August 31 – 16.6 km, crossed summit at 8,159 feet

Morning came slowly after the late night before. My hands were still stiff and unreliable when we finally started moving again. The sky was muted. The light flat. Whatever energy had carried us through the night under moving skies felt distant now, replaced by the quieter work of getting going again.

The mood in the group was subdued. Not hostile, just thin. Fatigue was beginning to show in ways that were hard to read. Small things felt larger than they should have. Elaine led one of the early shifts deliberately slow, a wordless signal more than a strategy. Later, over lunch, we finally named what was happening. Everyone was tired. More tired than anyone had been willing to admit. Once it was said out loud, the edge softened.

The wind had shifted to the northwest and blew steadily into our faces all afternoon. The cold was sharper now, the snow slow and abrasive, like sandpaper under the skis. We were still climbing, though it barely felt like it. On the map, the profile rises cleanly to a clear high point. On the ground, the icecap offered no such clarity.

As we approached the summit, a broad gray bank of cloud hovered over the divide. It felt ominous and strangely intimate, like crossing into a different room rather than reaching a destination. I remember wishing I had taken a photo, but my hands were too cold to risk it. Some things don’t lend themselves to documentation.

The summit of the Greenland Ice Sheet at this latitude sits at 8,159 feet above sea level. There is no peak. No ridge. No view. Just a subtle transition from climbing to descending, marked more by instruments than sensation. Beneath us lay more than a mile and a half of ice, compacted snow layered over centuries, pressing down toward bedrock far below. Standing there felt less like arrival and more like suspension, as if even the ground were holding its breath.

We stopped briefly at lunch. That was it. No ceremony. No photo. Just the quiet understanding that we were standing at the highest point of the icecap, whether it felt like it or not.

The skiing beyond the summit was still slow. Cold snow refused to glide. The descent existed mostly on paper. It would take days before gravity truly made itself known. When we reached camp, the wind returned with purpose. One of the tent poles split, tearing a small hole in the sleeve, and fingers froze again as we worked through the repair. It was a fitting end to the day. Nothing here comes easily, not even rest.

That evening, we gathered in the big tent. Someone passed around whiskey. Elaine and I shared the last of our Colorado jerky. Laughter returned, tentative at first, then genuine. The tension of the day loosened its grip. These are good people, all of us pushing through something that asks more than it gives.