August 30 – 20 km, 950 meters of climbing

By the time we finally moved, the icecap felt less like a landscape and more like a boundary between worlds. Wind still worried the surface, snow drifted endlessly, and the light was already thinning toward evening. We waited most of the day for the air to loosen its grip, resting and watching the sky shift overhead. There was a nervous calm to it, the kind that comes before a race or a long night push. Not anticipation of speed or distance, but of entering a different state entirely.

We finally moved in the late afternoon. Breaking camp was a full-team effort, just as it had been the night before. The wind was strong enough that no tent could come down alone. Poles were held, lines anchored, fabric wrestled into control. By the time we clipped in and started moving, I was already cold to the core. My hands were worse, slow and clumsy. Our pace out was cautious, almost tentative, and it took time to find warmth. I ran in place on skis between steps, trying to coax circulation back. Carol loaned me an enormous pair of down pants that helped, though without suspenders they slid steadily toward my ankles. At the same time, a loose strap on my harness kept snapping me in the head. Whap. Whap. Whap. It was absurd, uncomfortable, and strangely funny.

And then, somewhere between evening and night, something shifted.

As darkness settled in, I finally warmed up. Once that happened, my bearings returned and so did my stoke. Headlamps came on, the world narrowed to cones of light, and we began moving through the dark across one of the coldest, most inhospitable places on Earth. It felt almost unreal, skiing on the summit plateau of the Greenland Ice Sheet at night, guided by instruments and trust rather than sight.

Elaine led the first night shift. I took the last. It felt familiar in a deep way, like old expedition races, like nights spent pushing across mountains when the effort becomes playful rather than heavy. We sang while leading, partly to stay awake, partly to mark the absurdity of it all. The final approach to camp felt steeper than it probably was, the snow colder and slower underfoot.

Then the wind stopped.

For the last hour, we skied in near-total stillness. No wind. No sound beyond breath and sliding skis. Just darkness, cold, and forward motion. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced.

And then the sky began to move.

A phenomenal northern lights display ignited above camp, washing the icecap in green and shifting light. Curtains rippled overhead. The snow itself seemed to glow. The world felt vast and alive in a way that’s hard to describe without diminishing it. Most of the group went straight to sleep, exhausted after the past days. Elaine and I stayed up, watching. We cooked dinner at one in the morning, standing outside longer than we needed to, unwilling to let the moment end.

This night felt like a gift. Not the climax of the journey, but a pinnacle of beauty. The icecap revealed itself not as something to be conquered, but as something that allows passage, briefly, when it chooses to. The scale, the isolation, the silence, the light. It was humbling and expansive all at once.

There is much more ahead. But this was a night I will always carry with me. Tonight, the icecap let us pass. And above it all, the sky reminded us that even here, it is alive.