Greenland Snowkite Traverse

Looking at a map of Greenland, it is easy to trace a line across the ice and think you are in control of the journey. But the reality is that the environment dictates the terms. Eric and I set out to try a southeast-to-northwest kite-ski traverse, but before we even stepped foot on the ice in June of 2024, we had to wait. We spent 16 days on the east coast, waiting for the sea ice and weather to clear enough for a boat to safely take us to Isortoq. It was a good reminder early on that patience is what gets you through an expedition like this.

When we finally got moving on June 27, it was an immediate test of endurance. We each had to pull 400 pounds of gear, distributed across four sleds, up 35 miles of steep, moderately crevassed ice just to reach an elevation where we could safely fly a kite. There were days we worked all day just to make five to ten miles of progress. Right as we reached flat ground around 4,000 feet, a three-day rainstorm pinned us in the tent. You are simply forced to wait until the weather allows you to move again.

Eventually, things cleared. We unpacked the kites and started heading west, more or less following the Nansen route. Towing a two-by-two grid of sleds behind a harness takes some getting used to. The interior ice cap gradually rose to a pass around 8,000 feet, and we encountered sections of difficult sastrugi. Hitting those icy ridges at 20 mph would sometimes get us briefly airborne. Out there, you realize how isolated you are. When we saw a single set of polar bear tracks 15 miles inland, it was a sobering reminder of where we were, and we made sure to sleep with our guns close at hand.

As we neared the western edge of the ice sheet, we hit the predicted katabatic winds we had been hoping for. The slow progress turned into long days of kiting, and we were able to cover up to 200 miles in a single push. We rode that wind toward Umiammakku Nunaat, a peninsula of rugged peaks sandwiched between glaciers. When the terrain became too complex for the kites, we dropped our main gear and set up camp on a 6,000-foot snow dome to evaluate our next moves safely.

Shifting into mountaineering mode, we manhauled a lighter setup deeper into the range. Over the next week, we were fortunate enough to find safe routes up four unclimbed peaks. On July 18, we scrambled up the bare rock of the southeast face of Peak 1857m. The next day, we moved our camp, pitching the tent on the snowcapped summit of Peak 2152m. Sitting up there, surrounded by so much untouched terrain, we felt a profound sense of awe. We were just visitors passing through.

Our good fortune continued through July 21, though not without having to adjust our plans. We initially attempted an eastern aspect of Peak 2171m, but the slushy snow bridges were collapsing when we touched them. We quickly backed off and diverted to the steeper, shady north side, frontpointing and weaving through seracs to the ridge. From there, we finally saw the ocean again—our first glimpse of the sea since June. We skied northwest and scrambled up one more peak, 2063m, looking out at distant icebergs and realizing that we were in an area perhaps no other people had ever visited.

Back on the ice cap, a two-day blizzard forced us into the tent again, a stark reminder to respect the weather. But when it cleared, the winds aligned perfectly. We continued north, once covering 218 miles in a day. The wind generously carried us all the way to the edge of the ice cap near Qaanaaq on the northwest coast.

The kites had done the heavy lifting for a long time, but the final five miles to the ocean required a different kind of effort. We had to triple-carry our gear off the ice cap, making trips with packs weighing up to 115 pounds down to the sea. By the time a local hunter picked us up in his boat on August 5, we were completely spent. We sat in Qaanaaq for 17 days, mostly of flight delays, until we managed to get a flight out and get home.