In theory, vacations are relaxing escapes from the stress of daily life, although you'd never know it when traveling with my family. Ironically, our adventures abroad have been some of the most turbulent times of the year, with the height of anxiety peaking in the weeks just before departure, that brooding question if we'd actually reach our destination looming overhead. Whether by coincidence or fate, obstacles have consistently presented themselves at the most inopportune times, threatening delicate and costly plans even before their start. A typhoon before Vietnam, a terrorist attack before Ethiopia, a taxing detainment before Turkestan, a tour guide's death before Madagascar, a turbulent popular uprising before Pakistan, a total national lock-down before Bolivia - it's no surprise that relatives and friends didn't typically envy our trips. And with our next destination just around the corner, the foreboding clouds of doubt were quickly forming on the horizon.
No one seemed to give a single thought about an obscure place like Greenland in the entirety of the last century. Yet that suddenly changed overnight with Trump's impulsive threat to snatch the remote island out from under the occupying Danes, essentially hurling the isolated island into the undesired limelight of a geopolitical storm. Besides the growing breakdown in international relations, the danger of a literal storm also began to brew within days of our flight, a result of Greenland's equally impulsive weather that often kicks up snow blizzards and gale force winds within hours of calm sunny skies. We were already aware of the harsh conditions that accompany an Arctic winter, yet still chose to travel in late February knowing that Greenland probably wouldn't remain a secret from mass tourism for much longer. Its capital of Nuuk already began announcing plans for its first international flights arriving at its newly built airport scheduled for the coming summer, one of which would depart from the US and likely dump loads of social media influencers and ill-mannered Americans looking for a novel trending thrill. Lastly, the ominous signs of climate change, with rapidly melting glaciers and dwindling animal populations, confirmed for me that my chances to visit a pristine, peaceful, and relatively people-less Greenland were already severely numbered. Nevertheless, my daunting daily monitoring of worsening weather forecasts and flight cancellations to Nuuk began to mentally exhaust me, and I eventually had to resign to Mother Nature's will for the outcome of our next great adventure at the edge of the world.
Greenland is an unforgiving and unpredictable place. With no roads crossing its rugged terrain, boats and bush planes are the only means of transport to and within the island. The ability of aircraft to land or take off from its coasts are at the constant whim of frequent snowstorms in subfreezing temperatures, blustering crosswinds upwards of 35-50 mph (50-80 kmh), and ice glazing over short airport runways. While the opening of a new international airport in late 2024 had been celebrated by locals for being geographically convenient (moving from the original airstrip at Kangerlussuaq, an hour flight north of the capital), Nuuk's location had been criticized for being far more prone to drastic weather interference. This has even led to 5-hour long flights from Denmark circling above the city before finally abandoning their descents and actually returning to Europe. With already limited time in such a remote and costly destination, indefinite delays and cancellations could be a traveler's ultimate nightmare. The lady at the Air Greenland counter in Copenhagen donned her best poker face when wishing us a pleasant flight. I asked her if handing us boarding passes meant that the flight to Nuuk was guaranteed, to which she smiled ironically and admitted that the flight could still be cancelled even while in the air. Nevertheless, she still crossed her fingers for us.
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| Arriving at Nuuk's new international airport, on its only Airbus, the "Tuukkaq" |
Flying on Air Greenland's new and only Airbus, Tuukkaq, we soared above the rippled white expanse of a solid ice sheet forming the largest non-continental island on the planet. The dramatic textures from the air revealed rocky mountains, glacier-filled gorges, rivers of ice, and bays of icebergs sprinkled like thousands of sugar crystals. Nearly everything in every direction was as white as a blank page, an occasional patch of gray or black boulders peaking through the solid permafrost. As the long black runway of Nuuk's tiny airport appeared on the horizon, cutting through the disorienting snow-swept landscape, the Tuukkaq safely landed with only a few minor jolts, to the celebratory applause of its relieved passengers. Driving into Nuuk felt surreal given its bleak ambience, a land without any signs of vegetation in the winter. Despite this, there was an odd sense of beauty and quaintness in such desolate terrain that made one feel completely removed from the rest of the "normal" world. The small road leading around a bay filled with rustic fishing boats ensnared in ice wound its way past some fishing industries, cement apartment blocks, and small wooden shops sporadically dotting the rolling white land. Despite the harsh weather and the city's sparse density, people were surprisingly out and about with an air of normalcy, doing daily activities without minding the dry grainy snow fluttering nearly horizontally in the brisk breeze and well below freezing temperatures. Children pranced around blocks of ice on their way home from school. Mothers pushed baby carriages or pulled toddlers on little sleds during a casual stroll through the snow showers. Men taking off from work took shortcuts across town on snowmobiles or cross-country skis. Well-bundled in long down coats, furry hoods, and mittens, everyone would stop to wave and greet each other as if the entire city of 20,000 was on a first-name basis. Coming from the sun and sand of Orange County, this frigid existence that felt like living in a perpetual ski trip seemed as delightful as it was perplexing. Coming from the overpopulation and anonymity of the US, there was a peculiar sense of warmth and hospitality.
