Returning to Greenland

If someone had told me years ago that someday I would travel to Greenland, I wouldn't have believed it. If that person had also told me that someday I would return to Greenland I would have been shocked. The fact that I traveled there twice is something of a miracle. I've traveled to a few places I liked so much I told myself someday I would return for a visit. But I never honestly believed I would return to those places: they were too far away or too expensive to travel to - besides, the world is a large place. There are so many places I would like to experience firsthand . . . Somehow Greenland was different, and last spring I started thinking about it again, unable to focus on other destinations for a summer trip.

   I remembered a conversation I had last summer with another Greenland hiker about a place called Ilulissat, or Jakobshavn. I was captivated by the image of a natural wonder near Ilulissat, the enormous Jakobshavn Glacier, which fills an entire fjord with icebergs that eventually drift down into the North Atlantic. It is one of the world's most active glaciers and photographs of both the glacier and the icefjord are unforgettable. Would I really be able to travel to such a place? It seemed like an impossibility. Unable to get the idea of going there out of my mind, I began to research my transportation options. I discovered that I could fly from Canada to Kangerlussuaq and then travel onward to Ilulissat. Nothing about the trip would be easy or cheap. The coastal ferries only operated once a week and the flights were expensive. More than once I decided that to attempt such a trip would be a mistake.

While pondering the idea of taking this trip and exploring the transportation options, I remembered something I'd read about Uummannaq Island. Uummannaq lies near the northern end of the coastal ferry line and is farther north than I had ever considered traveling. Yet it is often described as a magical place due to the unusual and colorful rock formation of Uummannaq Peak. The descriptions I'd read made it clear that this was a truly unique place and my instincts told me not to miss it. Eventually the idea of traveling there took hold and I decided to include it in my plans. I even managed to convince an acquaintance, Scott, to take a leap of faith and come along on my proposed Kangerlussuaq-Uummannaq-Ilulissat trip. We shopped for hiking and camping gear, made all the necessary arrangements, and eventually found ourselves on a flight to Kangerlussuaq!

   After two hiking trips to Greenland I have learned one thing for certain: words cannot adequately describe Greenland. The island is so vast that it is hard to comprehend its size. Flying into any Greenland gateway you can see mile after mile of seemingly endless mountain ranges and mile after mile of ice. The human settlements are so tiny that a ten minute walk in any direction will place you in the middle of extremely rugged terrain. In the middle of such terrain you feel extremely small: the sky is huge, the horizons seem endless. There is beauty everywhere, much of it stark, some of it not: enormous rocks, immense blue chunks of ice, huge shimmering lakes and fjords. After a day of hiking in the Greenland wilderness, your mind feels overstimulated, more exhausted than your leg muscles.

We flew to Kangerlussuaq, Greenland's busiest airport and one of only a handful of places where fixed-wing aircraft can land. Kangerlussuaq intimidated me because of its northerly location. I was worried that it would be a dry, stark place. I was surprised to see the sparkling blue waters of the Kangerlussuaq fjord from the airplane window as we approached the airport. Kangerlussuaq isn't really much of a town: everyone who lives there works at or depends on the small airport. On a gray day the prefabricated housing blocks around the runway look pretty bleak. But nearby are lakes, rivers and waterfalls and miles of wilderness inhabited by musk oxen and reindeer. More importantly to me, Kangerlussuaq is one place where one can visit the Greenland ice cap.

Hiking to the Greenland Ice Cap

   I believe the Greenland Ice Cap is one of the natural wonders of the world. I've seen it from the air and from atop a ridge near Narsarsuaq, but I was excited at the prospect of hiking there from Kangerlussuaq. The most accessible part of the ice cap is Russell Glacier, a large glacier 25 kilometers, or 16 miles, from Kangerlussuaq. A winding gravel road leads there, and some tourists travel by jeep. The gravel road lies in a sandy delta created by a meandering that originates at the glacier face. My goal was to hike to the glacier and camp overnight, going and returning via the most scenic routes possible. At the Team Arctic hostel in Kangerlussuaq, Jakob recommended that I hike to the ice cap by way of a ridge that parallels the gravel road. He said the ridge would be much more interesting than the gravel road. I thought this was a good idea, but it turned out to be a mistake.

