A few hours into darkness our motion sensors scream out, loud and shrill. We move into the action plan. Alarmingly, my sleeping bag zipper is jammed and it feels like an eternity before I can crawl out of the tent. I quickly regroup and grab my rifle. Our headlamps scan the nearby landscape, fully expecting to see glaring yellow eyes in the darkness. Something has triggered our critter warning system at the food storage area. It's either a polar bear or a fox. We carefully dismantle the perimeter trip lines in order to investigate.
The places rivers and oceans take us! The never-ending arteries of liquid highways to endless adventure and discovery have been well known since explorers first set sail in search of new lands. From a purely adventurer’s point of view, it’s impossible not to be intrigued with the way of life in the Arctic. Personal fulfillment and growth are found in acquiring skills to move safely through cold and remote landscapes that are packed with icebergs.
Despite the digital age, information is scarce, and a sense of adventure prevails for those paddling in these remote waters. The stakes are high: if errors compound, rescue is not assured. High mountains conceal changes in the weather, the tides, and the swell rolling in off the North Atlantic. Cold water, wind, and icebergs that pitch as their melting weight shifts ballast. The ocean is dynamic, yet all this can be managed with a well thought out plan.
Several years ago, I had the opportunity to visit East Greenland and the archipelago of Kulusuk Island for a ski mountaineering film project led by Pirhuk, Greenland Mountain Guides. The founder’s expertise in moving across these oceans and mountains was crafted over a 25-year connection with the settlement.
On that project we accessed ski lines by traveling great distances over the pack ice by snow machine and dogsled. Mountain top views revealed endless fjords and islands. I immediately knew I had to return in the summer months for a stand up paddle expedition to explore the same waters I now traveled on skis.
Last summer, an opportunity for an extended trip surfaced and I quickly cleared my calendar. My partner Julie would join me later for the stand up paddle adventure. Before long I was landing on the gravel runway on Kulusuk Island, just outside the same named village with a fluctuating population of 200. The village lies on the shores of Torsuut Tunoq Sound, where the ocean is vital for hunting and providing for the inhabitants.
I reconnected with my friends at Pirhuk who have been instrumental in my learning the culture and ways of the Arctic. We fished and paddled around nearby islands where humpback whales regularly feed. This gave me time to adapt to the new place, while also testing systems and equipment in cold waters. It was the perfect introduction to understanding the environment, especially tidal considerations and iceberg management.
East Greenland is well known for fierce Piteraqs, otherwise known as cold katabatic winds that drop down off the icecaps and sweep across the fjords. (Piteraq translates into “ That which attacks you”.) More common are Neqqajaaq winds trending from the Northeast at this time of year. Either way, there is vulnerability to rapid weather changes and questions as to how a stand up board would fare in large crossings.
When my partner Julie arrived, we created a plan for a multi-day trip in the area of the Sermilik Fjord (meaning Ice fjord) in the Ammassalik Region of East Greenland, where a concentration of islands is ideally suited to build confidence before traveling into committing waters.
A few days prior to departure, an unusual Ptoraq wind event off the ice caps produced a force of 10 on the Beaufort scale - a reminder of the importance of proper and appropriate decision making in this harsh environment. Our forecasts indicated another event was highly unlikely in the coming week, but for safety reasons, areas of shelter were planned.
A rule of thumb is that weather and wind improve nearer to the ice caps, where the towering walls offer some protection from the Northeast winds.
The 40-mile shuttle by powerboat into the interior was incredible. We passed under unclimbed peaks, glaciers spilling into the ocean, as well as several fishing boats harvesting their catch for the approach of winter.
We passed a small, colorful village of 100 residents before crossing a large fjord that seemed impossibly choked with ice. I was certain the shuttle would be recalled due to conditions.
Instead, the hunter backed off the throttle and slowly weaved his way around heaving icebergs and blocks. Suddenly the boat came to an abrupt halt and the engines were shut down. Our captain quickly had his gun sights on a seal 300 feet away. It was a long shot under any circumstances, never mind while drifting between icebergs.
Crack!
A small celebration ensued. We motored over to pull aboard a ring seal that would provide multiple purposes in the village. The way of the Arctic is simple yet complex. Nothing is assured and perseverance is vital to survival. Opportunities like this one are not passed up.
