Organizing our things on the tundra before setting up the sleeping bags in the open

N77°42.446 W69°27.128 Elevation 22 Feet

The time is finally upon us. As I sit on the narrow beach facing the frozen bay, amidst ice chunks the size of cars, the expedition is coming to its final phase. It is one AM, and the sun has just chased away the high clouds that dominated the sky for most of the day, and is bathing us with warm, golden rays. We started this expedition at ocean level–at the foot of a glacier near Narsasuaq in the south–and forty days later, we finish at ocean level at the base of a mountain near Qaanaaq in the north, having traveled some 2300 kilometers unsupported using nothing but natural energy to propel us. Five days shy of what we had planned for, and two days less than I had anticipated. As the sun warms my spent body, there is a lot to contemplate. And nothing quite like this wild, serene, and unspoiled environment to do it in.
My head swirls with images from the scenes of our adventure, so many that I try to process and organize in my mind. But right now, my back and feet are still mad at me for what they were subjected to this afternoon!
After speaking with the helicopter base to negotiate a price, I got confirmation of a pick up for tomorrow morning. Eric and I then set off with our sledges one last time. If yesterday’s experience proved anything, it is that this promised to be a back breaker!
I carried all my sensitive equipment in a backpack–cameras (which I have seven in total, all told!), Iridium communication, HP laptop and iPack, and various electronics–and stuffed all the rest in the sledge bags, careful to use sleeping bags, jackets and anything soft laid out to soften the shocks… The rare patches of snow offered a desperate relief for the sledges: we sat on top of them, shot down and let it rip! But those were very short lived. Mostly, we descended over the treacherous terrain in what can only be described as more extreme a sport than crossing the entire Greenland ice sheet on kites! It was intense! The rocks were unrelenting, and as the slope got progressively steeper, the sledges would catch up on their way down, and threaten to take us with them. On the bright side? That gravitational pull forced us to move faster than we would have, and we just about galloped down the mountain in about three hours. By the time we reached level ground, the bottom of the sledges were torn to shreds! But this was the last of our need for them… They will retire in Qaanaaq–hopefully to some kids who could find a use for them.
Upon securing in a landing area for the chopper, I called the pilot and confirmed our coordinates. Weather pending, he will be here 1100 hours–ten hours from now.
We spread our gear on the tundra, and organized our bags, and both went on separate hikes: it was nice to walk around, with my thoughts and camera: just like old times! For all the open space and the travel, this type of trip is not for casual strolls. You’re either geared up and putting in miles; or in the tent resting and keeping warm. This evening’s hike was a nice way to get reconnected to land, and let the legs do their work (although I will admit that mine feel the miles and–more precisely–the natural Stairmaster of the last two days!) But given this incredibly remote and pristine location, it felt wrong sitting down!
Tonight we will sleep out in the open–it’s pleasant enough and too uneven to set the tent. Besides, the moss is soft, the sun is out, and the air about 5C degrees above zero. I’ll keep an eye open, and my camera (!) in case a bear wonders by!
It is so quite and so peaceful as I gaze ahead at the pouring glaciers to my side; the iced plateaus in the distance; the frozen bay ahead, and the icebergs beyond. And I claim it to be a fact: it feels good to be alive…!

Live explodes at this elevation, a long way down from the ice sheet

Majestic landscape hardly seen by humans

N77°44.458 W69°21.449 Elevation 2176 Feet

I need to make one important correction: yesterday I mentioned that the hike down to ocean level was about a kilometer and a half for a 2200 foot drop. In fact, that distance is approximately seven kilometers. This may seem like a footnote, but given the terrain, it is anything but. This is a serious hike; over some mean, jangled, “break an ankle or crack your skull”, boulder ridden sharply angled rocky slope that will put you through your paces as it challenges your balance and goes down with no end!
We left gingerly around seven PM–still on a night schedule–with essentially half of our loads, figuring that we would cover the trip in two runs: carry one load down; hike back to camp and spend the night; and finish the following day by pulling the sledges over the rocks. Easy peasy. We each strapped on about seventy pounds on our backs and set off. The incline was soon to increase, while the slope consists entirely of sharp edged rocks cracked by the harsh glacial winter conditions. The temperature was pleasant, especially as we motored down, but the winds progressively increased. An hour in, and there were howling, pushing over fifty miles per hour! The heavy cargo hardly mattered in gusts that were so powerful as to challenge our footing and push us down. The severe incline would make this hike precarious in the best of days, with no cargo. But today, it 3ad downright atletic! It took us three hours to make it down, over–it must be said–some arresting views dominating the landscape below. No sooner had we reached leveled grounds that the winds died down; the setting was serene; and the vista spectacular. Framed by mountains on either side, featuring glaciers pouring in from the top, the bay was frozen up to its mouth about three miles out. Beyond that, sprinkled like floating marshmallows on the open sea were a multitude of large, majestic icebergs. With the drop in elevation came the explosion of vegetation, and all the life that comes with it: moss, birds, bees, flies and wild flowers all thrived in the thawing tundra. We walked inadvertently very near a bird nesting in the soft moss. She clearly had not seen human beings before, and was not fazed, approaching within six feet of us. She feigned being wounded as she distracted us away from her nest, which we eventually found with four near term eggs in it.
This terrain is very uneven, and it took us a while to find ground suitable for a helicopter to land. To that point, word came back that the chopper is coming from a base quite remote from here; the cost, unfactored, is quite prohibitive–close to a second mortgage on the house! Given our options, our hands are tied, however, and this will be the unfortunate unforseable of this type of trip…
It was one AM when we begun the hike back up. As soon as we gained elevation that the winds picked up again, increasing again to a violent gale. Nervous about the the tent that we had anchored in the wet, granular snow, we raced back up the mountain–luckily, empty handed this time–which took us well over two hours. We found the tent floating in mid air, anchored by three haphazard rocks, getting man handled by the sixty miles an hour winds! This tent has seen some action on this trip! It took us thirty minutes to anchor it properly. Exhausted, we made a meal and burried ourselves in our sleeping bags to the howling conditions outside! It was four AM. This morning, we woke to the pleasant tickering sound of a stream below the snow; the winds has died and the sun was out. And today, we repeat the exercise, but pulling sledges over the rocks this time… Oh boy, this will be a rodeo!

