August 28. 21 km, 274 feet of climbing. Camped at 7,686 feet.

The day opened already in motion.

Wind pressed at our backs, snow streamed low across the surface, and visibility shifted minute by minute. It wasn’t a sudden change from yesterday, just an intensification. More snow. More wind. More cold. As we climb toward the summit of the Greenland Ice Sheet, the margin for error feels thinner. Snow has been falling steadily for days now, and though the wind came mostly from the east, offering a tailwind, it carried weight.

Travel demanded focus. We broke trail through six to twelve centimeters of fresh snow all day, rotating leaders every thirty minutes. The system worked. Efficient. Deliberate. The effort felt familiar, like a long training day back home, except the track stretched endlessly and the consequences of fatigue were real.

There is a growing sense of urgency. Forecasts suggest the weather will continue to deteriorate, and we are still more than sixty kilometers from the summit. Tomorrow’s plan is to push harder: an early start and nine full hours of travel instead of the usual eight. It will be a challenging day, but physically I feel strong. So does Elaine. The months of preparation, five weeks in the Brooks Range and long days hauling tires at altitude back home, are showing themselves now. The effort keeps the mind engaged. There is less room for it to wander.

That strength creates tension. With worsening weather, the instinct is to move a little quicker when leading. Nothing reckless, just tightening the pace. Those efforts are often met with resistance. It creates a strange dynamic: urgency without freedom to act on it. After a while, it makes you hesitant to step forward at all. Elaine feels it too. Group travel has a way of exposing these edges quickly.

Late in the day, something unexpected cut through the storm.

Three birds appeared, flying low and erratic across the icecap. They circled our camp repeatedly, drawn in close, as if searching for shelter or orientation. It was hard to watch. We are hundreds of kilometers from the ocean, and another storm is forecast for tomorrow. I had heard stories of birds being blown off course and lost over the icecap, but I had never seen it myself. They looked exhausted. Desperate. The only living things we had seen in days. Had they landed, I would have let them into the tent without hesitation.

After nearly two weeks without seeing another living thing, their presence felt jarring. A reminder of just how unforgiving this place is. The icecap doesn’t sustain life. It barely tolerates it. Everything up here is temporary, passing through, or lost.

By evening, camp went up quickly. Snow hissed across the surface and the wind continued to build. We are racing the weather now, trying to gain ground before things turn truly hostile. It is a delicate balance: effort versus cohesion, urgency versus restraint.

Tomorrow, we push.