Near the end of the day our boat ride was over, and we listened to the engine slowly fade into the distance. These moments are special. Our preparation and planning was about to be put into action.
Early September days in the Arctic are long but there was work to be done before darkness. We scanned the landscape and selected an optimal tent location to give us good visibility of the area. We were no longer the apex creature in this part of the world. Camping in the Arctic comes with certain risks.
Greenland is known to have a healthy polar bear (Nanoq) population, and autumn is their feeding time in preparation for the long winter ahead. Food sources from the long summer had dwindled, and bears were known to wander the coastline, waiting for the pack ice to form as their primary hunting grounds.
I loaded the rifle's magazine and Julie prepared military grade flares. We reviewed our bear protocols together, then went to work setting up camp. Our last step before zipping the tent was arming a trip wire system around the sleeping area. Small grade explosives would deploy if anything approached our tent. We practiced a systematic process of quickly unzipping our sleeping bags, donning headlamps, and readying the flares and rifle before we turned in for our first night.
I reminded myself that on each of my three trips to Greenland, I had seen polar bears and random prints scattered on the snow-filled mountains. Although chances of encounter are extremely low, you cannot ignore bear protocol.
Greenland has no trees, so food storage methods are minimal for campers like us. Before turning in, Julie and I constructed a rock cairn and placed a critter bag of food inside. Motion sensor alarms were set to ward off nocturnal thieves but would also spike our adrenaline when triggered.
Shortly after first light, we brewed some coffee and waited for the rising sun to melt the frost off our gear. The clear nights also bring a thin sheet of ice over the fjord. Doubting paddle efficiency on this layer, we delayed our start to allow daytime warming to melt it off. Conservative decisions in this wild place are paramount, and it didn’t seem wise to push off through newly formed ice.
By 11 AM the ice offered a few openings, so we did a recon paddle rather than move our camp. With enough gear packed on our paddleboards to spend the night out in the open if needed, we plunged our paddles into the ice cold waters to explore our immediate coastline.
The water clarity was like nothing we had ever seen before. As the clouds passed by overhead, the variability of the water color changed from dark blues to aqua green. Neither of us had experienced glassy waters such as these, and the sheer magnitude of the icebergs was experienced in full as the stand up paddleboard’s vantage point broke through the surface glare.
A rule of thumb in understanding iceberg passage is to know that only 10% of its mass reveals itself above the water. Our observations of even the smallest icebergs was simply breathtaking as we paddled by. These incredible, varied and magnificent freshwater sculptures disappear deep into the ocean, and we understood why it’s best to give them a wide berth. Avoiding the iceberg fields was nearly impossible so each time we came upon one, we tried to assess the stability and quickly paddle by. Small rollers from the North Atlantic pitched the massive bergs like ships at sea, which was followed by a sharp nose dive deep into the water over and over again. The air forced out from under the icebergs sounded as though the ocean was actually breathing. Icebergs collapsing sounded like artillery fire and at times it was hard to determine what direction the sound was actually coming from as it reverberated across the ice and echoed over the water. I was constantly scanning for rogue waves.
Often Julie and I were forced onto thin ice and found that forward movement was possible, but not necessarily sustainable. Thankfully small openings of water continued to allow us to weave our way forward. Thoughts of these small channels freezing and locking up remained at the forefront of our minds, but we were reassured by the extra gear we had brought in the event we were unable to return to camp that evening.
By cautiously observing how the icebergs responded to tidal changes and wind switches gave us enough confidence to plan for the next day and move deeper into the fjords. Early the next morning, we awoke to overcast skies and discovered that little new ice had formed so we quickly broke camp, loaded our boards, and set off.
Paddling the narrow channels close to the shoreline was visually engaging, so we selected a route in a chain of islands with multiple options. The map showed an interesting narrow channel; however, we weren’t sure if it was passable due to the current tides. We moved forward with a possible portage in mind.
From sea level the icebergs look impassable. For travelers, it is a game of optimism while problem solving for the best path. As Julie and I approached the narrowest section, I got low on my board and pushed the smaller ice chunks out of my way from the nose, just barely snaking through these tight spots. Julie followed close behind as the ocean current quickly closed the door behind us with ice. We made our way through each blockade while carefully scanning the shoreline for polar bears. We were easy prey, and our progress was nearly halted several times by thick ice.