This is after the remodeling…

N77°44.458 W69°21.449 Elevation 2176 Feet

I woke up to the buzzing sound of a fly; a bird was chirping nearby; and under the thin layer of granular snow below our camp, I could make out the tinkering sound of a stream. What a difference a day–and about a thousand meter drop in elevation–makes. Amidst the lichen, the soaked moss, and the small patches of thawing tundra, the bustling cycle of life is underway in ways that we are rediscovering after our stretch of isolation on the ice. I generally don’t give much thought to bugs flying by, other than a source of nuisance. But as we wearily sat on a rock to prepare our nine AM dinner, I observed in wonder the fly that landed on my hand as it explored it for microscopic bits of nourishment. While it methodically poked through the creases of my fingers, I contemplated the miracle of life in its remarkably opportunistic way. I also wondered what mix of vintage bacteria it found there and immediately concluded that this fly must have an appreciation for nuts, dry fruit and cheese, which is what I snacked on since my last hand sanitizer cleanse!
It was nice to have a rock–something!–to sit on. And as we ate our meal, soaking the warm rays of the high morning sun (we are four days from the summer solstice), I replayed in my mind the extraordinary transition that happened over the last eight hours of travel: from approaching land, to now being immersed in it, and the dramatic shift that came with it. Simply put: it feels like re-entering Earth’s atmosphere, after a walk on the moon!
We eventually received word last night that, given the thinly frozen state of the sea ice, neither dogsleds, nor skidoos can pick us up at the bottom. It will have to be helicopter; and the date is two days from no–on the 19th.
With that, we elected to make our way down to sea level, to bookend our trip. This left about twenty four kilometers of distance. With the vast amount of icepack, and the cool temperatures of night travel, we decided to push on with the kites as far as the terrain would allow. The wet snow of day hours freezes at night; this would strengthen the bridges over crevasses, and judging from the ones we had already crossed, this felt like a safe bet.
The wind had come up to a reasonable breeze, and we set out at one AM on the big kites.
The terrain was exhilarating: the rolling hills that had stretched over many miles on the ice sheet, were now compressed over a few hundred meters, and we flew up and down over them with ease, against the arresting backdrop of the mountain ranges that framed the fogged bay, some four thousand feet below.
We struggled for a while to find a path amidst the rolling hills of ice, and the precipitous cliffs that surrounded them. As the night wore on, and we progressively dropped in elevation, temperatures rose and we downsized to the smaller Mantas to give us more control maneuvering around the many crevasse fields.
We eventually found a way up and around the glacier. It was framed by black cliffs on either side, and we came to reach the last uninterrupted snow slope. The surface condition was crusty, and given the steep angle of the hill, we struggled to keep the sledges from barreling past us. We were making long “S” turns down the face with the kites, but the winds were now quite light, especially in the shadow of those hills. After flipping one sledge one too many times, I folded my kite, grabbed a hold of the sledges’ leash, picked a straight line and fired straight down! This would be the last time on this trip that I would feel the ice fly below my skis, and as we rapidly dropped in elevation, I would relish every moment of it! I could see the terrain leveling off ahead of me. And a new feature appeared: the patchy protrusion of rocks, breaking the ice’s surface, and a small frozen lake that gathered at the foot of the hill. I generated all the speed I could muster to carry me farthest on the leveling ground; after squeezing the very last inch of distance, I slowly came to a stop.
We had reached the base of the glacier, and for the most part, the end of the ice. The temperature had warmed up considerably to five degrees above freezing; the sky was clear; the sun baking; and we changed into shorts! After pulling the sledges along the last few sliver of snow, we settled on what is now an oasis of white amidst a sea of rocks, and set up camp.
Eric pulled the stoves out, and set them on the rocks. This, too, was a novel idea: eating outside! After dinner, I went for a hike–again, something new! The setting is arresting. We still have almost 2200 feet to descend to reach ocean level, over what looks like about a kilometer and half. All of that will be done dragging the sledges over rocks! We have forty hours to do it in before our helicopter pick up. As I reached a hilltop overlooking the bay below, I took in the majestic splendor of the surrounding mountains, and the frozen sea below. And I thanked the little angel on my shoulder that secured a safe passage. The fog that shrouded the bay this morning is dissipating. Hopefully it will hold back until our pick up: from what heard, fog can sometimes settle for days. That would compromise our helicopter pick. But then, maybe we’d get a chance to see bear…