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| The historical colonial side of Nuuk |
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| The contemporary downtown side of Nuuk |
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| A family going for an evening walk in below freezing conditions |
With only a few hours left of daylight, our time to explore the world's northernmost capital (if you support Greenland's statehood) was brief yet enthralling. The afternoon air was a shivering 10°F (-12°C), but three layers of clothing and a goose-down jacket was sufficient. Walking from the Hotel Hans Egede Express, we slipped and slid our way towards the coastline, affording us wide angle views of the old town and a bay of turquoise colored icebergs. Small rustic wooden structures in an array of bold solid hues felt like colorful confetti upon a surface of creamy white frosting, the tallest structure being the rather modest 1849 Church of Our Savior. Reds, yellows, blues, and greens covered the simple wooden A-frame houses, colors that historically characterized the professions of their colonial occupants. The neighborhood was eerily silent but tranquil in the snowfall. In fact, all of Nuuk felt oddly quiet, empty, and slow-paced, the polar opposite and a pleasant release from the cacophony of Southern California. Nuuk Center, the city's only (miniature) shopping mall, seemed somewhat abandoned despite being a warm place to take refuge alongside a handful of clothing stores and household wares. When the snow picked up in intensity, we spent time picking out curios in an indigenous arts shop filled with Inuit carvings in bone and horn, as well as luxurious seal pelt coats and boots. The whimsical otherworldly faces of tupilaq monsters carved from walrus teeth and narwhal tusks comically grinned from behind the shopkeeper's counter, clustered alongside smooth soapstone sculptures of native hunters and polar bears. By six in the evening, nearly everything was closed except for a couple of restaurants and a pub around the central intersection. The US dollar to Danish krone exchange rate had always been financially debilitating, and a simple hamburger in a small diner could cost 30 dollars, additionally costly in a land where nearly everything had to be imported. Nevertheless, avoiding the few repetitive dining establishments gave us a reason to explore the ready-made local meals of the Brugseni supermarket, where we were able to get four whale steaks, two pasta salads with mattak (narwhal/beluga blubber), and a couple coconut macaroons for far less. Retiring early to the comfort of our room was the best decision, as the growing blizzard ramped up to 40 mph (64 kmh) winds that howled through streets disappearing beneath the snow.
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| The quaint Old Town Nuuk |
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| The original harbor of Nuuk |
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| Turquoise icebergs spotted between Inuit kayaks |
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| A supermarket dinner of minke whale steaks and whale blubber pasta salad |
We spent most of the following morning stuck in Nuuk International Airport, as our flight to the northern village of Ilulissat was delayed five times and rerouted through a second village due to the usual unforeseen and worsening weather conditions. Yet the extended wait in the airport was anything but dull. Observing from the warmth of a single small terminal of only four gates, the logistical nightmare of technical operations and runway clearance within a place like Greenland were played out before us in the squall conditions on the tarmac. Watching the harrowing take-offs and landings of Dash-8 turboprop planes built up both excitement and anxiety, for while these tiny planes were designed for flying in Arctic conditions, they were also prone to experiencing nauseating turbulence. Flights across Greenland were constantly being delayed or canceled due to any combination of variables at both the departure or arrival destination of a flight, including but not limited to snow fall, ice buildup, gale force winds, visibility restrictions, and mechanical problems from the cold. The job of predicting weather patterns and rescheduling backlogged passengers certainly did not make me envy the work of Air Greenland employees, who always managed to maintain composure and professionalism when flight paths went awry. Over two hours later, we walked out onto the tarmac to board a tiny 37-seat Dash-8 and departed Nuuk, flying an hour north before landing in the tiny island village of Aasiaat to refuel, where a blizzard was underway with gusts and snowfall. The stewardess explained to us in English what felt like a long complicated announcement in the native Kalaallisut language. The odds of arriving in Ilulissat were fifty-fifty given the ongoing storm, with a possible chance that we'd have to divert to another village somewhere on the massive Disko Bay if the plane couldn't land. The stewardess nonchalantly informed us that we'd essentially take 20 minutes to get to Ilulissat and then make the decision mid-air above the airport. The little Dash-8, humming and buzzing at ear-splitting levels, bounced its way through the total white-out of the snow storm, circling overhead with determination until it got clearance to come in for the landing. To everyone's surprise, the pilots brought the plane down remarkably smoothly and securely, the cabin erupting with applause for yet another successful mission in one of the world's most agonizing places to fly. At the small Ilulissat airport, a one-gate terminal whose interior more resembled a dated ski lodge, the families of our flight's passengers stood jubilantly on the snow-swept tarmac, waving little Greenland flags in an adorable display of long-awaited welcome.