   We started out late on our hike and were not used to our heavy packs. It was our first day of hiking on our trip. The weather was windy, gray, and cool. We made good time to Sugar Loaf, a small peak about 7 kilometers from Kangerlussuaq with incredible views of the ice cap, the river valley, and the surrounding ridges. Sugar Loaf was high enough that climbing it with our large packs turned out to be poor judgment on my part. Although we used a lot of energy in our climb, we enjoyed a spectacular view from the top. We could see the entire area very clearly and I was thrilled to make out the ridge to the north of the gravel road where we could continue our onward hike.

   After lunch we descended from Sugar Loaf and started climbing the facing ridge. It was much steeper than it looked from Sugar Loaf and had some boggy parts (but lots of blueberries!). Somehow we found ourselves skirting lakes that were in the center of the ridge and that had not been visible from the top of Sugar Loaf. The perimeters of the lakes seemed to be either sheer rock or impassable bogs. We were losing time. After zigzagging along the ridge and around several lakes I looked down at the gravel road and realized that had we followed it we would have been much farther along in our hike. I decided it was a better idea to head back down from the ridge.

   It was getting late in the day and even the gravel road had its ups and downs. At one point further down the road it turned sharply left and started to climb steeply up the same ridge we had climbed down a few kilometers back. We saw in front of us a giant sand delta, the Sandflugtdalen, which looked like a nice, flat route that would take us in the right direction. We decided to take it. After trudging across it for quite a distance we discovered something we could not have seen from afar: the river which zigzagged through the delta plunged below the level of the delta and cut a huge icy channel right in front of us. Luckily, it looked like the direction we wanted to hike was to the left of the river, so we followed its banks, which terminated in a sheer rock face. The river cut a narrow channel through the rock face. Fortunately, we found a way to angle through the rocks and climb up and around the rocky channel. The roaring torrent below us made me a little nervous as we tottered along with our heavy packs.

   Once we were on top of the rock, we got our first glimpse of the glacier. It was late in the day, around 7 at night, but of course it was still bright outside (we were north of the Arctic Circle in early August). The glacier face was bright blue and even from afar looked massive. I began to realize that all our hard work would be worth it. After following a meandering path near the river, we turned another corner and found ourselves directly in front of the wall of blue and white ice. After all the miles we had hiked it was hard to believe we were finally there. From my perspective it looked like a mountain of ice. The ice was not smooth - it had cracks and gashes and scars, and while we were there, huge chunks split off and came crashing down with a loud explosion. We set up camp right in front of the glacier on a small hill facing the ice. From our tents all night we heard explosions of ice falling. Needless to say, we didn't sleep very well.

   The drizzle of the prior evening had stopped by morning and the temperature was warmer. We woke up, had some hot coffee, and started exploring. We climbed the ridge facing the glacier and looked over the top of it to the endless sea of white ice beyond. We discovered an immense lake-filled valley to the north of the ridge and saw more meandering glacial rivers. We scrambled down to the edge of the ice and up and over all the debris at the base of the glacier. There were chunks of ice and rock everywhere. I felt like a kid scrambling over a slightly dangerous giant playground as the water roared around us and chunks of ice crashed down from the glacier face.

   We lingered too long at the glacier. Having never seen anything like it we were mesmerized. Every nook and cranny held some interest for us and we spent a long morning thoroughly exploring it. Reluctantly, we moved on. We hiked back to Sugarloaf and got to its eastern base late in the day. I decided to visit a waterfall that was about a mile or so southeast of Sugarloaf. I didn't know what to expect, perhaps a lovely cascade down some glistening rocks. I was astonished at what we actually encountered. After hiking down a well-trodden path I began to see plumes of mist and heard a dull roar. The closer we approached the louder the roar became. Soon we were standing on a rock with our jaws dropping to the ground: we were standing before a huge torrent of brown, silt-laden water being squeezed through a rocky canyon at high speed. It looked like a flash flood had occurred: the water was rocketing through the canyon, splashing everywhere, churning and boiling. It didn't even look like water. "This is a waterfall?" I asked Scott. I couldn't reconcile the image with the word. No, I decided, it was a marvelous freak of nature: a primordial, larger-than-life phenomenon. We got pretty close, but the deafening roar and chilly spray didn't make this a beauty spot to linger at. It was something to marvel at and then respectfully move on, carrying away a sense of awe.

