lives entirely. In August, Hilde Fålun Strøm will take a nine-month break from her managerial job for a cruise ship company – and her husband – and retreat deep into nature with Sunniva Sorby, a Canada-based Antarctic explorer. They plan to live in a trapper’s cabin and survive on whatever provisions they can bring on a ski-buggy, augmented by the one reindeer that Strøm, as a resident of Svalbard, is entitled to hunt each year. They will conduct research on climate disruption, including weather-monitoring and sampling of phytoplankton – the oxygen-producing forests of the ocean – and share the results online with a “global classroom” of students. Strøm says she was inspired by the avalanche, which hit 10 metres from her home. She joined the rescue operation and it left a mark. “Those were Svalbard’s first deaths from climate change. That made it personal,” she says.

Others are dealing with a gnawing feeling of impermanence. “Each time you go to work, you get evacuation anxiety,” says Lena Berntsen, who runs the reception at one of the snug, high-end hotels in the centre of town. “We try to stay prepared. I’ve learned a lot about snow – good snow and bad snow,” she says. “You know that if there is rain followed by ice, followed by snow, then you have to pack your bags.” Avalanche warnings have forced Berntsen to leave her home at the foot of the mountain four times in the past year. Last summer, she was ordered to permanently abandon her old flat because it was designated within the high-risk “red zone”. To mark the occasion, she threw an evacuation party for more than 50 guests, who turned up to say goodbye to the condemned apartment block dressed in hi-vis jackets and helmets.

Her new apartment is only slightly more secure. It is in the “orange zone”, where buildings can be evacuated temporarily in certain weather conditions. This has happened three times since Berntsen moved in. It can happen at any time of night. “It’s brutal,” she says. “The fire department come in full gear and wait until you leave.”