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| The mighty little Arctic Dash-8, the only aircraft suitable for domestic flights |
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| Refueling in the village of Aasiaat during a snowstorm |
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| Finally arriving at Ilulissat airport after hours of weather-related delays |
At Earth's 69th parallel above the Arctic Circle, the little village of Ilulissat in winter could easily have been extraterrestrial. The absolute barren landscape of ice, snow, and rock, completely void of any kind of tree or shrub, gave the frigid northern settlement an moon-like atmosphere that was heightened in the frosty squall. Small homes and shops were scattered along rocky coastal bluffs, battered by the winds and buried in feet of snow, as sheets of sea ice clogged the harbor and entrapped fishing boats. Beyond the cliffs, the whitehead waves of Disko Bay broke upon the shoreline with immense force. The fine grain of the snow felt like fine sandpaper in the strong winds, its tiny sharp crystals shearing the skin and burning the unprotected eyes. We found refuge at the Hotel Icefiord, a quaint and homely place perched on the edge of a rocky drop overlooking the bay, where we cleaned ourselves up and donned even more layers of winter clothing before braving the extreme weather again. At 5°F (-15°C), not even factoring in additional windchill, four layers of both upper and lower garments were needed to keep out the frostbite, as well as a balaclava, gloves, and hood. Transforming into an unflattering ball of fabrics led to limited mobility and comical movements, yet vanity was quickly sacrificed for the sake of not completely freezing to the core. The extreme cold made our mobile phones malfunction and camera batteries drain, forcing us to tend to our electronics with warmth and shelter as if they were sentient. We slowly made our way through the town's icy streets in the storm, eventually reaching the humble historical house of the great 19th century Danish-Inuit explorer, anthropologist, and trader, Knud Rasmussen, who was the first European to cross the Northwest Passage via dogsled. Most of the town had closed by the time we arrived, and with only two restaurants open, we took a rest at the crowded Cafe Iluliaq, a small local diner ran by (of all people) a group of Thai women, where loaded reindeer burgers and fries tasted like a warm savory bite of polar paradise. The return back to the hotel was exhausting, but oddly delightful, sinking knee-deep and getting trapped in the pristine snow that wiped any traces of street or path in minutes. The simple luxuries of a hot shower and thick comforter back in the warmly-lit room helped us to thaw back to life.
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| The northern town of Ilulissat, as seen from Disko Bay |
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| Disko Bay during a storm |
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| The colonial house and birthplace of Arctic explorer, Knud Rasmussen |
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| Dinner at Cafe Iluliaq, the only diner in town that was open, filled with Inuit locals |
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| Ilulissat during an evening snow |
A little past two in the morning, I suddenly awoke from a deep slumber to a very faint tint of green from beyond the foggy glass window. I wasn't sure if I could trust my sore and tired eyes, nor did I really desire to leave the toasty cocoon of my bed. Yet deep down in my gut, I knew if I didn't take the plunge and confirm it for myself, I might just miss my one and only chance. Half asleep, I donned my jacket and boots, then quietly slipped out of the hotel entrance and walked to the dark side of the building overlooking the black void of Disko Bay. I was flabbergasted. Through the sea of stars, faint neon streaks of the aurora borealis, the famed Northern Lights, fluttered evanescently like cosmic ribbons across the perfectly clear bejeweled skies. Now thoroughly awake, I dashed back to the room to wake my father, whose initial groggy temperament quickly changed upon witnessing the phenomenon for himself. As with everything in Greenland, seeing the aurora was a matter of timing and luck, depending on a multitude of variables such as clear skies, sufficient darkness, intensity of solar winds, as well as their location and pattern when striking the atmosphere. They did not occur nightly nor consistently, although we had been told that the polar nights of winter provided better chances to catch a glimpse of their celestial magic. Though lightly colored to our naked eyes, the true magnitude and beauty of the aurora were captured using the camera's long exposure to reveal a radiant emerald green color. Given the unpredictable storms and cloudy nights that had already interfered with our limited time, we felt utterly ecstatic to have caught a brief glimpse of this natural wonder, almost forgetting that we were gradually beginning to freeze while standing outside in the night air. Indeed, trying to return to sleep after such a thrill was nearly impossible.