During my polar bear research before our expedition, I discovered these bears can swim great distances at seven miles an hour. Our top speed on paddleboards, fully loaded, was about five miles an hour for brief periods in perfect water.
Eventually we broke through and saw the edge of the Sermilik Fjord. At this point it was several hours into the day and we needed to find fresh water. Off in the distance I saw what looked like a drainage notch off a high summit, so it seemed reasonable this would be a likely spot to fill our hydration bags.
The scale of Greenland is impossible to grasp. Its entire coastline is more than 27,000 miles. That is longer than the distance around the equator due to its multiple fjords reaching inland. Therefore it is quite easy to underestimate travel time. Before maps, Tunumiit travelers navigated by carving coastline features on Siberian driftwood they found. A basic but effective way to track location by counting fjords, islands and landmarks.
Julie and I arrived at the water source almost two hours later and discovered it also provided an excellent location for our next camp. We immediately explored the peninsula on foot and found several old structures tucked away in a small inlet. A short walk revealed an old village with crumbling stone houses with grass sod insulating its walls. On the hillside was a gravesite with a few unmarked crosses. Greenland Inuit burial grounds are not named as the ancestors are thought to live on through subsequent generations who will carry their names.
As we explored, we found that the village was abandoned after a savage arctic storm leveled everything standing. We could see new inhabitants had taken over from the numerous fox dens dug under the buildings’ foundations. With that in mind we scurried back to our chosen location to secure our food cache and establish camp.
That night, we turned in with confidence in our line of defense against foraging critters. Setting up a bear perimeter went much smoother this time. We turned in for the night with confidence in our line of defense. With long hours of time spent in the tent, a good book is unmatched and I’m deep into reading the explorations of Knud Rasmussens’ early 20th century explorations in the Arctic. It was hard not to juxtapose our own exploration to have further appreciation on the resilience of these early hunters and explorers.
Suddenly the silence of our camp was broken by a critter alert.
Not allowing the thought of false alarms to enter our minds, I grabbed the rifle and went outside the tent to investigate. I looked up to the sky and the words just fell out of my mouth.
“Julie... It’s on… I mean… it’s not on!”
Whoops.
Poor choice of words. It was the Northern Lights overhead, not a bear.
Julie responded with a few choice profanities and equal excitement as we scouted out our food area while curtains of Aurora Borealis shot across the sky above us in all directions. Our food tent, flapping in the wind, had triggered the sensor.
Once again overnight freezing occurred, so we decided to stay in our current location and explore the landscape and seascape for a couple of days. Utilizing a base camp allowed us lightweight travel and several local hikes into the mountains. We checked in daily with our satellite device for weather updates and confirmed a weather change was on the horizon. With that in mind we decided to create an exit strategy before its arrival. I sent coordinates back to Kulusuk for a pick up the next day across the fjord, which was over ten miles away.
At dusk, we climbed to a high point to photograph the safest route around a village-sized iceberg. Many in the area had drifted down from the Helheim Glacier, one of the fastest moving glaciers in the world, which progresses at an alarming rate of over one hundred feet per day.
By this time whitecaps were already building, and a fog bank had rolled in. Visibility was cut down to about half a mile. We knew that if it was anything like this in the morning we would not be able to do the crossing. Leaving camp by 11.00 AM was essential in order to make our rendezvous time for extraction.
We woke up that final day to an incredible sunrise and lifting fog. However, the cooling effect of clear skies created an ice layer thicker than we had previously experienced. Reluctantly we pushed back our departure to noon and packed up our site with optimism that we would get through the ice. By 11:30 AM we loaded up our boards and began paddling, each taking turns to break through the ice. It didn't take too long before we saw clear channels of open water ahead of us.
We leapfrogged through these openings with our eyes glued on the massive iceberg that was our biggest concern. At the midpoint of our crossing, we did a quick time check to discover we were a bit behind schedule, but conditions were rapidly improving so we began to move faster. It’s been said that this particular crossing is a rite of passage for human powered craft.
With our risk mostly mitigated, the sense of accomplishment began to sink in. Our connection to each other and these powerful surroundings were realized. Our personal fears and doubts represented a healthy reality check in this other-worldly place. Julie and I reflected on how far we had both come to deepen our understanding and respect for travel in the Arctic.
Much Gratitude to- Pirhuk, Greenland Mountain Guides and the people of Kulusuk.
