Glowacz's close-up

Expedition Baffin Island, June 2: Stefan Glowacz’s blog on his adventurous journey to a wall to which nobody has ever been.

Monday, June 2

The great finale. No script, and even in our wildest dreams we couldn’t have imagined our arrival at Clyde River more terrifically. At about 12 o’ clock the wind from the South gets stronger. For the first time we can use it. From where we are, Clyde River lies east. Directly at the abandoned corrugated iron ruins of the Americans, which seem to us to be a symbol of unbelievable arrogance and insensitivity, we hoist our kites. Slightly sloping away from the wind, we speed across the vast plateau. Yesterday, painfully slow; the kilometers positively fly by today. By way of exception, even in a closed formation, we kite towards the edge of the plateau.

And then suddenly, before us on the plains, the houses of Clyde River. At 40 km/h, adrenaline pumping and euphoric, we sail towards the end of our adventure. Everything is like a dream. Ships lie like fat seals on the icy bay, and innumerable sled dogs being to howl loudly as we arrive.

Exactly at the same spot that Kurt and Holger arrived at with their kayaks eight years ago, our adventure ends. Even the boats we sold to the Inuits back then are still in the same place. Words can’t describe the feeling we have in this moment. I don’t even want to try. This moment is also a deciding factor for why we always want to take on new adventures. Each of us experiences it differently, for himself alone, somewhere deep inside.

Sunday, June 1

70 degrees North, 31 minutes, 43.3 seconds – 068 degrees West, 17 minutes, 23.3 seconds. Distance: 20 kilometers.

We can hardly believe how quickly the temperature has risen in the last two days. It’s excruciatingly hot. Not a breeze, and no cool shade, and we’re only surrounded by ice and snow. Somehow this is totally crazy. We trek for hours and hours. We talk very little; each of us in his own thoughts, trying to order the events of the last days and weeks.

I’m not sad that our journey will be over tomorrow. For a limited period of time I was able to experience a world that fascinates me but is as strange and mysterious now than it was before.

In the bright sunshine we can see the antennae of the abandoned American radar station of Cape Christian. They seem to represent a finish line that we still have to cross. But Clyde River is still one day’s march away. We sit in front of our tents until midnight. For the first time, the sun is not only shining, but also warming us.

Saturday, May 31

70 degrees North, 38 minutes, 12.5 seconds – 068 degrees West, 38 minutes, 59.0 seconds. Distance: 18 kilometers.

Over night the storm subsided and by morning it was completely gone. It’s very still. We leave the hut and head towards Cape Christian via the coast. It’s the warmest day since we arrived on Baffin Island. Not until now, when the snow, heavy and wet, sticks to our skis, do we realize that it’s been a while since it was crunching underfoot the way it was just a few weeks ago. In the afternoon we even break deeply through the snow crust with our skis. Camouflaged treacherously by the new snow of the last two days, deep cracks have developed, which run criss-cross over the ice. They’re still fine enough for us to cross easily, but in a few days they’ll be unconquerable hurdles. But definitely not for us any more.

The last camp by the sea. The fog blows in spookily from Flow Edge. Like an apparition, and mysteriously the contours of the icebergs emerge. We enjoy the last few hours in what is for us a strange and wondrous world.

Friday, May 30

Day of rest in the hunting lodge at Kogalu River. The storm is raging in Patagonian dimensions. It’s hardly possible to stand up straight out there. The snow is blowing horizontally across the hills. Again we’re really lucky, as we often have been on this expedition. At exactly at the right moment, the first solid roof over our heads before the heavens opened up above us. Blizzards of this dimension are actually unusual for this time of year. We’re feeling safe in this small, shabby hut, which is creaking and groaning under the barrage of the storm.

Only three daily legs until Clyde River. We’re feeling how the strain of the last few weeks is slowly subsiding. We still have more than enough Simpert Reiter meals and powerbars in our pulkas. But in case of an emergency, even under these adverse conditions, we could make the remaining distance to Clyde River via the direct path overland. I know this way from my first Baffin Island expedition. Back then we tried to make it across the breakers in our kayaks in a similar storm. But the last wave was my undoing, and I capsized. Holger saved me, and only with extreme difficulty did we reach the banks. After this experience, Gerd Heidorn and I made it back overland to Clyde River. Over two agonizing, long daily legs we pulled our kayaks right up to the village square in front of the supermarket, while Holger and Kurt ‘surfed’ along the coast in their kayaks in the storm and over the waves.

Thursday, May 29

70 degrees North, 42 minutes, 04.1 seconds – 068 degrees West, 59 minutes, 41.5 seconds. Distance: 30.8 kilometers.