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| Catching the Northern Lights around 2AM |
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| The cosmic display passed right outside our window |
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| The Hotel Icefiord takes great pride in its aurora borealis viewing platform |
The following morning revealed a sight completely antithetical to what we witnessed when we first arrived. A radiant sun began to slowly rise around 9 AM in azure blue skies, bathing in its light an Ilulissat blanketed in gleaming snow. People have always loosely used the phrase "winter wonderland" to describe scenes simply incomparable to the majestic view that laid before us. The ship-sized icebergs of Disko Bay shimmered upon calm waters, a stillness that finally overcame the previous day's tumult. We climbed into the back cabin of a massive snowcat, a small tank-like vehicle that slowly plowed its way along an invisible trail through rocky pinnacles and gorges towards remote wilderness on the outskirts of town. Like a vast white desert, we crossed over frozen solid lakes and barren waste of untouched powdered snow, winds gusting flakey flurries off jagged mountain tops in a way that appeared as though time was slowing down. It took over an hour of carving our way through Greenlandic backcountry to reach an exquisitely secluded frozen lake surrounded by dramatic snow-drenched stone peaks, only 10 miles (15km) away from town in the direction of the great ice sheet. A tiny wooden lodge was perched high on a foundation above a rocky outcrop, surrounded at its base by a small field of picturesque parabolic mounds jutting from the edge of the frozen lake bed. The lodge caretakers, a mixed crew of Inuit and Danish youths, were busy assembling one of these hollow domes from blocks of compacted snow, the iconic "Eskimo igloo", within which I would attempt to spend an entire night. I felt exhilarated from the thought of having a chance to sleep in the traditional native abode that has been an iconic aspect of Inuit and Arctic culture for millennia. Yet there was also a mild sense of apprehension, for I was told that it could become unbearably cold, if not life-threatening, without proper preparation and insulating gear. The daytime had already reached a staggering -4°F (-20°C) without windchill, making me ponder how much lower the temperature could possibly plummet at the dead of night in such a remote and harsh place. My electronics were continuing to literally freeze up and malfunction within minutes of exposure, while a gloveless hand burned and numbed within mere seconds. Tongue in cheek, the lodge staff did hint that if the igloo challenge failed, I could always try to scramble back in the dark and get sleep on one of the lodge's small bunk beds. Despite the lack of both electricity and running water, the lodge did possess three gas-powered stoves that made a dramatic degree difference between inside and outside the thin wooden structure. I contemplated my decision over a delectable lunch of traditional smoked meats - salmon, halibut, reindeer, musk ox, and lamb, likely the most expensive charcuterie board I'd ever tasted.
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| A post-snowstorm dawn over Ilulissat, around 9AM |
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| View of icebergs in Disko Bay |
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| Standing beside my personal igloo! |
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| Inside the igloo, constructed from compacted blocks of moulded snow |
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| "Inuit Charcuterie" lunch of smoked salmon, halibut, reindeer, musk ox, and lamb |
Even with our first sun and clear skies since arriving in Greenland, the unruly winds picked up in the afternoon, blowing fine snow dust that abrazed the skin and made being outside exceptionally challenging. As every activity was at the mercy of finicky weather, we had to limit a several-hour snowmobile excursion to a short afternoon trip across the frozen lake to a supposedly special viewpoint. It was for the best, as neither my father nor I felt very confident in operating a hefty snowmobile, which we later would discover was quite the opposite from operating a motorbike regarding turns and balance. My father took over and received a one-minute crash course before slowly driving us both off to the vista. We gradually sped up and off towards a narrow cleft in the distant mountain, then hiked through the snow up a hillside towards a cluster of boulders overlooking a wide panorama. The scene that met our gaze was truly magnificent, an enormous valley of glacial ice and frozen fjord bordered by lofty mountains seemingly stretching into the horizon. A UNESCO protected natural wonder, the Ilulissat Icefjord was one of the few places left on Earth where I felt genuinely speechless and awestruck by nature's sheer scale and magnitude. The phrase "Ends of the earth" was rendered a totally insufficient metaphor in describing this shimmering white planet that stretched into infinity. We briefly took in the view over the cliff's edge before returning back across the frozen lake, the strong winds starting to awaken again in the afternoon. Relaxing in the lodge as the early evening approached, the lodge staff lit candles throughout the cozy common areas, their warm and soothing aura flickering gently off the natural wooden walls. We sipped mugs of hot herbal tea on chairs lined with musk ox furs, watching the orange sun slowly set in fiery skies beyond the snowy peaks that surrounded us. Dinner was as mouth