Going to Greenland

Last summer I went to Greenland. I love that statement, both for its oddity and for the wonderful memories it brings up. I never thought I would go to Greenland, and I did not originally plan my summer vacation intending to go to Greenland, but somehow, I ended up there. And I guess I've never been the same . . .

Greenland

The name is deceptively plain for such a complicated place. Often described as the largest island on earth (Australia being defined as a continent, not an island), Greenland is vast, pristine, eerily quiet, hauntingly beautiful and . . . unforgettable. Ever since I was a child and saw this huge land mass on the maps and globes I spent hours looking at, I drew a blank whenever I tried to imagine this giant island. China I could imagine in my mind's eye. Africa was another place I could contemplate and conjure up associated thoughts and images. Besides, I had seen pictures of these and many other places I hoped to visit someday. But visit Greenland? The thought literally never crossed my mind. Furthermore, I can't recall ever seeing a photograph of this strange place. If I had, I guess I had filed it away in my memory along with photos of other ice-bound lands and endless white landscapes. And how many people does one encounter who have actually been there?

My travel destinations were the obvious ones for years. Europe and Asia offered cultural riches and dense layers of history in countless cities and towns. But something started to pull me in a different direction – a distinctly northerly direction. Then on one trip I found myself in Canada's northern reaches enjoying crystal clear nights with startling views of the Milky Way. I marveled at remote seacoasts where seal colonies thrived beneath giant cliffs covered with thousands of seabirds. I was ready to consider Greenland.

Planning a trip to Greenland is not as difficult as you might think, particularly now that the Internet can be used as a research tool. Besides, one's options are pretty limited when it comes to transportation to and within Greenland. There are only a few gateway cities from which one can fly to Greenland. Once there, only a limited number of towns and settlements can be easily visited. In addition, there are only two modes of travel within the island due to the vast distances and rugged mountain topography: by boat or aircraft. Finally, the choices of places to stay and eat are in general pretty limited, which simplifies matters a great deal. Probably the most difficult part of planning a trip to Greenland is trying to master the names of the towns and settlements!

South Greenland

South Greenland seemed like a pretty good choice for my first visit. There are bi-weekly flights from Reykjavik, Iceland to Narsarsuaq, the "gateway" to Southern Greenland. From Narsarsuaq I had several options: by taking advantage of the ferries and helicopter flights between the nearby settlements, I could reach a fascinating part of the island and a variety of landscapes and towns.

In Reykjavik's tiny downtown airport I realized I was the only American traveler and one of only 2 or 3 solo travelers waiting for the much-delayed flight to Narsarsuaq. The other passengers were members of small European tour groups. While in Greenland I encountered small groups from Denmark, Germany, Italy and Spain. From what I could gather, in addition to my research back home, these groups were fairly expensive. The groups also followed strict itineraries and generally steered clear of any strenuous hiking or other activities. I was happy to have the freedom to go where I wanted to go and to do whatever I wanted to do. Slightly jet-lagged from my overnight flight from New York to Reykjavik, I was more than a little disappointed at the 5 hour delay in the flight's departure. The flight originated in the Faroe Islands and apparently had been delayed due to weather conditions there. At any rate, the beginning of a strange odyssey finally got underway . . . late.

Flying into Narsarsuaq, the only fixed-wing landing strip in southern Greenland, is more than a little intimidating. For one thing, the view from the airplane for quite some time takes in the "Inland Ice" or "sea of ice" that covers 85% of Greenland's interior. Craggy mountain peaks and ridges seem to struggle through the ice and thrust through the surface, which flows around them in a very disturbing deliberateness. The titanic clash between jagged mountain ridges and the inevitable smothering power of so much ice makes one feel very small and insignificant. As the plane approaches Narsarsuaq, the mountains seem to break free from the ice and emerge as giant, forbidding masses – these are some of the oldest rocks on the planet, more than 3 billion years old. As the plane descended I asked myself for the first of many times, "Where the heck am I?"