Arriving at Uummannaq

   Uummannaq Island is so steep and rocky that, like most other Greenland towns, there is no place for a landing strip for airplanes. There are two ways to travel to and from Uummannaq: by ferry or helicopter. I decided to arrive by helicopter, as I was in a hurry to get there, and depart by ferry. The flight had two segments, both spectacular. The first part of the trip was a half-hour long flight on a Dash-7 airplane from Ilulissat to Qaarsut. Qaarsut lies across the fjord from Uummannaq Island and has sufficiently flat terrain for a plane to land. The small airport building has a sign, which reads "Uummannaq Airport."

   The flight itself unfolds as a drama: it builds quickly to several dramatic climaxes, then through several twists and turns ends in a truly grand finale. Immediately north of Ilulissat the plane passes through typically dramatic Greenland scenery. Below are undulating peninsulas of ancient rock, extremely steep, that are sliced by icy fjords. To the east of the mountains of rock are beautiful views of the icecap and the many glaciers, which empty into the peninsulas. After a few minutes of admiring this amazing scenery I realized that the landscape was becoming even more dramatic. The fjords seemed to be getting larger and brighter, the glacier faces longer and more imposing. Soon everything became dizzyingly complex. What seemed like a fjord turned out to be an immense lake. The glacier faces climbed to a scale that seemed to dwarf the mountains. Everything pulsed and glowed and seemed surrounded by layer upon layer of equally dramatic scenery: mountain ranges disappearing into the distance, fjords and lakes spreading in every direction, the ice cap stretching on forever.

   Suddenly the plane plunged into the Nussuaq Peninsula, a ruggedly beautiful place about which I had read a few things and tried hard to visualize. The pilot appeared to be following a giant valley that cut through the peninsula. On each side of the plane there were snow-capped peaks of jagged gray rock. They looked timeless and foreboding. The plane dipped and turned through this primordial landscape for a while when a mirage appeared: a giant shimmering emerald lake. I recognized it as the goal of every other expedition trekker who sets out to cross the Nussuaq Peninsula: Saqqap Tasersua. My mind was reeling at the sight of this beautiful lake ringed by lush greenery, set amidst snow-capped peaks. Was it real or an illusion? I looked across the aisle of the airplane. The Greenlandic man sitting opposite me was asleep, oblivious to the fantastic scenery outside. Perhaps I was the one imagining things . . .. Soon we plunged back into the mountain range.

   At times I felt I could reach out and touch the mountainsides. Finally the plane burst out of its gray walled tunnel into a sparkling, sunny, island-studded fjord. I immediately recognized Uummannaq Island's distinctive profile, but surrounding it were many other islands and what appeared to be a tangle of fjords stretching back toward the icecap. By the time the plane landed at Qaarsut my mind was numb. Where exactly was I again? Although everything had proceeded as planned, nothing could have prepared me for what I had seen from the windows of the airplane. After a brief stop in Qaarsut, we boarded a Sikorsky helicopter for the short flight over to the island. Along the way we were treated to incredible views of what must be one of the world's most beautiful settings. As it was relatively late in the summer day, the sun was low and reflecting off every jewel in the fjord: icebergs, rocky islands, a few fishing boats. Uummannaq Peak glowed a rosy-orange color, although it was not sunset. Later I would learn that Uummannaq's natural rock pigment projects the beauty of sunrise and sunset even at high noon.

   After landing in Uummannaq, the first thing I noticed was my own disorientation, then the howling. I stumbled around the helipad gawking at the giant icebergs floating in the bright blue fjord, the giant cliffs of the huge island directly across the fjord, Storoen, the brightly painted houses perched on Uummannaq's pink rock and silhouetted against a cobalt blue sky. I was literally spinning in a circle while my mind reeled and I tried to capture it all with my camera. A Greenlandair agent gently led me into the heliport building, as I didn't even notice another helicopter approaching. The howling came from every direction, as there were sled dogs chained to the rocks everywhere around the heliport except in the small cemetery across the road. The constant howling gave an unearthly atmosphere to this impossibly beautiful place.

