Greenland SUP Photography Trip

I didn’t really think I stood a chance but by March I had been selected as the 4th member acting as the journalist. May marked our first in person meeting, a weekend spent paddling and completing glacier rescue training. And then it’s July and we are in Copenhagen airport awaiting our 2nd of 4 flights to get us to the start point.

Greenland, the world’s largest island, is 2.16 million square kilometres (836,330 square miles) with a population of 56,000 people. There are no roads or railway systems here, it’s the land of the dog sled, the kayak, snowmobiles, and fishing boats, and where the polar bear still reigns supreme. Funny how within 24 hours you can go from standing in a hot shower in a cosmopolitan capital city to being stood in a small kiosk situated at the 72nd parallel discussing which gun to buy with 3 blokes you’ve met once.

We depart without incident, using only our SUPs to carry all of our kit, all 230kg+ of it, along with our newly purchased gun. The first 14 days pass by as we continue to travel north, weaving our way through the almost entirely uninhabited Upernavik archipelago wild camping as we go. Loading up and unpacking the boards takes longer than any of us anticipate but we quickly fall into a routine. One evening, early on in the trip, we have a rifle firing practice session. BANG! We aim and shoot our torpedo-like bullets into a nearby iceberg. As fun as this is it is unsettling to imagine encountering a polar bear out here, let alone on the water. Would we have time to get the rifle out of its dry bag? It’s unlikely we will see one here at this time of year but not unheard of… after all this land is constantly changing, and their habitat is dissolving fast.

We paddle consistently, needing only one rest day to hide from the aggressive 30 knot winds. Each day we cover between 20-30km over a 7-10 hour period, only stopping to take pictures (for the guys) and to munch snacks (mostly me). Camaraderie is strong and I start to build a bond with each of them. Conditions can be intense, the water temperature just above 0 degrees, falling in is a worrying prospect. Even

a small injury out here could carry serious consequences. The wind is variable and with frustrating regularity not on our side. The paddling at times is a real struggle. I won’t forget how on our very first afternoon rounding Upernavik we trudged through treacle-like water for over 3 hours into an aggressive headwind. As I dug my blade into the choppy blue grey waves with all my might, feet wide and fighting not to be spun left or right, I cursed and wondered how on earth I was going to get through a month of this. In fact I wondered why I was on a paddleboard at all and why do I need to do these ridiculous things to feel good about myself. Some freshly caught cod and a good night’s sleep under the remarkable midnight sun did much to rectify this and by morning I am ready for another round. It is hard to do anything other than enjoy the magnitude of where we are.

And where we are feels out of this world. The ice takes centre stage in this Tolkeinian play of life. With each day brings a new kingdom of frozen shapes to marvel at. Crumpled towers and gnarled spears rise up out of the dark blue depths, dwarfing us. Huge slabs larger than stadiums surround us. Paddling between them becomes akin to a game of Grandma’s footsteps, wanting to get ever closer to fully appreciate their scale and proportions but never too close to witness the effects of their thunderous sudden demise.

For me the sounds they make are unforgettable. They breathe, they drip, they yawn and groan. The booming thunder-like rumble that echoes between the landmasses warns you that Nature’s greatest shapeshifters are collapsing nearby. Or the stuccato ‘crack’ announcing an almighty chunk is plunging into the water below, initially causing a metres high wave that mercifully disperspes quickly. When this happens often the shards of debris fizz and crackle like rice krispies. Unpredictable beasts which lean and lurch, tipping and turning at a moment’s notice. On our route not all the icebergs are ferocious giants, we cross a number of 7km+ wide fjords entirely full of shattered ice, solid meaty lumps of every shape and size that we must push our way through to get to the other side, always trying to avoid all the ones that look likely to tip, dip, roll or fall over. At times like this polar bear jokes are made with more regularity as we nervously scan the sea of drifting ice, mush mush.

And now we are stood 600m above sea level, alongside this supraglacial lake on the Greenland ice sheet full of awe, excitement, and wonder. This is the other half of the dream, to trek up onto the ice sheet and find one of the largely unknown melt water lakes. In the summer they appear on the surface reaching kilometres in diameter and several metres in depth. Their formation is driven by temperature, topography and elevation and they can store vast amounts of fresh water, elusive because they can drain in a matter of hours but can also last for months. Unsurprisingly their increased presence is linked with climate change.