South Greenland's landscape is both forbidding and seductive. Looking at a map of the area one is struck by the serrated coastline and can't help but be confused by the fingers of land that extend in every direction against a blue background. To make matters worse, the "land" is actually a jumble of vertical mountains, most of which are completely inaccessible! The finger-like fjords snake through the mountain ranges and terminate in bays that themselves are the end-points of the glaciers that run down from the inland ice cap. If all of this sounds confusing, try navigating through this region! Needless to say, there are no roads connecting any of the towns or settlements. This landscape will thrill the adventure traveler and probably over-awe and perhaps intimidate the more conventional traveler. Me, I was there to hike, and the confusing maps and chaotic jumble of jagged mountains, fjords, glaciers and lakes only excited me even more.

After a relaxing night at the Narsarsuaq Youth Hostel (the average age of the guests was well beyond the "youth" range) I decided to take the recommendation of the manager, Eric, and begin my hike north on a beautiful sunny day. My destination was the Qooqqup Glacier and I can assure you that there have been few times in my travels when I was as excited as I was that day. I was in Greenland and it was a beautiful day! (I had fully expected rain). I headed north of "town" (a small collection of buildings clustered near the landing strip and airport) along an actual road. The road is a remnant of the days when the airstrip was used by the United States Army during the Second World War and for several years thereafter. It leads through a glacial valley which also bears the nickname of "Hospital Valley:" a large barracks-like hospital complex was also built here, and later abandoned. Everything was scavenged and removed and all that remains today is a winding asphalt road and a lone chimney stack.

After the paved road ends, a rocky path continues up the valley toward the inland ice and the outlet of an inactive glacier, the Kuussuup Glacier. On each side of the valley the mountains rise up, jagged and rocky but softened somewhat by a covering of stubbornly clinging dwarf willow and juniper, with vibrant green moss and grass growing near the many tiny streams that run off the mountainsides. The path to the glacier passes through a lovely valley called the Blomsterdalen, and parallels a sparkling clear and very swift-running stream. Following the stream to a vertical wall from which it tumbles as a waterfall, I had no choice but to climb straight up. After struggling with the vertical rock face, I was rewarded with a spectacular view. The glacial river zigzags down to the mouth of the fjord, towering peaks flanking it in every direction. Looking back up toward the ice cap and glacier, the view is bleak but hauntingly beautiful: hard gray rock and dark icy lakes at the bottom of neighboring peaks that are even higher than the ones below. This is the trail to the Kuussuup Glacier.

For trailblazers and adventurers, there is the rewarding possibility of a different glacier experience outside of Narsarsuaq. By climbing further up and over an eastern ridge, which in fact forms the Mellemlandet Peninsula, one can hike over to the adjacent fjord and see one of the most spectacular glaciers on earth: The Qooqqup Glacier. There is no path, or in fact, any easy way to traverse the ridge. The buggy, willow choked hillsides zigzag past a chain of dark brooding glacial lakes which must be circumnavigated. Steep cliffs rise abruptly from several of the lakes. When I undertook this hike, I was struck by the remoteness of the central ridge of the Mellemlandet Peninsula. Once one climbs away from the small trail from Narsarsuaq to the Kuussuup Glacier, there is no longer any trace at all of human passage. In fact, there is also no likelihood of encountering another person on this ridge: it is well off the beaten track. The incredible silence of this landscape only enhances the feeling of remoteness. Of course, the eerie boggy lowlands and jagged rocky highlands don't help much either! More than once I reminded myself that this was not a place to be careless: a sprained ankle or mishap of any kind would be very serious in this remote landscape.

The hike is extremely rewarding, however, because the ridge eventually ends in a dramatic drop down to the neighboring fjord. This fjord terminates in an active glacier which presents a truly awe-inspiring view: a giant wall of blue ice filling an entire valley, behind it a sea of white ice flows endlessly from the Inland Ice cap. From the high ridge elevation one can see mountains and ridges suffocated by miles of flowing ice. In front of the glacier face is a giant bay, opalescent blue, choked with ice so dense it looks like you could walk across it. Further out the bright blue water is more evident, but it is still studded with huge blue and white ice chunks. At the point where the Qooqqut fjord widens before joining another, larger fjord, a circle of massive snow-capped peaks serves as a backdrop. The overall silence is overwhelming. The view is so startling and the scale so vast that the mind can barely take it all in. While trying to mentally process everything, I tried to interpret the occasional strange sounds which echoed from the ice-choked bay. The ice is under so much pressure that a kind of moaning and cracking noise sometimes drifts upward, slightly distorted by the distance. Every now and then a very sharp cracking or gunshot type of noise reverberates up from the ice.

