Greenland: The Last Frontier

Scoresby Sound, Greenland. 

It’s a balmy July day. I mean that somewhat sarcastically—we are in the Arctic—but it feels downright tropical compared to the previous 2 days of gale-force winds and spiteful waves since we set off from Iceland’s distant Westfjords region on a 1-month expedition to Greenland’s rugged east coast. Simply calling this place remote would downplay its remoteness. Greenland is over 3 times bigger than Texas but very sparsely populated with only 345 people living within a 500 mile (800 km) radius of us. We’re in just about the wildest and most desolate corner of the globe accessible by sea. Our 40 foot steel sailboat Madogwy is loaded up with backcountry ski gear, a paraglider, 600L of fresh water, beer, long-lasting food, fishing rods, everything we could think of to make fish more appetizing, and all of the necessities be fully self-sustaining for a month of total isolation. 

The Crew

We are 4 onboard: Kit, Magda, Maria, and I. Each of us brings a different set of skills to the table and together we are prepared to handle whatever challenges the Arctic seas have in store for us. 

Kit, the captain, has sailed across the Atlantic and parts of the Pacific and understands the ins and outs of wind, waves, and how to work with them. He spent the better part of the last decade exploring far-flung parts of the world by motorcycle and boat, interspersed with the odd year or two of working as an aerospace engineer. 

Magda, a cyclist-turned-sailor and freelance IT recruiter, has been on board Madogwy since she and Kit purchased the boat in Wales during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic. She has a wealth of experience surviving in remote places while cycling around Patagonia and Central Asia’s ‘stan countries, crossing the Atlantic by sailboat, and, more recently, has been navigating rough seas and pandemic regulations in the North Atlantic since departing the UK last February. 

Maria, hailing from nearby Iceland, is the “local” of the crew, inherently comfortable in the Arctic climate and an expert fisherwoman and edible plant identifier. A freelance lighting director on film sets and former adventure guide by profession, she jumped on the opportunity to explore Iceland’s nearest-yet-least-accessible neighbor with us. 

Finally, there’s me, bringing 7 years of hitchhiking, cycling, and backcountry skiing experience in obscure mountain ranges around the world and a grand total of zero sailing experience. I felt ready to settle down and further develop Vagabond Adventures, my adventure tourism company in Georgia, this summer…that is, until Kit invited me to join the expedition. Suddenly, all ideas of working were out the window, and here I am, with a curious mind, a thirst for adventure, and unparalleled comfort adapting and improvising in unforeseen situations. 

The Crossing

The distance from Iceland to Greenland is not actually that large (only 300 miles/500 km), but this part of the world is prone to rough and unpredictable seas. After a week of waiting for an appropriate weather window, we set off with a hopeful forecast. Keep in mind that forecasting models require current weather data to be accurate, and with weather stations few and far between, Greenlandic forecasts are about as good as licking your finger and holding it to the sky. 

Getting away from Iceland was the most grueling part. In wind over 45 mph (72 km/h), angry waves from the fjord fought against larger sea waves while the current pushed from another direction, tossing the boat at every possible angle. Before the trip, I tried to convince myself that seasickness is a myth, but on this day I confirmed that it is, in fact, real. With a freshly emptied stomach, I went to take a nap, but sleep doesn’t come easy when your bed shifts 60° every few seconds. My mind filled with doubt and I had to continually remind myself that this is what I came here for: a difficult but rewarding adventure. 

During crossings, each of us is on watch for 3 hours out of every 12. The boat is moving around the clock so somebody must always be watching for other boats, icebergs, and be prepared to adjust the sails if the wind shifts. Day and night don’t exist; it never gets dark anyway. On one of my shifts, a thick fog set in. Masts began to appear in the gray background everywhere I looked. Pirates? Friendly travelers? Telephone poles? Am I hallucinating? The perplexing time dilation of the arctic summer combined with the utter lack of anything anywhere and holograms in the clouds began to feel like a psychedelic trip. 

And then the first iceberg rose in front of me like a New York City block. Wow. It was the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. Intense glacial blue ice 100 meters wide floating right in front of me. I adjusted our bearing to give it a wide berth and just gawked. This is why I came here. I pulled out the binoculars and ogled some more. In the middle of the sea, where there’s absolutely nothing until the horizon in every direction, a city of ice just materialized in front of me. Birds flew around it, waves crashed against it. Wow, sea! Oooh ahhhh! My whole body was filled with excitement as if screaming “WOW!!!” from the inside. 