It sits nestled into the snow with only a small ripple like stream at one end snaking its way out searching for its way out into the depths below. We stand looking at it, at what we had decided was a safe distance from the edge analysing what appeared to be a large ominous dark blue speech bubble shaped circle sitting in the middle of the lake.

“Does anyone want to try and go out onto the lake?” Jean-Luc asks tentatively.

“I’ll go” I said.

It was instinctive. We had come all this way, climbed up for hours upon hours over rock and ice to be stood where we were now. It was their dream. I’m not a photographer, it made sense for it to be me so that they had someone to capture. I strode towards the lake carrying the board, sinking comedically with every giant pantomime step into the deep slush and ice, thigh high in places. I continued to eye up this curious cobalt porthole resting at the bottom of the lake like a cavernous sinkhole.

I reach the edge and automatically clamber onto the board and push off. Slowly, I draw my blade through the serene water below me. The sun broke through the clouds, and I was struck by the electric energy through me. I must be the luckiest person in the world, I thought. A spiritual moment for me, one of those moments that I know will shape my life.

We descend back down jubilant. The terrain is tough going, with a number of challenges including a river to cross, giant boulders to scramble over, soggy moss to sink into, and loose rocks under our feet – it’s a constant battle not to stumble, skid, slip, or roll an ankle. I’m looking forward to getting back to the paddling.

The final week we journey north through more ice and rocky islands which were now getting snowier and steeper. Our days have a routine. We eat our breakfast, pack up camp, wriggle into our banana coloured drysuits and sodden booties, fill up water bottles, access a bag of snacks, load up the boards strapping everything down firmly, and push out into the unknown for another spectacular day.

Twice we have our paths blocked by the sheer volume of pack ice and have to re-route around peninsulas. This adds more miles and means we have to face the open ocean on one side. The terrain, a mixture of lichen licked rock and now snow capped peaks, is barren and unforgiving. It’s impossible not to be humbled by the sheer remoteness of where we are.

Disappointingly we see no whales. We do see (and occasionally startle) many ducks and ducklings. There are plenty of birds including the Northern Fulmar, and towards the end of our trip Arctic Terns. They resemble beautiful big white swallows, ducking and diving around us. A memorable interaction was with a sleeping seal, Jean-Luc and I paddled right up against him believing he was dead, until we saw a couple of bubbles emerge. He looked up at us wide-eyed and in shock and then dramatically shot to the sanctuary of deeper water.

The only people we encountered on the water were fishermen out in search of a seal to shoot or to fish for Halibut often on lines as long as 500m. Earlier on in the trip we came across some young fishermen from the small town of Nuussuaq, a town of less than 200 inhabitants we would later visit after 20 days out on the water. Impressed by their English in a land where it isn’t always spoken widely, we asked where they learned it.

“From Youtube and movies”, “I love ‘Dark Knight’”. Amazing to think how much the internet has changed, and continues to change, the world.

We paddle into Kullorsuaq, subdued and happy to be here. It’s the northernmost settlement in the Upernavik archipelago, founded in 1928 and remains one of the most traditional hunting and fishing villages in Greenland, with around 450 inhabitants. As we stand on the heliport, all packed up, awaiting our flight back to Upernavik we’re told the helicopter isn’t coming anymore. Later we learn from the pilot that he was a meer 10km away however thick fog meant landing was impossible. We remain for 4 further days waiting to begin our journey home, never with any certainty when our trip would be over. It was an exercise in patience for all of us. A lesson in control for me, and how much we are used to having it in our daily lives. Here, you are second to nature, the landscape and the elements dictate and shape your life, you are small and insignificant.

Greenland is a land of extremes. Of either endless daylight or months of darkness. Of ice and snow, cold and even colder. The great paradox of being out here in this frozen wilderness is that what could kill you is what also keeps you alive. Environments like this sharpen your synapses, and remind you that our brains are hardwired to help us survive. You’re forced to constantly measure risk versus reward every day. This hostile land keeps us alert and ignites that fire in our bellies. It’s the addictive side of getting out of your comfort zone, the true thrill of enduring the elements whilst being able to experience one of the most remote places on earth. We learn to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. We choose to do this.

And that’s why I replied to the advert, and why I need the challenge of a trip like this. To allow myself to feel that my energy is being completely used. To quieten the deafening clamour of everyday life, to find stillness, to switch off the noise we don’t need.

Early on in our trip Jean-Luc mentioned a proverb his father used to say: It’s better to know where you are without knowing where you’re going, than to know where you’re going without knowing where you are.

Thanks to https://justinhession.ch/greenland/