watering as it was magical in the glow of candlelight, a hearty homemade stew of reindeer and root vegetables over steaming white rice filling us to delectable contentment. The clouds began to flood in, with the outside temperature dropping further to a bewildering -13°F (-25°C). The comfort of the cabin initially gave us a sense of reluctance at throwing ourselves back into the cold to enter our igloo, until I reminded myself of the privilege in such an opportunity. Donning four layers, a jacket, and snow boots, we ran outside into the utter darkness, rushing down the hill towards our selected igloo before the loss of feeling in all of our extremities. Crouching down into the narrow entrance tunnel, we contorted our bodies before popping upwards onto an interior snow bank, where we found a pair of sleeping pads covered in reindeer hides and topped with down sleeping bags. After brushing off the loose ice, we climbed into our chilled cocoons fully clothed and prayed for an expedient night. In time, the sleeping bags warmed up and became tolerably snug, covering my entire body with the exception of a small opening for my nose and mouth to breathe. I slept with my camera and mobile phone, sheltering them from the cold like a bird incubating eggs. Quite remarkably, neither my father nor myself woke from 11 PM until 8 AM the following morning, when we were startled by a caretaker's call through the entrance hole, jokingly inquiring if we were still alive and planning to join for breakfast. Somewhat ironically, a sound-proof, wind-proof, temperature-insulated mound of snow provided us with one of the most peaceful and uninterrupted sleep in recent memory. I had fulfilled one of my life-long dreams by surviving the night in an igloo, confirming for me the wonders of this time-tested structure of survival and indigenous ingenuity.
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| A dog sled glides across a frozen lake during a snow flurry |
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| Dad on his personal snowmobile |
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| A mountain top viewpoint overlooking the frozen icefjord. It felt veritably moon-like |
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| A branch of the frozen-over Ilulissat Icefjord extending into the horizon |
The bright sun and clear skies of the previous day had once again unpredictability morphed into an exceptionally cold, dusky morning with light snowfall and a gentle breeze. We walked from the lodge around large boulders to where around thirty dogs sporting the fluffiest ivory and silver coats were rambunctiously howling and playing. It was a great day for one of the Arctic's most iconic pastimes, mushing, better known as dog sledding. The Ilulissat area was rightfully considered the capital of dog sledding, for all throughout the outskirts of town, hundreds of dogs could be seen freely roaming and living in small ramshackle dog houses scattered over the open icy landscape. Greenlandic dogs are pure, rare, and a source of national pride, having been used by Inuit peoples as a source of transportation over thousands of years. They are exceptionally strong and have evolved to withstand shockingly harsh conditions and subzero temperatures. Due to these prized traits, all other dog breeds were forbidden in Greenland. If a Greenlandic dog happened to find itself anywhere below the confines of the Arctic Circle, it was prohibited from ever returning, all in a strictly regulated effort to prevent genetic contamination. Our musher (sled driver) was a dog sledding champion and local celebrity in Greenland, known for guiding his sleds smoothly and delicately across frozen earth and around snow-blanketed boulders. It took a solid thirty minutes to get all of the rowdy dogs in order and their individual ropes lashed to a peg driven deep into the snow. We sat upright on the traditional wooden sled, upon a platform draped in reindeer furs and tied down with cords, draping both legs to one side. I somehow missed the instruction to grasp tightly to one of the cords, for once the musher had released the grounding peg, I was nearly flung from the sled as the dogs instantly jetted off into the mist. Pulled at a brisk pace by a fanned cluster of ten dogs, we slid along a serene trail cutting across open fields of snow and solid lakes bordered by rocky peaks. From the comfort of the sled, I observed that dog sledding was anything but a passive sport, as the musher and his animals needed to maintain constant subliminal communication to navigate through gorges, up hills, and around hidden obstacles. When reaching a slope, the musher would jump off the sled and subsequently trail behind, helping to push the back frame up the incline until the ground leveled out again, where he would quickly sprint ahead and throw himself back onto the vehicle. The entire process was coordinated with exceptional finesse, as an experienced musher should be able to transition smoothly and with ease while never losing momentum. Our 1.5 hour ride took us on a silent scenic circuit through rocky hills and solid lakes, eventually returning us to the wooden lodge for hot tea and snacks. Reflecting on the journey, I felt grateful to add this exceptionally unique form of transportation to my collection of experiences, one that thrust me into the imagery and exploratory spirit of great Arctic expeditions, much like those of Knud Rasmussen. It was as exhilarating and romantic as I had always envisioned, soaring across a mystical landscape through a light precipitating snow that left thousands of tiny star-shaped flakes clustered upon our brows.
