Our hosts were a Danish-Greenlandic couple, Anders and Ellen, who have lived aboard the Kisaq for decades. They sail up and down the west coast of Greenland, with the occasional jaunt down the Eastern Seaboard into the Carribean. Anders is a tall, quiet, and resolute Danish man, who seemed most talkative at breakfast . His silence and proclivity to morning instilled confidence in me—these seem to be fitting traits for a maritime man. Ellen, on the other hand, was a bit more lively, a dry Greenlandic woman, a mother and a grandmother, a wonderful cook, and the obvious master of the ship’s domain. Throughout the weekend we enjoyed her delicious homemade bread, cream-based seafood soups, and perfect pot roasts, all complimented with healthy doses of boiled potatoes . I asked her the first night who the worst guest was that the Kisaq had ever hosted and she immediately told me it was a group of heli skiers who brought along their own “master chef” for the trip. It was obvious that being relegated to sous-chef in her own kitchen would be Ellen’s worst nightmare. I liked Ellen, though—she seemed to be a woman who has her priorities straight. When we sent a chair clattering down a stairwell during a rousing game of spoons one night around midnight, she barely batted an eyelash; on the other hand, when I tracked about a tablespoon's worth of snow into the main living area, she gave me a thorough reprimand. I guess when you live on a boat, you care about the things that really matter—like dry socks.
This past weekend Ken and I were lucky enough to be invited by some friends from Aapakaaq (the local climbing club) on a weekend boat trip into the fjord aboard the good ship Kisaq. It was a great trip, complete with skiing, hunting, and beautiful (albeit cold) weather. Our hosts were a Danish-Greenlandic couple, Anders and Ellen, who have lived aboard the Kisaq for decades. They sail up and down the west coast of Greenland, with the occasional jaunt down the Eastern Seaboard into the Carribean. Anders is a tall, quiet, and resolute Danish man, who seemed most talkative at breakfast . His silence and proclivity to morning instilled confidence in me—these seem to be fitting traits for a maritime man. Ellen, on the other hand, was a bit more lively, a dry Greenlandic woman, a mother and a grandmother, a wonderful cook, and the obvious master of the ship’s domain. Throughout the weekend we enjoyed her delicious homemade bread, cream-based seafood soups, and perfect pot roasts, all complimented with healthy doses of boiled potatoes . I asked her the first night who the worst guest was that the Kisaq had ever hosted and she immediately told me it was a group of heli skiers who brought along their own “master chef” for the trip. It was obvious that being relegated to sous-chef in her own kitchen would be Ellen’s worst nightmare. I liked Ellen, though—she seemed to be a woman who has her priorities straight. When we sent a chair clattering down a stairwell during a rousing game of spoons one night around midnight, she barely batted an eyelash; on the other hand, when I tracked about a tablespoon's worth of snow into the main living area, she gave me a thorough reprimand. I guess when you live on a boat, you care about the things that really matter—like dry socks. The Kisaq sleeps 10, in five tiny 2 person cabins. Upon entering our 1 meter by 3 meter cabin, full of clever cubbyholes and space-saving features, Ken, ever the minimalist, remarked, “Architects could learn a lot from boats! They’re so space efficient. We could live in this cabin forever and never need more space.” As I searched in vain for an open surface on which to set my backpack, I chose to ignore his comment. But he does have a slightly valid point. Tracks! On Saturday, we had a great day of skiing/touring. Shortly after leaving the boat, we saw about 5 reindeer running through the valley below us—my first large land mammal sighting in Greenland! We skinned up about 2500 ft (~760 m) to a great little peak with a beautiful panoramic view of the surrounding peaks and fjord system, then skied back down to shore on some decent (although variable) snow. I enjoyed the lower angle runs as we got closer to the boat—better snow, and easier on my old telemark setup (on which I am incapable of making anything but parallel turns). Ken, Aili, and I then did an additional lap up to a 1500 ft (~455 m) saddle to get in a few more turns and one more view. The snow was great on the ski back down and it was a beautiful run to end the day. We had bluebird skies and cold, but bearable, weather—about 0 deg F (-18 deg C). Cracks in the snowpack. On Sunday, most of the party went hunting for ptarmigan and arctic hare, but lacking rifles and know-how, Ken and I opted to ski. The weather was a bit more unpredictable, and Anders (the captain) warned us at breakfast that white-out conditions could be upon us by midday. With this in mind we took careful GPS waypoints on a short hike (about 1500 ft/455 m) up the backside of a peak with a mellow slide path on the front side that we were thinking of skiing. When we got to the saddle we were thinking of skiing down from, Ken became more cautious and I stood by while he ventured toward the slope to assess the snowpack. About 2 meters out he heard a “whoomph” as the snow on the face settled, and cracks went shooting up, down, and out from the protected place were Ken stood. He quickly scurried back to me and we debated for a while whether we should set off the slide, but decided not to and skied back to the boat down the backside, following our skin track. Pretty exciting/sobering for me, but also nice to have exercised a bit of caution and see it pay off. The ski back down was uneventful save for a small touch of white frostbite that appeared on my nose-- spotted by Ken, as usual. Thank goodness for balaclavas! After returning to the boat we met up with the hunters, who had a good haul for the day—about 35 ptarmigan and one beautiful arctic hare. A Belgian Ph.D. student on the trip, Lorenz, regaled us with the tale of how he, rifle-less, had come upon a wounded ptarmigan and finished it off by ripping off its head. Greenland really has a way of bringing out the wild side in people. Cost for this trip, with all meals included, was about 300 USD per person, and well worth it. Ken and I have a similar trip coming up tomorrow through Sunday aboard another boat, the Minna Martek, and we’re excited to see how it compares to the Kisaq. Stay tuned for a full report and in the meantime, check out more pics from our trip below (mostly taken by Ken).
