August 15. We left the Red House at 9 a.m. under clear skies and a light that felt almost too warm for East Greenland. The harbor was quiet except for the clatter of bags being handed from dock to boat. We loaded everything quickly and then stepped in beside it, settling onto aluminum benches while our Greenlandic captain checked the motor.

The ride to Isortoq was fast. The boat skimmed across glassy water while icebergs drifted like slow giants around us. The captain threaded us through them with the ease of someone who has done this forever. At one point we passed a small bay and I realized we were starting almost exactly where we had begun in 2018, close enough that it felt like a continuation of an old story.

The moment the boats pulled ashore, the real work began. All of our gear had to be ferried from the water to the edge of the ice sheet. It sounded straightforward but the terrain was a maze of rounded boulders and awkward steps. We moved things in stages. Drop the load, walk back, grab another. Repeat. There were probably seventy-five pieces of gear in total. We did it in seven or eight intervals.

It was hot. Almost everyone stripped down to base layers. Packs, sleds, rope bags, food barrels, fuel bottles. All of it slowly migrated toward the ice. Nobody sprained an ankle or took a big fall, which felt like luck on the kind of day when luck matters.

Eventually the rock turned pale and textured, and we reached the margin of the Greenland Ice Sheet. The place where land ends and another world begins.

We stopped there for dinner. The sun hovered low and warm, and the ice in front of us looked like a frozen ocean that had hit pause. People spread out in small groups, sitting on packs or on the rocks. It was a quiet meal, the sort where everyone is processing the day at their own pace.

Afterward we packed our final items and stepped onto the ice. It felt good to be back on it. The surface was a mix of dimples, ridges and small pools that shifted with the angle of the light. We pulled the sleds a short distance and picked a flat spot for camp. Ice screws held the tents in place. It looked clean and tight when it was done.

The tent set-up went smoothly but the first fuel burn inside the tent did not. The stove flared higher than expected and for a few tense seconds it seemed like our whole shelter might ignite. Elaine grabbed it and tossed it into the snow before anything melted or caught. We reset and tried again, this time without drama.

Sleep came in pieces. I kept waking up, thinking about gear systems and the travel days ahead. At some point I got out for polar bear watch. The light had shifted into a soft twilight that felt almost blue. The moon was low over the ridge and Jupiter sat beside it like a bright pin.

The ice was quiet. Extremely quiet. It was the first moment of the trip when everything felt still enough to absorb. I stood there for a while, feeling stretched thin from the day but also settled in a way that only happens once the work has begun.

Tomorrow would be our first real push. But tonight we were here, on the ice once again, ready for whatever the next days would bring.