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| We rode through gorges and across several frozen lakes |
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| Riding through a breathtaking winter wonderland |
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| Such an amazing indigenous form of transportation! |
Bidding farewell to the lodge and returning to Ilulissat via the snowcat, where a white-out snow storm was once again veritably erasing the town, we grabbed some provisions from the local Brugseni supermarket to get us through the night in our cozy hotel room. A "party platter" of modern Greenlandic seafood delicacies, a chunk of indigenous tikaagulliup mattaa (minke whale blubber, which we ate in the traditional way - raw), and an assortment of Danish baked goods ended up being far cheaper and certainly more authentic than generic cafe fare. We spent the rest of the evening gorging and reliving our experiences from the Igloo lodge, the floating icebergs just outside our window always mobile and ever changing.
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| Locals strolling through town despite the growing white-out |
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| Greenlandic Seafood Party Platter! |
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| A chunk of tikaagulliup mattaa (minke whale blubber), eaten raw |
It initially felt odd waking to dark starry skies, as the sun had not been rising until nearly 9 each morning. But a hotel breakfast of hot sourdough buns, smoked halibut, homemade blueberry torte, and pressed coffee always managed to impart some energy to the unusual daylight hours, which were very gradually lengthening. I had never before visited a place that had such bipolar weather conditions, constantly wavering between the very calm and the absolute chaotic, where planning any form of scheduled activity frequently felt borderline futile. A dawn broken by a bright orange sunrise typically gave one hope for a pleasant day, which could easily turn by afternoon into a maelstrom. Yet the locals continued to conduct everyday life regardless of what conditions we perceived to be apocalyptic, for they clearly came from a culture that knew how to read the skies, winds, and waters. The mere sight of stars in the early dawn indicated that it was likely going to be a clear day, hence perfect weather for hiking to the edge of the icefjord. We met up with two young Inuit ladies, tour guide Pipaluk (Pip) and her guide-trainee Tanya (her native name exceeded 10 letters and, much to my embarrassment, was utterly unpronounceable), and headed south of town towards the gateway to the icefjord. The famed Ilulissat icefjord was a narrow water inlet that stretched 38 miles (61 km) from the Sermeq Kujalleq Glacier on Greenland's great ice sheet towards Disko Bay, which in turn opened up into the greater ocean of Baffin Bay. The fjord's greatest attraction was its incomprehensible number of icebergs, gradually shedding from the glacier and journeying to the sea. A UNESCO protected natural wonder, the icefjord was celebrated for being the largest iceberg-producing geographical location in the northern hemisphere, only second in the entire world behind the glaciers of Antarctica. The icebergs originating at Ilulissat have influenced global ocean currents, sea levels, and climate patterns for at least half a million years, with its ice having been found as far north as Norway and as far south as the Azores. However, the fjord's most notorious contribution to recent history was likely its role in sourcing the monstrous chunk that ultimately sank the Titanic in 1912, a speculation that seemed to give Ilulissat's residents a comical sense of pride.
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| Hiking with some native guides, Pipaluk and Tanya (I can't spell her lengthy Inuit name) |
We hiked from the Icefjord Center along an icy wood plank trail to the Sermermiut settlement, the archaeological foundations of a 600 year-old village belonging to the Thule culture, which had slowly migrated over millennia from North Asia into the North American Arctic to eventually give birth to all modern Inuit tribes of Greenland, Canada, and Alaska. The trail from the ancient village descended into a wide stony shoreline, where massive glaciers the size of multistorey buildings drifted silently to empty into Disko Bay. Pip rushed us through the shoreline towards a trail that scaled up a hillside of pure rock. She explained that it was not advised to linger longer than necessary in the low-lying lands along the shores of the fjord, as a calving iceberg had the force to send tsunamis capable of destroying everything in its path with hypothermic waters. We climbed up the stone face to an astonishing viewpoint of the fjord filled with 11 cubic miles (46 cubic kilometers) of icebergs, a sheer volume of ice that my mind simply could not fathom. The sun shimmered radiantly off millions of reflective crystalline surfaces in shades ranging from diamond white to sapphire blue. Yet even the sun's strong rays weren't enough to warm the air, which began to send sharp pains into our hands within mere seconds of removing our gloves to take photos. Videos taken with my mobile phone began to crash from the freezing cold, serving as my constant reminder to put the screen down and simply take in the wondrous sight with my own eyes. To accompany the breathtaking scenery, the ladies brought some thermoses of hot tea and coffee, which we were pleased to imbibe alongside homemade granola bars. Having Pip and Tanya proved to be exceptionally insightful for me, with my unending anthropological questions pertaining to Inuit culture and general life in the Arctic. I learned about the Inuit diet that historically consisted solely of meat and fish, as well as their unique genetic adaptations over millennia to be able to survive with such limited resources in a land that could grow nothing. Fruits and vegetables were only introduced by Europeans to their people a little over a century ago, and they recounted the amusing story of a local elder from their community who described seeing an orange for the very first time as a child. He initially thought it was a toy ball, but when instructed to eat it, he bit into the unpeeled fruit, its bitter rind putting him off from oranges for the rest of his life. I also finally received an answer to the age-old question, "How did Eskimos bathe when it's freezing?". The ladies both chuckled to themselves. "They didn't." Indeed, with no fuel to heat a sufficient volume of icy water, or with most water simply frozen solid, semi-nomadic Inuit peoples could either rub down with springtime grasses or skip washing altogether. At best, the women would occasionally rinse their hair in urine to prevent it from drying out and breaking. Pip's stories of her ancestors continued to fascinate me all the way back to town, where they eventually dropped us off at the main intersection to carry on with our day.
