How it started....

‘Imaqa ‘– (maybe) says Soren Jensen, an Inuit hunter, as his eyes scan a horizon choked with icebergs and pack ice that has drifted in from the North Pole. Our skis and sleds are already stacked in his fishing skiff, and as we step on board Mikael, his youngest son, yanks the cord of the engine. Within minutes Soren jumps onto an ice floe with a long pole and hook, which I earlier mistook for a tool to stab seals, and pokes an iceberg, forcefully pushing it away while Michael rocks the boat through. Inside the skiff, we nervously stare at the pathetically thin drift ice and hesitantly jump on it to help push.

  

Six of us have come to East Greenland - the Ammassaliq peninsula precisely - to explore and ski an unnamed mountain range on the other side of this sound, but currents brought in frozen sea ice from the east and overnight the entire inlet has clogged and backed up like a broken toilet. After each successful maneuver through the patchy ice we sigh with relief and high-five with the Inuit, and they slap their hands on our backs and laugh. Aren’t they concerned?

Fog sets in and within minutes we drift inside a glass of milk, crashing into icebergs with spectacular noise.

  
             
             
  The fog is intensely cold – sending a chill down my spine. I retreat to the inside of my down jacket and from the corner of my eye I see Soren in his fox-fur-lined hood light a Lucky Strike. When our eyes meet he grins. I remind myself that this abundance of ice is a blessing for the Inuit - it has been the stiffest winter in the last five years – bringing ice into the fjords and with it seals and the polar bears that eat them, and the Inuit and dogs that in turn hunt them. The recent mild winters had forced the Inuit to shoot over 800 dogs in their village of Kummiut, a heart wrenching reality as the Inuit could no longer find seals in an ice-free ocean to feed all their dogsled teams.   Suddenly the inlet narrows drastically, barely wide enough for a small zodiac. Mikael reams the boat onto the ice, hoping the weight of the skiff will smash it. Everybody is silent, a shot of adrenaline fills my veins, my heart is pounding. This has turned into a hell of a ride with no round trip option! Icebergs can wedge you within seconds and crush your boat. Despite our anxiety, Soren’s attention shifts abruptly to a bubble in the black water. For a moment he transforms back to a hunter, his eyes fixating on a breathing hole. He says something in Greenlandic to Mikael and both nod in agreement.

Soon we enter the bay of Kummiut and whiffs of rotten seal guts permeate the air, nauseating me.

   A pack of chained dogs is going berserk as our fishing boat passes. Relieved to finally disembark on solid ground, I ask Soren if he wants to join us for tea in the village. He declines politely, jumps in the boat and beelines back into the ice pack. I know the dogs will have a meal tonight.