The day I hiked to the Qooqqup Glacier was sunny and beautiful but the bugs were out in force! Hundreds of tiny midges swarmed around my face, attracted to the carbon dioxide and flying on a suicide mission. Before I hurriedly put on my bug hat, I swallowed more than a few. Aside from that one drawback, however, there are few day hikes I can recommend more highly. Warning: this hike is a long one, mostly off-trail, and involves hand-over-hand rope climbing, rock climbing, some sloshing through bogs and a high level of bug tolerance!

Sheep Farms and Icebergs

There is something very moody and dreamlike about the passenger ferry which runs down the fjord from Narsarsuaq to Qassiarsuk and on to Qaqortoq. For one thing, it's a smallish wooden boat painted bright orange and white – a colorful wreck. For another, the water in the fjord is a bright translucent blue – probably due to the glacial runoff but startling nevertheless to encounter Caribbean turquoise colors in the Arctic. The boat zips across the fjord to Qassiarsuk in 20 minutes. That 20 minutes feels like a journey back in time.

Qassiarsuk is an ancient place, originally known as Brattahlid when it was founded by Eric the Red and his band of Norsemen in 982. The landscape around Qassiarsuk must closely resemble the landscape Eric the Red inhabited. Sheep roam around the hills, cropping the willow and other shrubs down to a soft green carpet. The reddish hills and exposed dirt are softened by the green carpet but the swift-flowing waterfalls gushing down the hillsides and the jagged peaks in the distance remind the traveler that this is no idyllic Scottish highlands scene. Standing on the shore and watching the icebergs drift down the electric blue waters of the fjord while feeling a chill nip in the air leaves one with no doubt that this place is different. Nevertheless, there is a bucolic feeling of peacefulness in Qassiarsuk. Colorful little houses perched on bright green hillsides are connected by narrow muddy lanes. Noisy all-terrain vehicles followed by madly barking dogs splash through these muddy routes. A large icy stream gushes down from the mountainside behind the village and almost splits it in two. Standing in front of the little houses and admiring the hillsides and sheep you feel a sense of tranquility missing from some other settlements in Greenland where the scenery is so overwhelming.

The stone foundations of Eric the Red's ancient settlement lie scattered among the modern houses, presenting an eerie contrast. They remind one of the otherworldliness of the place – the Norsemen inexplicably vanished, after all, leaving only the stone ruins and other vestiges of their lives in this strange and harsh place. If you stand with your back to the ruins and look across the fjord on an overcast day, you'll see an eerie white glow rising above the jagged gray peaks in the distance. The glow comes from the inland ice. The ice cap is so immense and powerful that even on a cloudy day it reflects light and produces a brightness almost as powerfully as the sun. The presence of such an unthinkable expanse of ice is another reminder (as if one needed more!) that a harsh and overwhelmingly powerful force of nature lies just beyond the jumbled collection of sheep, dogs and colorful little houses, which seem like comically small child's toys next to what surrounds them. The underlying chill in the air reminded me that this brief moment of a summer day would vanish sooner than later and be replaced by something unimaginably cold and brutal.

As there is precious little flat land in Greenland, the road out of Qassiarsuk climbs vertically right behind the small collection of houses. Within minutes I was walking in a world of dark red and green shades: the crushed rocks of the road and the rocky outcrops surrounding it are blood red. Around the rocks, however, are sloping meadows of green foliage – the willows and other shrubs clipped down by the sheep and the short grasses growing between them. The road rises and rises in twists and turns. It's a two hour long hike across a dramatic and beautiful landscape to Tasiusaq. Tasiusaq is a sheep station: a few families raise sheep there during the brief summer and fall months, and spend the winter in Narsaq, the town at the end of the entire peninsula on which these settlements are located.