Hiking Around Uummannaq Island

   The day after our arrival in Uummannaq we set out on the road behind the heliport, which climbs steeply through a ravine up to a large glacial lake. There we climbed again, up a long steep ridge, which turned out to be the western flank of Uummannaq Peak. Our destination was a place called Blue Lake, a small shimmering jewel of a lake high up on the mountain's slope. Beyond Blue Lake we found a ridgetop from where we could see panoramic views of the fjord to the west of the island. We had lunch and I made some hot coffee that we drank in a toast to our fellow hikers from Ottawa, Pat and Barbara. At that very moment they were attempting their ascent of Haystack Mountain in the Adirondacks (their first attempt had been foiled by rain). Later I learned that they were successful.

   My crude map of Uummannaq Island gave no hint of the feasibility of continuing further around the island from Blue Lake. I was content to spend the afternoon enjoying the views and eventually hiking back. While we were sipping coffee, however, someone magically appeared on the slope below us. A woman with no backpack, jacket or water bottle was climbing toward us, clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers in her right hand. Later Scott compared her to "mad Ophelia." I tried to chat with her but she was not very friendly. She claimed to have come from the opposite direction, having hiked counterclockwise around the island. I asked her for details but she gave none, simply stating "I am from Switzerland - I climb mountains all the time!" Why without any gear, I wondered to myself. She seemed like a mystery, and after she vanished Scott and I both wondered if we'd been hallucinating. Part of me was deeply suspicious - how had this madwoman been able to accomplish the feat of hiking around the island and why couldn't she provide details about how she'd done it? Another part of me was completely captured by the idea of hiking around the island. Someone had just done it! If it was possible and the day was still young, why not go for it? Once I started down that line of thinking there was no turning back - I became determined to attempt the hike on skimpy, unreliable and perhaps fabricated information. Off we went.

   After some steep ups and downs we reached the northern tip of the island. The views made the hike well worth the effort. In retrospect, I wish we had turned around at that point. We enjoyed more panoramic views of the fjord, then continued around to the "back" side of the island. This was uncharted territory. The crude map I had made this part of the island appear unclimbable. The mountain's contour lines blended together into what had to be a solid wall of vertical cliffs. The going got increasingly difficult. We had to crawl up steep rock slides and angle over ledges until finally we reached a point at which we had to make a crucial decision. Most of the back side of the island appeared to consist of a steep scree or gravel slope leading up to sheer cliffs high above. The cliffs looked impossible to climb and the gravel seemed too steep and unstable, so I decided to descend to the thin rocky beach below the gravel slope. I was angry at Ophelia for not answering my questions. Surely she had not climbed those high cliffs! But how had she slogged through the gravel, if that's how she came around the island? I began to suspect that I had been deceived.

We hiked along the rocky beach until we encountered a smooth sheer cliff, which plunged into the water: it was impassable, absent wings to fly over it or fins to swim below it. I decided to angle back and up the gravel slope. It was tough going. We would sink into the loose crumbly rock with every step, and use twice as much energy to climb the gravel as compared to climbing normal rock. After slogging upward toward some sheer cliffs I realized we were making no progress and I had no clue where we were going. For all I knew I was heading toward another sheer cliff face that we couldn't surmount. I had no map, and no reliable information about where I was going. And it was getting late! Since it was not going to get dark for another month or so, my main concern was not the darkness, but the fact that we would have to retrace our steps: hours and hours of slogging back around the island would take us back around 2 or 3 in the morning, exhausted. Was it worth it?