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This past weekend Ken and I took a trip to beautiful Qoornoq (pronounced "core-knock", roughly), a settlement in the Nuuk fjord system. We went with some members of the local climbing club, technically calling it a bouldering trip, although it was as much to boulder as it was to hang out, camp, and enjoy the balmy (sunny and 55° F/13° C!) weather. In addition to whales, icebergs, and 5000 ft (~1500 m) peaks, the weekend was full of excitement, a bit of danger, and a lot of great condiments. I'll be writing about it in three separate posts: "The Open Boat", "The Open Wound", and "The Open Faced Sandwich." Part 1: The Open Boat Qoornoq is an abandoned fishing village about an hour and half's boat ride from Nuuk. It sits on a tiny island adjacent to a much larger island in the Nuuk fjord system (you can walk between the two islands, but only at low tide.) Qoornoq was a thriving fishing village back in the 1960s and 1970s, but the fishery has since dried up and now there are only a handful of well-maintained summer homes there, as well as an old fish-drying factory and a beautifully restored church. Every summer there is also a "mayoral election", obviously a bit of joke given the lack of permanent residents, but a great excuse for a beach party/barbecue. We were lucky enough to be in Qoornoq for this event as well. You can zoom around the above map to get an idea of where Qoornoq is, but for better context, I suggest you download the Google Earth tour I made (below). If you don't know how to use Google Earth, you should. You can download it for free here.
Room for 5 more? Sure, we have extra space because there's no life jackets! We had a bit of trouble finding a boat to take us out to Qoornoq, but at the last minute the trip organizer found a friend who agreed to take us. We received an email-- "I've secured a boat--it's an open boat, so dress warm!". I thought this meant to wear an extra sweater; luckily, I found out that it meant to wear snow bibs, a couple of coats, hat, gloves, and a waterproof shell. So, around 9 pm on a gloomy Friday evening, a man named "Jon" showed up in a small skiff to pick us up and take us on the hour and a half trip into the fjord. Jon didn't say much, and the whole affair seemed a bit mysterious, but he got serious for about 30 seconds before we boarded the boat. After the first few words out of his mouth, he had my rapt attention: "There are no life preservers on this boat. If we hit a whale, or something like that, and tip over, STAY WITH THE BOAT. It has a double hull, so it can't sink. Climb on top of it. DON'T LEAVE THE BOAT. Press this red button" (pointing to the S.O.S. button on his Spot rescue device) "and an SMS should go to my friend that we're in trouble. And then he'll come for us. I hope. DON'T LEAVE THE BOAT." Got it. Don't leave the boat when we tip over. We were a total of 7 passengers with camping gear, food, and beer; the boat had an 800 kg (~1700 lb) weight limit. You do the math. With choppy seas and ominous skies, I had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing, but everyone else seemed in high spirits. Huh. I got on board and thought about my mother for a minute. Interestingly, I've never had anyone tell me where the life jackets are on any of the boats I've been on since coming to Nuuk. I'm not sure if this is due to a certain nonchalance that develops in a seafaring culture, or if it's just because the water is so cold here that a life jacket won't do much good if the boat goes down. We've heard people say, "If you're not out of the water in two minutes, you're dead". Noted. Love the captain's expression-- what is he thinking about?? Anyway, my pulse quieted as I realized this was not such a Big Deal. The boat handled well even if it was a bit cold and bumpy (Ken and I had unwisely agreed to sit in the front-- little did I know this would feel like sitting in the back seat of a school bus and going over a speed bump every 2-3 seconds.) Within 20 minutes of leaving Nuuk we had seen a humpback whale surface a few times-- my first whale sighting in Nuuk-- and the excitement over this further assuaged my general angst about the trip. I did, however, spend the next hour clinging tightly to a rope in the front of the boat, because I was still scared on a more localized level that each passing wave (and its subsequent bump) would fling me into the sea. Requisite iceberg photo. Not exactly