Tasiusaq Bay is an eerily quiet place. Its colors are a dark muted red and a bright milky blue. The beach is fine red rock and sand and the bay water is as smooth as a mirror. Reflecting in that mirror are row upon row of icebergs of every shape and size, forming a bewildering array of colors and textures. Some are frosty white and jagged-edged, while others are beautifully sculpted and bright blue or even transparent as glass. The shapes are fantastical. The silence everywhere is overwhelming. Unexpectedly, there is a loud crack, a small explosion and a splash. Somewhere, a large chunk of ice has broken off an iceberg. But there is no way to tell from where the ice fell, as the sound travels so far in the silence. Judging from the echo of the noise and the curious delay in the sound, the ice that fell was probably very far away.

I spent a glorious, drizzly, overcast day circumnavigating Tasiusaq Bay, my destination: Ipiuttat. Ipiuttat is a peak at the end of a peninsula with a stunning view down two fjords, one of which terminates in a twin glacier. Although the day was gray, I found my spirits couldn't be higher in such a landscape. Everything was wet - the grassy slopes, the rocky hills and ridges – and the landscape seemed to be flowing with all the water it was absorbing. There were streams everywhere gushing down the rocky slopes. The trip around the bay requires fording more than one stream. But what streams! These streams (Qorlortup Itinnera is the largest) literally rocket into the bay, gushing torrents of crystal clear water. They meander and cut channels everywhere. Of course I got wet – there was no way to avoid it. My shoes and socks were soaked.

By the time I was within sight of my destination, the landscape was playing tricks on my eyes. Every time I rounded a bay or headland, the land curved back and another cove or ridge extended away in front of my eyes. What looked like a small mountain at the end of the last bay was actually just a ridge, behind which was another ridge and behind that, well, when I saw how far I had to climb I just had to sit down and think things through for a while. It was tough going: lots of tangled roots and shrubs and sharp jagged boulders. Luckily, even in the harshness of this landscape there was a bright spot: blueberries seemed to thrive on the slopes of this mountain and I ate handfuls on my way up. Every now and then I would look around and my jaw would drop at the views down the fjords and back to the bay. I gained elevation pretty quickly, so I could see a long distance – until the mist and fog crept up, surrounded me and blocked out everything but the rock in front of my face. I have to admit that by the time I reached the top I was chilled to the bone, soaked and couldn't see much of anything. But every step was worth it, even the one on the way down when my boot caught in a willow root and I tumbled head first down a slope!

On my way to Ipiuttat I made a new friend. An arctic fox, the size of a small dog, stood on its hind legs and barked loudly when I approached its rocky home. Its home was a bizarre peninsula of pink and rose colored rock that looked like it was melting into the bay. Unfortunately, the fox wouldn't stop barking and even followed me for a good distance, escorting me off the peninsula and on to the next. It's behavior was so erratic that I was confused. Later I discovered that rabies is a problem among some Greenland wildlife. I was glad my wildlife encounter had a happy ending.

During my stay in Tasiusaq I was honored to be a guest at a "kaffemik" hosted by Otto and Jorgine Frederiksen. From my limited understanding of Greenlandic culture, a kaffemik is a celebration of a happy occasion and a cross between a coffee break and an open house. The basic ingredients are: (1) an occasion to celebrate, (2) lots of strong coffee, (3) cake or other sweets and (4) a curious mix of formality and informality. Otto and Jorgine are Greenlanders who run a sheep farm and small youth hostel in Tasiusaq. They and their two daughters live in a house not far from the small hostel. They were very friendly and welcoming during my visit and when I discovered I was short on food supplies, sold me a beautiful sea bass that their 11 year old daughter had literally pulled out of the water with her bare hands. On my last night in Tasiusaq, the Frederiksens invited me and 3 Danish hikers from the hostel into their home. As most of the conversation was in Danish (Greenlanders' second language, as Greenland is still a part of Denmark), I admit I didn't understand a lot of what was discussed, but one of the Danish hikers, Martha, translated a little for me.