   No! I had noticed that some fishing boats rounded the point below where we were climbing to head back to the island's harbor. One seemed to pass by about every 20 minutes or so, but as it was getting late I wondered if we would continue to see them. I decided to swallow my pride and climb back down to the water from where we might be able to hitch a ride on a boat. I started racing down the scree when I saw a small boat heading toward the point. I flapped my arms and waved and couldn't have been more thrilled when the boat slowed and headed toward the shore below me. I nearly broke my neck rushing down toward the rock. Within a few minutes we were sipping hot coffee in a small fishing boat trying to express our gratitude to our fisherman-rescuer. Although there was a language barrier between us, one thing increasingly became clear. Our rescuer indicated that it was impossible to climb around the back side of the island where we were headed, and that he had rescued other hikers from the same spot! When we got back to town I rushed to the Hotel Uummannaq for a celebratory beer and everyone there confirmed our rescuer's news: we had attempted the impossible. Moral of the story: don't undertake an unknown hike recommended by someone who looks like he or she stepped out of a Shakespearean tragedy!

Camping on the Cliffs of Uummannaq

   Halfway up the western slope on the way to Blue Lake I spotted something extremely rare on Uummannaq Island: a dry flat spot where I could pitch my tent! Most of the island is vertical, jagged rock, with the exception of a few wet boggy spots. We headed toward my miniature "valley" as I called it, conveniently located near an unlimited source of wild blueberries and an icy stream. Just beyond it toward the rocky cliffs facing the water we discovered something even better: flat cliffside ledges with incredible views! It seemed too good to be true. To this day, I can't imagine a more beautiful campsite. We spent two days soaking up the views, eating wild blueberries, mushrooms, and some fish we'd purchased in town. All day and night we enjoyed bright sunshine and beautiful blue skies.

   Our ferry to Ilulissat was scheduled to depart at midnight a few days later. The morning of our departure we reluctantly decided to leave our cliffside campsite and hike back to town. We'd been told that the Hotel Uummannaq was having a Greenlandic buffet in honor of a group of visiting Danish and Greenlandic parliament members. We decided it was worth leaving our little paradise for a new experience, especially one involving food! The buffet was delicious. We ate salmon, arctic char, herring, sweet cold water shrimp, scallops, flounder, whale and seal, all prepared many different ways. I washed mine down with some ice-cold beer and completely forgot the joys of camping. After a week of camping meals, I wasn't prepared for an all-you-can eat buffet of rich seafood, but I stuffed myself anyway. The fish was delicious but I couldn't get used to the rich, heavy taste of the seal and whale.

   That night while waiting for the ferry we decided to kill some more time at the Hotel Uummannaq. We sat in a small corner of the main dining room while the 30 parliament members ate, drank, smoked, gave speeches, and sang what sounded like religious hymns! I could have sworn I heard "Amazing Grace" in Danish! This scene lasted forever and seemed more than a little surreal. The room had a thick blue haze from all of their cigarette smoke, and they sang with a degree of solemnity and hushed tones that seemed out of place in the hotel dining room. We were glad to get on the boat.

Ilulissat

   We arrived in Ilulissat aboard the Sarfaq Ittuk after a beautiful trip around the Nussuaq Peninsula. Our arrival was something of a miracle to me, because as far as I could see, there were huge icebergs blocking access to the harbor. As we approached the Icefjord south of Ilulissat, the icebergs became larger and more closely packed. Our ship's captain not only seemed unconcerned by the many icebergs, he seemed to enjoy the challenge, and announced that he was taking us on a tour of the Icefjord entrance since we were ahead of schedule. He swung the boat around and we cruised by the mountains of blue and white ice that block the Icefjord's entrance. Some were melting in parts and had cascades of water streaming off their high ridges and plateaus. One calved an enormous slab of ice into the water just as we passed by, sending up a huge spray of water and creating a large wave. "Especially for you" the captain joked as I stood near the bridge and gaped at the crashing ice. Somehow he threaded a path through the icebergs (very very slowly) and we pulled into the harbor.

