August 14, 2022 — Tasillaq, East Greenland

We came back to Greenland to try again. The first time, in 2018, the ice pushed us back with storms strong enough to tear a tent built for Antarctica. We were evacuated by helicopter and spent months mourning a trip we we hadn’t realized we could grieve. (That story lives here if you want its full weight: https://altabackcountry.com/2018/07/11/dealing-with-disappointment/).

So this time, we joined a team crossing the ice, different style, same goal. Maybe we would reach the far side, or at least see more of the middle.

The boat from Kulusuk punched across gray water beneath sharp black mountains. Elaine and I ended up wedged under the decking at the bow where we could see almost nothing except knees and the hull slamming into waves. We didn’t get the view, but we got all of the motion. It was like being seasick inside a storage compartment. No one complained. Somehow, that set the tone for the trip.

Tasillaq appeared in bright evening sun, a scatter of bold yellow, blue, and red buildings against rock and water. We stayed at The Red House, which is actually a beautiful place to land if you are booked in the main building. Robert Peroni runs it with care and hires local staff who welcome travelers with a quiet confidence that feels earned.

We were not in the main building.

Our group stayed in the overflow cabins, the ones with ladders between bunks, a bucket for a toilet, and no electricity except what the sun remembered. It smelled like wet wool and determination. Gear occupied every surface. People shimmied sideways to pass one another and apologized without making eye contact. We slept beside people we would ski beside later. Everyone carried quiet hope like it might break if dropped.

Two days of packing blurred into one long discussion about food math. Oats measured in grams, cheese rationed by feel, crackers weighed by intuition and regret. Nothing seemed precise until someone recited Børge Ousland’s breakfast like a spell: 50 grams oats, 50 grams muesli, 20 grams milk powder, 20 grams raisins, 20 grams brown sugar. If the numbers were wrong, the ice would show us how much.

Somewhere between sorting freeze dried dinners and trying not to step on each other’s sleeping bags, our new team produced cake and a paper crown for Elaine’s birthday. The crown had been cut from packaging. We ate the cake with sporks and toasted her with lukewarm tea. They barely knew us, but they celebrated anyway, a small kindness before the ice had a chance to disagree.

Before turning in, we went for a walk to get our feet under us. We wandered into town, climbed down a grassy ski run, and drifted toward the harbor. We waved to kids on bikes, smiled at people who were busy living their normal lives, and tried to feel less like outsiders. The houses glowed in the low sun, as if someone long ago had decided that color was necessary here. It felt like a magical place, not because it was remote, but because it was alive.

It was good to step away from the group and remember where we were. If I’m honest, the group experience would be a strange adjustment for us. We’re used to traveling on our own, making quiet decisions, moving at our own pace. Sharing the journey with others would take time to figure out, but for this night, Greenland was the part that made sense.

On the docks we bought a carved polar bear from a local seller. Not as superstition, more as acknowledgment. Something in this landscape belonged here, and it was not us.

The ice was still far off, hidden beyond ridges and beyond our understanding, but it was waiting. Not for us in particular. It does not wait for anyone. It sits there, enormous and silent, and we choose to go toward it.

Tomorrow we would begin again.