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| Icebergs larger than city blocks and as tall as skyscrapers |
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| Calving icebergs are so large, they're capable of generating tsunamis |
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| The Ilulissat Icefjord, a UNESCO protected natural wonder |
With already so much emphasis on Greenland's stunning nature, I felt it best to spend the rest of the temperate afternoon exploring the history and culture around Ilulissat. We stopped by an artisans workshop, where several older men and women worked with chisels and drills to create exquisite traditional carvings, figurines, and tribal jewelry from reindeer antlers, walrus tusks, and narwhal horns. The most ubiquitous souvenir was the tupilaq, a bizarre anthropomorphic figure from a collection of spirit creatures and mythological monsters used to cast spells of protection or retribution in Inuit shamanism. After wandering around the harbor, where most of the boats were encased in sea ice, we visited the small but fascinating history museum built within the colonial house of Knud Rasmussen, where each room contained detailed displays documenting his tantalizing voyages and studies of the Arctic and its people. For those with a National Geographic sense of spirit, the house was a treasure trove of vintage exploration gear, archival photographs, ethnographic artifacts, and plenty of stretched seal hides. Further up the road, another colonial house contained the town's four-room art museum, a modest yet enchanting collection of paintings and sculptures by local artists. The subjects of the works were almost entirely centered on seals, fishing, and icebergs, the inevitable cultural influences of such an isolated region. Having covered every part of the tiny town, we practically felt like locals ourselves, even crashing a Sunday afternoon children's competition involving the Inuit version of a piñata popping. The land and its people were becoming more familiar and, dare I admit, even the bone-chilling weather was starting to grow on me. We casually strolled into the Brugseni market for the third time, to pick up dinner from the same polite cashiers and bakers, before heading back to Hotel Icefiord on our usual slippery path across the neighborhood. On the menu that night were chicken skewers, a pesto pizza, some seafood pasta salad, more flaky pastries, and of course another block of raw mattak pujuugaq (this time, from the bowhead whale).
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| Disko Bay from the Hotel Icefiord deck |
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| Trying mattak pujuugaq (bowhead whale skin/blubber). Also eaten raw. |
Our final day in this land of perpetual winter began with a truly frigid morning and heavy snow, though none of it would deter us, having now experienced a week of outlandish weather. We strolled in the opposite direction of town, wandering through a silent neighborhood of small colorful one-room cottages, fishing boats beached in front yards slowly being swallowed up by the snow. We found our way to the road leading towards the icefjord, bordered on both sides by kennels of sled dogs that were free to roam without any fences or barricades. The snow-dusted dogs slept as little curled up balls of fur sprinkled over a powdery white blanket. An adorable cluster of puppies spotted and trailed us down the empty street, their playful energy seemingly unaffected by the numbing temperatures. To escape the morning white-out, we took refuge at the Icefjord Center, a conspicuously sleek facility gracing the entrance to the UNESCO protected area, which was filled with both artistic, scientific, and interactive exhibits dedicated to the Sermeq Kujalleq glacier and the icefjord's beauty and critical roles in studying global climate change. For a relatively bleak and isolated town like Ilulissat, the center's exhibits were unexpectedly elegant and avant-garde, even including a full 3D virtual reality tour that transported the viewer to the EGRIP (East Greenland Ice-Core Project) international scientific research center located underground in the desolate heart of Greenland's ice sheet. Collections of core samples were also displayed in special freezing containers, allowing visitors to view the layers of these shafts, stepping back into time to understand how historical global climate events were naturally recorded in Greenland's ancient ice. By the time we finished exploring the science behind the glacier, the wind and snow subsided, clearing the air just in time for our chance to engage with this ice, face-to-face.