Jorgine made a delicious rhubarb pudding and other sweets and served us strong coffee. She set the tone for the event by patiently explaining the sheep farming operations of the families in Tasiusaq and entertaining formal, sheep-farming related questions. I guess the "theme" of this kafeemik was "sheep farming in Tasiusaq." At any rate, it was very informative and left me with the impression of the Greenlanders (as represented by the Frederiksens) as a serious, but warm and welcoming people. I deduced from my contacts with other Greenlanders prior to the kaffemik that they had a quiet dignity about them and appeared reserved, but were in fact quite warm. These impressions were confirmed at other times during the rest of my trip.

The ferry from Qassiarsuk to Qaqortoq can only be recommended to the strong of stomach and should definitely be avoided by the faint-hearted. Traveling down the fjord can be a thrilling experience if you can get over the anxiety of being on a small, weatherbeaten wooden boat threading its way through countless icebergs, many as big as houses. The ferry ride is long because the fjord is long, and there are one or two tiny settlements along the way, as well as a large town, Narsaq. Part of the fun, however, is wondering what everyone is doing riding down this ice-choked marvel of a waterway in the first place! Once I stopped thinking about the Titanic, I actually enjoyed the ride. The icebergs were fascinating. They were everywhere: as big as buildings and as small as breadboxes. We passed so close to some that I could have reached out and touched them. The captain of the boat looked pretty blas¾ as he steered with one hand on the wheel, one hand holding a plastic cup of coffee, and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. His expression and body language said "I've done this a thousand times before . . ." Still, I can't help feeling lucky we made it to Qaqortoq in one piece!

Qaqortoq

The largest town in southern Greenland, Qaqortoq feels like a big city once you've spent time in the other tiny settlements in the area. Dozens of brightly painted houses climb dramatically up the hills surrounding the harbor. At first impression it seems there is hardly any flat land in Qaqortoq beyond the houses flanking the icy stream that flows out of the giant lake behind the town. Both lake and town are dwarfed by the surrounding mountains.

Qaqortoq offers a glimpse of daily urban life in Greenland. There is the harbor and the usual fishing boats, but also a seal tannery. It's a surprise to see stores, schools, bakeries, churches, banks, an ATM, even . . . taxis! And Qaqortoq offers much to the hiker in need of a respite. For one thing, the immense Brugsen supermarket, with its huge selection of food supplies, is a sight for sore eyes. Qaqortoq is the place in South Greenland to splurge and stock up on food items that one simply can't find anywhere else in the other settlements. The youth hostel is actually a boarding school dormitory, the Sulisartut Hojskoliat, near the soccer stadium. It's a modern, clean facility and a treat after the primitive accommodations in Qassiarsuk and Tasiusaq.

Although Qaqortoq feels like the big city after Narsarsuaq and Qassiarsuk, it also feels like another remote outpost perched on the edge of a vast wilderness. It's surprising how quickly one can find oneself in the Greenland wilderness by simply walking out of town in any direction. One day I decided to climb Harefjeld mountain and loop around to Munktebugten bay. I climbed away from the town up to the weather station on the hill. From the top of Harefjeld I had a beautiful view of the town, which, the higher I climbed, looked more and more like a collection of brightly painted toy houses. Once I continued on the other side of the mountain, all traces of civilization vanished. My views were of a wild rocky landscape surrounded by bright seas populated by large icebergs. As usual, the going was rough. The jagged rocky landscape makes for difficult walking at times. When there is ground cover, it is the kind that grabs your boots and threatens to trip you at every step. The dwarf willow snakes along the ground with tortuously curved branches. And did I mention the changeable nature of the climate? One moment the sun sparkles off the water, the next moment the world turns completely gray. Greenland is not just rocky, it is a wet world. Streams seem to gush out of the rocks and small glacial lakes dot the rocky landscape everywhere. Fortunately, summer in southern Greenland is in fact a green time, thanks to the low ground cover.