If there was a day to get down on our knees, it would be this one. As early as the early morning the tent walls begin to flutter in the wind. The clouds hang low, and according to our experience gathered in the last few weeks, the chances of this being a kite day aren’t too bad under these omens. This morning we’re ready to get moving unusually early. At nine o’ clock we hoist up the small chutes, changing to the big ones a few hundred meters on.

It’s always the same thing: will the wind keep up or die down again like yesterday? A great deal of concentration is demanded to maneuver the heavy pulkas through ditches and meter-high snow drifts. At the same time we have to hold the chutes into the wind just the right way and make sure we don’t make any uncontrolled steering moves. Multi-tasking at its very best. The sun pushes through the blanket of clouds for a short time and the icebergs and ice formations positively gleam in a cold, blue-gray light. With increasing speed we glide silently over the vast rough ice areas. Only the whistling and whirring of the kite cords breaks through the silence. Today the wind doesn’t die down in the afternoon, quite the opposite, it picks up. It becomes so strong that we have to change to the small chutes again.

A storm is blowing. New snow is pulled like spray on the waves from the ice floes and blown across the ground in huge drifts. The slippery areas of the rough ice are increasing. At an unbelievable 30 km/h we positively fly past icebergs and bizarre ice formations. What a feeling! What a reward for yesterday! But we have to be careful not to get too cocky. At this speed, the lakes and ditches hiding behind the snow drifts can only be spotted at the last minute.

In just under five hours we accomplish two daily legs and reach the hut at the opening of the Kogalu River. For Holger and me this is a very special moment. Eight years ago we were here with Kurt Albert and Gerd Heidorn – in summer, in kayaks and with lots of polar bears, which even followed us into the hut. Now we’re sitting on the same chairs again, on the same shabby sofa. It feels a little like coming home. We’re happy. It’s been a fantastic day.

Wednesday, May 28

70 degrees North, 52 minutes, 43.7 seconds – 069 degrees West, 30 minutes, 23.5 seconds. Distance: 18.5 kilometers.

There’s another white out and no wind. With the GPS we plot our next big goal, Cape Eglington. We move over the ocean about ten kilometers away from the coast. The rough ice forces us on a slalom run around icebergs, ice floes meters tall and dangerous deep ditches. The pulkas keep slipping down sideways, turn upside down. Within seconds they take control and drag us behind them without warning. Every few minutes you hear someone swearing from some other ditch.

Around lunch time the wind picks up. Although it’s actually not strong enough, we decide to kite with the big ozone, annoyed by the tedious schlepping. We only make it seven kilometers this way. It’s a really shitty day. We start trekking again, can’t see any contours, ditches or drifts. In front of us everything is swimming in one huge white porridge. At least we have achieved our daily quota, and are happy to be able to see the orange color of our tent walls again. Only two more daily legs until the mouth of the Kogalu River. It’s unbelievably laborious.

Tuesday, May 27

70 degrees North, 55 minutes, 51.0 seconds – 069 degrees West, 54 minutes, 14.6 seconds. Distance: 15 kilometers.

Before us lies every big wall climber’s dream valley, the Sam Ford Fjord. Far off in the distance we spot the famous rock formations ‘The Fin’, ‘Polar Sun Spire’ and the ‘Great Cross Pilar’ with the binoculars. We’re burned out and happy that we’ll be reaching Clyde River in foreseeable time. But from this perspective we can’t guarantee that we won’t be going back to Baffin Island again. Certainly not next year, but maybe when we’ve forgotten the privations, pain and above all the permanent cold of this expedition, and when we can only remember the ‘highlights’.

There’s a lull in the wind, bright sunshine and slight minus-degree temperatures. We and our much too heavy pulkas are still being borne by snow. We’re exposed to a bizarre world of snow and ice. It’s unimaginable that these masses of ice will evolve into roaring waves in a few weeks’ time. We pull our pulkas over edges and snow drifts, past innumerable and transitory works of art, past Cape Erik Point towards Eglington Fjord.

Monday, May 26

It’s completely still, no wind, and the sun shines brightly – rest day. Our first since we left the base camp. A long distance away are the famous and impressive rock faces of the Sam Ford Fjord. Behind us, the ocean. We fix the damage to our pulkas, check the provisions and load our empty batteries using the solar panels. We listen to the news and weather for Germany via satellite. Twenty to 30 degrees at home – and we’re wearing open down jackets, standing in front of our tents in an endless desert of snow. This is currently our summer. A crazy world, but our days are numbered and are slowly becoming manageable.