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| Ice core samples serving as a global climate historical record |
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| The main intersection of downtown Ilulissat |
We were picked up by a young and delightfully charismatic Danish man, whisking us through town in his erratically driven van towards the town harbour, where a medium-sized ice-breaker vessel was filling with a handful of passengers. Almost serendipitously, the weather had mellowed for an overcast afternoon cruise exploring the floating giants of the sea, Ilulissat's world-renowned icebergs. First appearing in the distance, they seemed no larger than small buoyant nuggets; only until we gradually approached their bases were their true magnitudes revealed with grandeur. "Megalithic" cannot even begin to describe the enormity of these floating ice mountains and plateaus, some icebergs larger than whole city blocks and as tall as skyscrapers, the largest being more than half a mile in height. They littered the mouth of the icefjord, rapidly flowing with the ocean currents out into the northern Atlantic to make their rounds between Greenland, Canada, and beyond. The air was spine-chilling and our electronics were faltering, yet our minds were febrile with anticipation over cruising between these towering wonders. To think that they were merely the tips, as typically only 10% of an iceberg's mass breached the surface, a mind-boggling thought as to how much more ice floated below the dark blue depths of the hypothermic water. The ice itself reflected a variety of shades, including white, sapphire blue, or striated gray, an indication of the age and purity of the water that calved from the glacier's historical record. With the icebergs, large lumps of sea ice clustered together, like lifesize ice cubes bobbing in an endless beverage. The boat pulled right up to a flatter ice sheet, where we were allowed to feel the berg with our hands for as long as the freezing air would permit, light reflecting off of its beautiful quartz-like surface. The captain and an assistant took a harpoon-like chisel and chipped away at the berg, collecting the pieces in a net before filling a large metal tray. After an enthusiastic ecology presentation below deck, the young Danish man exclaimed that he had a surprise waiting for us to celebrate our visit. In the warmth of the cabin, each table was presented with a miniature bar setup, complete with glasses and bottles, along with chunks of iceberg that had just been extracted. From guide to bartender, the young man added an exciting Arctic touch to the cocktails he hand mixed for each passenger. Observing the ice giants from in the boat's cozy interior was certainly complimented by a glass of chilled qayaasat, a traditional Inuit infusion of leaves from the "kayak plant" ("Labrador tea"), mixed with glacial sparkling water and a shot of fine Danish gin, shaken to perfection with the ice floating right beside us. The ice was unique, filled with thousands of oxygen bubbles, and clean to taste, a rare chance to drink water that had been entrapped in a glacier for hundreds of thousands of years. Every aspect about Greenland seemed to be measured on a scale of extremes, a land that never ceased to inspire within us humility and reverence.
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| Making cocktails with actual pieces of iceberg |
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| A glass of chilled Inuit qayaasat mixed with Danish gin |
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| A beautiful bone-chilling cruise among icy giants |
We left Ilulissat on the early morning of a golden sun, a sign of relief that Mother Nature would be merciful on our last set of flights. Against the odds, our trip that was filled with such capricious climate managed to proceed nearly flawlessly, a remarkable feat for anyone traveling in the dead of a Greenlandic winter. The tiny Dash-8 soared over our last truly magnificent views of a vast and untamed landscape, Disko Bay teeming with islands of glimmering white. Monumental mountains and deep ravines scarred by millennia of glacial carving leveled into an ice sheet that spanned towards the edge of the horizon. Only a week prior, Greenland had greeted us with awe-inspiring majesty, yet now it finally sent us off feeling somewhat infinitesimal and certainly humble, not only a result of its stunning natural beauty and enormity, but from its earth-rooted lifestyle and timeless history extending to well beyond the dawn of humanity. I reflected upon our brief time in this alien world, a land that contributed so much to my wealth of experiences as well as my pool of global knowledge. Before my arrival, friends and family questioned if anyone actually lived in Greenland, a sign of just how truly enigmatic and misunderstood the island remains in the minds of most people around the world. Having now witnessed with my own eyes such astonishing wonders, I hoped that my amateur photographs and attempt at literary composition could remotely suffice in describing a land that was nearly indescribable, as well as a people and culture that exemplified the most admirable and timeless resilience.
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| Flying out of Ilulissat at dawn |
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| Massive sheets of sea ice clogging Disko Bay |
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| A towering iceberg receives the first pink rays of dawn |
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| One last refuel in the village of Aasiaat |
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| Final view of the great Greenland ice sheet |