One of the first rules of hiking in Greenland is that distances are never what they seem. The only hiking maps available are woefully inadequate – the scale is simply not detailed enough. But the most unnerving thing about hiking in Greenland is the deceptive visual cues. The next rocky ridge may look close but once you start hiking toward it, you don't seem to get any closer. Perhaps it's the Fata Morgana effect. Because the Arctic air is so clear and pure, there is little or no distance distortion: objects that are far away don't appear out of focus or blurry, but as sharp and clear as closer objects. One's depth perception becomes unreliable and a row of rocky ridges extending far into the distance appears within easy walking distance. I never got used to this phenomenon, but my tired legs and the time on my watch were my cues to turn around and try not to walk too far.

One day, while hiking outside of Qaqortoq to nearby Storefjeld, I had a very unexpected encounter: I met another hiker who was actually a Greenlander! After a week of experiencing endless wilderness vistas completely alone and interacting with the native Greenlanders only in the tiny settlements, I was literally shocked to crest a hill and spy a Greenlander on top enjoying the view. We were on top of Storefjeld enjoying a beautiful panorama of the peninsula on which Qaqortoq is located. To the north we could see the white glow of the ice cap over a range of dark jagged mountains. Surrounding us below and to each side were a jumble of fjords, islands, rocky peninsulas and mountain ridges. Like many of the other Greenlanders I met, this man was very reserved, even soft-spoken. He told me he was from Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, and was traveling as a tourist in Qaqortoq, with some vague business purpose as well. He was a musician whose music was some sort of fusion of traditional Greenlandic music and reggae. For a moment I tried to mentally process this, then gave up - perhaps there's an island connection. At any rate, we shared a quiet moment and brief conversation in this beautiful place, then parted. I tried to imagine what he must have felt seeing this vast panorama, which to me was so exotic, to him somewhat familiar. Pride? Satisfaction? Joy? What was it like to grow up in a land so vast and overwhelmingly beautiful as Greenland? I'll probably never really know, but I enjoyed our brief contact and was happy to have met this musician-hiker. He seemed very passionate about his music and genuinely awestruck by his native land.

Nanortalik

Nanortalik is remote and very charming. There are only two ways to get there: by boat or helicopter. The helicopter from Qaqortoq makes a stop at a small, surreal but picturesque settlement called Alluitsup Paa, then hugs the mountaintops as it cuts across a watery, rocky, landscape that is impossibly beautiful and frighteningly isolated - there are no signs of human life anywhere. The waterways cut in every direction - the mountains split, form fingers of land, break off into islands, disappear altogether or rise up into impenetrable walls. The topographical map of this part of the coast looks like a complex lace pattern of greenish-brown filigree against a deep blue background.

Although Nanortalik is a large settlement (1,500 people) it feels incredibly isolated - you can imagine yourself at the end of the world. A jumble of brightly painted houses sits on a rocky finger of land surrounded by water and towering jagged peaks. The heliport is a hub of activity when the flights arrive - the lifeline to the outside world. The normally reserved Greenlanders look anxious and break out of their usual reserve when the flights arrive and depart. There are lots of tearful scenes between family members who are departing for what must surely be long periods of time and certainly over vast distances. Knowing how much the helicopter flights cost, I'm sure these people are not going to return anytime soon on a quick stopover.

Nanortalik has an "old town" - an impossibly picturesque collection of small brightly painted wooden houses on a grassy peninsula jutting out into an iceberg filled bay. The youth hostel in the old town is a tiny wooden hut with a handful of bunk beds and a tiny kitchen. It feels like a small corner of heaven. Right in front of the hostel is the tip of the peninsula and a beautiful bay. Just across the water is Qaqaarssuasik or Storefjeldet, the highest peak on Nanortalik Island.

On the brightest and sunniest day of my trip I woke up early and climbed toward Storefjeldet. From the town it looks like a big round peak, but at the top is a surprise. At the summit, instead of looking out over the other side of a mountain, one looks straight down – the other half has literally been sheared off. The drop is so dramatic and unexpected that even though I thought I was immune to feelings of vertigo, my heart raced when I peered over the cliff edge. And the view! From the summit one can look back up a series of fjords lined with jagged peaks. The landscape around Nanortalik has often been compared to Patagonia or the Grand Tetons and is a climber's paradise. Because of its remoteness, however, one is likely to encounter many more unclimbed peaks than actual climbers! I found myself unable to leave Storefjeldet. I spent five hours soaking up the sun, the awe-inspiring views of the peaks, the water and icebergs glistening in the bright Arctic sunlight far below me.