   I was surprised by Ilulissat's sizable harbor and bustling atmosphere. It seemed very busy compared to the sleepiness of Uummannaq and remote outpost quality of Kangerlussuaq. There seemed to be three different tourist offices (one run by Danes, one by Germans, and one by Italians!) in town that weren't really tourist offices at all, but tour operators hustling pricey "day tours" to every place imaginable in the area. There were helicopter flights to the Jakobshavn Glacier, boat trips to a more accessible glacier, fishing trips, BBQ outings, trips to abandoned villages (a major part of Greenland tourism in many areas), and more. The predatory tourist atmosphere and presence of many European package tourists bothered me. We found the "tourist offices" surprisingly unhelpful as soon as they realized we were not booking a 1,000 kroner helicopter tour, but merely asking about boat schedules across the bay. One of them denied there was any boat service at all and tried to pressure us into chartering a boat for a huge sum!

   Despite all the tourist blight, I found Ilulissat charming. Strolling around the town one afternoon we admired the views from the hilltop streets down toward the bay. We passed old churches and brightly colored cheerful houses, some with flowers in their windows. We passed by lots of sled dogs, who are required to be chained to rocks after they reach the age of 6 months. We stumbled upon some friendly puppies who were not chained and I was tempted to bring one home with me. Most of the town was not touristy at all, and actually seemed to be a thriving place where ordinary people lived and worked. I began to enjoy the simple pleasures of Ilulissat.

   After sightseeing around Ilulissat, I wasn't quite sure where to go hiking in the area. I decided to go on a day hike to Sermermiut to see the Icefjord. It's not far from town and is an incredible sight: miles of enormous icebergs filling a dramatic fjord. It's a popular walk from town and there is even a picnic table on the ridge overlooking the fjord. We continued along a trail that follows the ridge. The trail heads southeast around a peninsula to the Qilakitsoq region. I was surprised at the ruggedness of the terrain, which was very different from what I'd seen in Kangerlussuaq and Uummannaq. Except for the hillsides facing the fjord, most of the terrain was barren, lichen covered gray rock. I looked for flat places where we might pitch our tents, but couldn't find any. I tried to imagine doing this day hike with our heavy packs while searching for a campsite. The gray skies and forbidding terrain discouraged me. I was glad we were on a day hike.

   The trail plunged down to the water level at an iceberg studded bay, then climbed up an outlet stream to a large glacial lake. Under the gray skies the lake looked eerie, but I was more intimidated by the landscape beyond it: mountains of gray rock that looked like they had just been born out of some cataclysmic event. Their slopes were covered with huge blocks of stones tumbling down the mountainsides, with no moss or dwarf arctic plants to soften their appearance. I can't recall a more severe landscape. I stared at a hillside facing us across the lake and tried to find a way to climb it. I didn't see any place I could put my feet, much less climb! The other side of the lake looked even more intimidating: giant gray rock piles of mountains receding into the distance. The reason I lingered there to study the terrain was because that was the logical direction to take to go on our next overnight hiking trip. Frankly, it looked scary. The topographic map showed mile after mile of the same type of terrain leading to another fjord. I couldn't find a clear destination on the map. The ice cap was too far. I decided to find another alternative, perhaps to the north of Ilulissat. We turned back toward town and hiked up a ravine. The ravine climbed much more steeply than the topographic map indicated, and led us to a high lake-studded plateau with panoramic views down to Ilulissat and around to the surrounding peaks.

   After seeing the challenging terrain southeast of the town, I was awed but intimidated by Ilulissat's hiking opportunities. Still, I needed a destination, and the town of Rodebay north of Ilulissat seemed to be the best alternative. We could hike there in a day and perhaps get a boat back to Ilulissat (although everyone else seemed to do this trip in reverse, hiking back to Ilulissat after a boat ride to Rodebay). Rodebay is also known as Oqaatsut ("the cormorants"). It is a small isolated fishing village located at the end of a peninsula on a quiet bay. The hike there seemed like a good idea because it would pass by a beautiful lake and a large bay, the Braedebugt.