the venue for glamor shots. Soon we began encountering more and more icebergs; Qoornoq is relatively close to a massive glacier pouring off of the ice cap. No one seemed excited about the 'bergs except me, and I demanded Ken take some photos of me. Icebergs really are beautiful things... most of them, anyway. Some are actually quite dirty and look like hunks of snow in a Chicago parking lot. These ones never seem to be photographed. Just before reaching Qoornoq proper, Jon dropped us off near our campsite (on the main island about 2-3 km from the actual Qoornoq mini-island) with a promise to return for us on Sunday. "Really? That's it?" I wondered. But I suppose one doesn't just forget these sorts of things. Bedtime in our miniature tent on the tundra. On shore, we made camp, collected driftwood, and enjoyed a fire and some stream-chilled beers under the lingering arctic sunset.
Before we knew it, it was morning. Here, sunset bleeds into the sunrise, with colors that stretch across the sky for hours with no real night in between. It's surreal to realize that sunrise has circled back on the sunset without you even noticing. And although most claim to love it, it makes me feel a little cheated. Where did my night time go? When am I supposed to sleep? In this situation I feel a small small sense of betrayal; others, mania. Regardless, when the birds start chirping, you know it's time to go to bed--at which point it's also a good idea to blindfold yourself with something so you can get some sleep. Up next: Injury in the wilds of Greenland in Qoornoq Part 2: The Open Wound. I was not a great asset to Ken's workplace. Growing up as the daughter of a mental health professional, I was sadly never allowed to be take part in the U.S.'s slightly ridiculous "take your daughter to work day" (now renamed "take our daughters and sons to work day" for gender parity). So, I was thrilled when Ken proposed that I come to work with him one day this week at his field site in Kobbefjord. No breaches of client confidentiality there!
So, what does a field day consist of for a man of Big Science? From what I saw, it breaks down to about 60% hiking, 20% tilting the screen of the laptop JUST right to get rid of glare, 10% eating, and 10% science. Not a bad mashup! Consult the pictures below and their captions if you'd like to read about the scientific activities of the day. The nice wildlife shots are Ken's; other masterpieces compliments of yours truly. Ken has been gone the last three days in the field, and his two supervisors (both women) were kind enough to invite me on a skiing trip Sunday to neighboring Kobbefjord. So, Sunday morning I headed out with four Danes who live in Nuuk and an American scientist who is currently visiting ASIAQ. It was a nice group-- interesting academic types with great explanations of the landscape and natural processes we were hiking through, as well as a former school teacher who is now working for the Greenland schools administration, and also a fellow who works for the Greenland tourism agency. I looked forward to chatting with all of these people but unfortunately spent most of the day lagging at the end of the group, sweating, getting an incredible sunburn through the thick cloud cover (despite my SPF 30), and generally cursing the fact that Ken was not around to carry the things in my pack. (Our usual M.O. while touring--we like to load him down like a pack mule to even the playing field a bit.) Regardless, I wouldn't have missed this day for the world and it's the first time since moving here that I thought with conviction, "THIS is why we moved here."
Starting in Nuuk, we traveled by boat to neighboring Kobbefjord (about a 20 minute trip), anchored, and skinned up a nice, mellow drainage to a small peak named Aajuitsaq (855 m, ~2800 ft). About 14 km (8ish miles) round trip, give or take. Overall, it was a great trip with good skinning and a nice ski out, composed of mixed terrain that necessitated some pushing and skating, but enough pitch to get in a few turns here and there. A couple of our party were on cross country skis, I was on my old teles, and everyone else had nice mixed-condition dynafit skis, boots and bindings. If not for the extremely flat light on the ski out, I would have been in heaven-- the snow conditions were surprisingly good. Nice, dry snow. I'm not sure if this was just because we stuck to north-facing aspects on the trip out, but I was pleasantly surprised. |