Because my mind couldn't process everything I was seeing, I felt very tranquil just soaking it all in: occasionally I would pinch myself to make sure at least one part of this surreal scene was real. Finally, I headed back in a roundabout way. I ventured over to another ridge from where I watched fingers of fog and mist racing up the fjord. I thought the weather would turn, but after an hour or so, the fog simply disappeared. I was dehydrated, so scouted for a stream on the way down. What I found was a beautiful meandering stream, clear and cold, pouring down from the mountainside. Around it was a carpet of bright green grass and moss. In the late afternoon sunlight I saw clouds of tiny insects dancing above the stream and the grass. As I drank from the clear, pure water I felt refreshed both physically and mentally.

Before I left Nanortalik I decided to venture down to the Kap Farvel, or Cape Farewell area of Greenland. This is the southernmost tip of the island and contains some of the most dramatic mountain peaks. I took the passenger ferry from Nanortalik to Aappilattoq, a five hour ride. The boat left bright and early on a crisp sunny morning. The first leg of the trip was smooth: the ferry passed through fjords sheltered from the ocean's waves. The water was as smooth as glass. Once in the open ocean, however, the boat was tossed and turned until I started to feel a little green. We pulled into a tiny settlement called Frederiksdal, a beautiful but forlorn looking place. Finally we entered the Torsukaataq Fjord.

This waterway is breathtakingly beautiful. I ran out of superlatives when I tried to mentally process the landscape rising on both sides of the fjord. Snow-capped ridges, jagged mountain peaks, huge glaciers carving paths down mountainsides, giant waterfalls and streams cascading thousands of feet down rough mountainsides, it was all there in super-abundance. By the time we arrived at Aappilattoq, I hardly noticed that it had the most beautiful harbor and setting of any settlement I'd visited in Greenland. My mind was numb. The five hour trip back was a blur.

My last day in Greenland was torture: it was a beautiful sunny day and I made a plate of eggs and bacon and a cup of coffee in the youth hostel after spending the night there alone. After eating I decided to have another cup of coffee while sitting on the sunny bench at the tip of the peninsula right outside the hostel door. It was a cool sunny morning and I was enjoying the view of the bay with the icebergs glistening in the sun when a strange noise startled me. It sounded like a snuffling or snorting noise, only loud and echoing. My eyes followed the direction indicated by my ears and I saw - a giant fin and glistening black bulk sliding out of the water at the same time a plume of sea spray rose up. A whale, a large whale, was having breakfast not far from where I had just eaten! I watched this giant animal surface and resurface at various spots around the bay, disappear behind large icebergs, and circle around. I was mesmerized. I also had to pack my backpack and leave for the heliport. I was very sad.

Accepting that all good things must come to an end, I was pretty tranquil when I reached the heliport. The other people at the heliport were there to see friends and relatives off. They were fairly quiet and reserved until the helicopter landed and got ready for boarding. When it was time to get on, an explosion of feelings erupted. All of a sudden, the parents who were seeing their children off to boarding schools far away (perhaps Qaqortoq) dissolved into tears, and several elderly couples and individuals who were leaving their families also started crying. I found out later that it is fairly common for elderly people to travel great distances for medical care, sometimes traveling as far away as Copenhagen for cancer treatment and other medical treatments not available in Greenland. Sometimes they don't return. All of a sudden the significance of the stark beauty and isolation of Greenland came crashing in on my thoughts. Some of these people were literally shrieking and gasping for air as they clutched each other before departing. One woman had to be dragged on to the helicopter and sobbed hysterically as the helicopter took off. My sadness at leaving was nothing compared to their grief. Suddenly the awesomeness of Greenland seemed to be overwhelming in human terms too. I'll never forget that moment in the heliport and I'll never forget Greenland.