Hiking to Rodebay

   We started out late in the day, walking into a brisk headwind in clear, cold weather. Once past the Ilulissat airport we ran into bogs - each step involved sinking down and then extricating oneself from wet muddy moss and tangled plant roots before moving forward. It was very slow going. The topographic map showed a relatively flat route along the coast to the lake. I was very surprised, however, when we started climbing up to another lake-filled plateau. Once there we kept climbing until we were on a ridge with beautiful views of Braedebugt Bay. Soon we were scrambling up and down fingers of the ridge until we plunged down to the water level, forded a stream and immediately climbed up another ridge. We were forced to hug the sides of a cliff, fighting a strong cold headwind which seemed to want to dislodge us from the cliff with each step. At times we reached small rocky dead-ends and would have to take off our packs, toss them down over a ledge, and jump behind them. We started to fight fatigue and the weight of our packs, but we could see the lake ahead of us. By the time we reached the lake we were exhausted and took a much needed dinner break.

   The last leg of our hike traversed the peninsula at the end of which Rodebay is located. My topographic map showed a dotted line or "suggested route" across the western edge of the peninsula without much of an elevation gain. I cursed the map as I looked up at a mountain plateau rising far above our heads and completely absent from the map. We decided to skirt the plateau and hike along a ridge overlooking the bay, but we were eventually forced to descend into boggy hillsides that seemed to go on forever. My map showed a dotted line, which according to the legend was a "minor road, drive or track." I hoped to encounter it before we sank permanently into the bogs under the weight of our heavy packs. The existence of this phantom track became a cruel joke as I kept expecting it around the next corner. Meanwhile, the only thing we encountered around every twist and turn was another bog. We barely noticed that we gained elevation as we slogged through the bogs, until all of a sudden we emerged on another high plateau. Before us lay a sheer drop down a cliff to another valley filled with more bogs. None of this was indicated on my map, which I decided to burn if we survived our hike.

   It was very late when we stood on that cliff and looked straight down. I couldn't see any way down into the bog valley and was tired and cranky and hungry. I realized this was the low point of the hike (emotionally, not in terms of altitude!) Every long challenging hike seems to have a point at which things can't seem to get worse - then they do. You feel you can't go on because the day is too long, the weather is too hot or cold, you're too tired, or hungry or thirsty, or the going just gets too tough. For me, there's no choice at this point but to recognize if for what it is and move on. So Instead of sitting down and giving up, we managed to angle to the right, zigzag down the cliff, and descend to what turned out to be a miserable bog of a valley. It wasn't until 11 at night when we actually climbed a mountain that didn't exist according to my map, behind which Rodebay was located. After a steep descent we couldn't believe we'd made it. The town was eerily quiet on a Saturday night, with only a few dogs barking and no sign of human activity anywhere. We found a relatively flat spot to camp that wasn't too wet and collapsed, vowing never to repeat our "bog slog" as I called it, and to catch a boat back to Ilulissat instead of hiking back.

   The next morning turned out to be a beautiful day. We couldn't find any freshwater streams, so I walked down to the fjord and picked up some iceberg chunks to melt over my camp stove. While sipping coffee I wandered over to a small red building perched on a rock near our campsite. We had been told in Ilulissat that the red building was actually a restaurant run by a young German couple. To my surprise, one of the owners saw me through the window and came outside to say hello. I told her we had hiked there the day before and we hoped to get a ride back to Ilulissat. She said the restaurant was preparing lunch for a tour group that was arriving soon and that we could probably go back to Ilulissat on the empty boat while the group spent time in Rodebay sightseeing and then eating at the restaurant. They would board another boat returning from the Eqe Glacier later in the afternoon.

   We broke camp, boarded the boat and found ourselves speeding back to Ilulissat, traveling a distance that had taken us hours to hike in a little more than 30-40 minutes. We were euphoric. It was a sunny, beautiful ride and we knew for certain that we wouldn't have to trudge through the same bogs we had hiked through the day before. We were leaving both Ilulissat and Greenland after the following day, and for me that moment on the boat captured our Greenland experience very succinctly. We had hiked through incredibly rugged, challenging terrain and reached our destination. Along the way we experienced beautiful scenery the likes of which we'd never seen before. But the experience was a punishing one and we were eager to spare ourselves further aches and pains. We were very lucky to be where we were aboard the boat and savored the ride through the sunny bay, taking pictures of the amazing icebergs and looking forward to relaxing in Ilulissat. It was hard to imagine a more beautiful place or more rewarding experience than where we were at that moment.

For a Greenland photo gallery, click on this link: GREENLAND 2000