From then, icebergs ranging from car-sized bergy bits (that’s a scientific term) to massive city block-sized chonkers (that’s not a scientific term) floated by. As we approached Cape Brewster on the Southern tip of Scoresby Sound, the wind picked up again and it took two people on deck: one to steer and one to watch for ice behind oncoming waves. At one point, a large crack shook the boat. Shit, the mainsail just broke. When an especially large wave rolled the boat relative to the wind, the sail momentarily filled with air from the other side and then smacked back against the wire shrouds which support the mast—an accidental jibe in sailor’s terminology. It was time to use the motor. 

The temperature was 1°C and the wind was gusting above 30 knots. I jumped up and down, balling fists inside my gloves to (unsuccessfully) keep feeling in my fingers and toes. Four base layers, a flannel, a puffy, a sailing jacket, and two pairs of socks were not nearly enough. The next hour was a miserable, cold, wet blur, constantly straining my eyes to differentiate between seafoam and bobbing ice and just freezing. Then, all of the sudden, everything stopped. No more wind. No more waves. No more fog. The 2 AM sun shone over the mountaintops to the north, thawing my toes. I came to recognize the intensity of the crossing as the misery quickly dissipated and my mind filled with pure awe. Greenland! 

The Destination

We would spend the next 3 weeks exploring the serene and sunny Scoresby Sound, venturing further north than the northernmost tip of Alaska and deep into the arctic tundra of Greenland’s uncharted interior, followed by traversing the wild and dramatic coastline before crossing back to Iceland and eventually onward to Spain. Throughout the trip, our only contact with the outside world was receiving weather forecasts, sea ice charts, and cat pictures by satellite phone, as well as visiting one Inuit village and meeting two other sailboats. 

The contrast between the harsh and bone-chilling ocean crossing and the calm, sunny beach vibes of Scoresby Sound is stark. Temperatures top 15°C and we spend days hiking, swimming in iceberg-infested water, paragliding over fjords, and observing sea birds protecting their nests, seals hunting schools of fish, polar bears lumbering along the beach, and musk ox snorting and bearing their horns at us. As we enter the Sound, hundreds of razorbills surrounded us. They awkwardly flap their wings like crazy, momentarily disrupting the glassy water, until finally gaining enough speed to take off, making it apparent that they have just barely evolved enough to fly. The glacial runoff mixes with seawater to create an intense azure, radiating sunlight reflected from the cloudless blue sky. In the distance, steep brown mountain ranges extend beyond the horizon, white glaciers split sharp ridges and extend their grand tongues down into the sea from every valley, spitting icebergs into the elixir of life to create a maze for us to navigate through. 

As we progress deeper inland, the shape of the icebergs evolves from sporadically scattered 50-meter-high skyscrapers to smaller and densely packed formations. At one point, I feel transported to Southern Utah, except the ground is blue water and the steep, rocky cliffs are eroding white ice. Twenty minutes later, we’ve left the plateaus and arches of Utah and we’re into the high peaks of Alaska with sharp pointy icebergs everywhere, except for one which perfectly resembles the Sydney opera house. 

We pass an archipelago of small islands with narrow iceberg-filled waterways between them. Some resemble the spires of Cappadocia. As the sun gently dips below the horizon for the midnight golden hour, the icebergs radiate a blue-purple glow, appearing as vector graphics more than real life, a perfect background visualizer for the trance music bumping on our speakers. Their reflections in the calm water bring about a tranquil aura, transcending time and space in the endless arena of nature’s imagination. I feel myself in a relaxed flow state, taking in all that is around me, unaware of past or future, simply existing right here, right now in this dazzling space. 

As we pull into our eighth anchorage of the trip, Hekla Havn, a welcome surprise awaits us. Not just one, but two sailboats full of travelers! Having spent the last few weeks in a very small space with the same four people, you can imagine how exciting it is to see fresh faces. A party ensues until well past dawn, followed by two days of swimming and bonfires on the beach. These days will remain in my memory as a highlight of the trip. In a way, it feels ironic to be so far out in a place beyond my wildest dreams and still be drawn to the same activities I enjoy at home. An expedition like this certainly expands one’s comfort zone and provides a unique opportunity to learn about both planet Earth and the human psyche, but in the end, we all remain the same humans inside.

Special thanks to Kit Taylor, Magda Nykiel, Maria Run for your companionship; the crews of Que Sera and Challenge for awesome times and new friendships; polar bears, the water cycle, and geology for instilling positive emotions and a sense of awe; and Sam Harris’ app ‘Waking Up’ for keeping me sane. 

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