I am getting my bum frozen in the Tundra. My hands are numb; my fingers, struggling to stay five intact inside a glove; my back hurts like it has never hurt before. Carrying a 60-litre backpack loaded to the brim, I have been hiking for what seems like forever. We hiked today, like I have never hiked before. Compared to this, a few hours’ strolling jaunts on a mountain don’t count as your standard hiking ritual.
Propped against this very backpack, I am trying to write. That slight slit between my pants and jacket is open, letting the Arctic wind caress my skin, freezing my backside. I can barely move so I let the wind chill my back. Every other part is cold anyways. Everyone else is setting up tents. An icy cold wind is flowing. It is colder than it was at Russell Glacier. In retrospect, Russell Glacier looks like a picnic. The temperature must be below freezing point, and everything, everything here is beautiful beyond belief.
It aches to write. It aches to be here. I can’t feel my nose. I want a nose cap maybe like Piglet’s. I might die of hypothermia or exhaustion; I am not quite sure which one of these would claim me. It is 6.30 in the evening, and we left our Hostel before nine. In half an hour, the Arctic Circle 4WD van had dropped us at the base of the hiking trail. So, I reckon we hiked uphill for more than nine hours.
We met our hiking guide Jeans Pavia en route, and since then, it has been many, many hours of unbearable physical torture leaving me breathless in breathtaking views of Arctic beauty.
The first stretch to conquer was next to a beautiful lake. A 7km stretch of plain, marshy trails of walking on heather and myriad hues of Greenlandic grass. We stopped when we saw a Musk Ox carcass. JP - short for Jeans Pavia, our guide - discovered two horns lying with abandon, a prized possession for someone whose wife excels at the art of making jewelry out of it and anyone who would like a souvenir back. I approached the scenario with caution wishing I had a handkerchief, I was apprehensive of the smell that would waft from a carcass that had been lying there rotting, for God knows how long. Surprisingly, it did not smell even a bit. The cold insect free atmosphere of Greenland lets an animal rot in peace. After our first acquaintance of the Musk Ox, we hiked on. We were hiking to spot some more, alive and gallivanting on a mountainside.
Musk Oxen are large beasts with layers and layers of wool that keeps them warm. The Greenland cold, which is too much for the rest of us to bear, is too ‘warm’ for them, and as a result, they are found only at high altitudes. We were hiking to greet them in their territory.
On a map, the stretches looked conquer ably small. In reality, I was tired sooner than I had thought. We stopped for some breakfast next to the lake, and Jason went ahead, and hunching on all fours, drank water out of it. We all followed suit, re-filled our bottles which were already getting low early in the hike.
Balancing on stones and pebbles, you gingerly step from one small boulder to another and realize the water layer forms a clear sheen between you and the lake surface below, making everything from the small stones, to the algae to the sand gleaming below, crystal clear. Fresh lake water, not packaged in a bottle with a fancy label, but right here, at the top of the world, cleanest and ready to drink.
Renewed with more energy, I continued the march. The crew filmed in between, and I struggled to take shots, and my laces came undone many a times. Each time you bent or sat down, the weight of your backpack bogged you from getting up. Befriending gravity, it wanted you to stay put unless someone came and gave you a hand, unless you figured it out in due course of falls.
There was a pair of Musk Ox we spotted just 100 meters away, a small climb from our next stop, the leeward side of a mountain encapsulated on another by a small waterfall, the most gorgeous I have ever seen. Crawling on all fours, we approached our Musk Ox pair with discretion. Jason has been carrying his 800mm on the hike. I resorted to my 70-200, this time armed with a 2x tele convertor. They moved off quickly as they are very timid. Glad with the acquaintance, we came back to the spot where our backpacks were enjoying some sunshine and waterfall views. We munched on crackers with cheese, some chocolates, and cookies; a hiking feast.
I took some shots of the waterfall and Simon asked me to compare the view with his Mamiya, a square format range finder. Suddenly, I wanted to snatch it from him and run back to Kangerlussuaq. The compositions on a 4X6 and 4x4 are very different, and suddenly the Mamiya’s square format was my answer to the compositions I was imagining and not getting. He sensed that greed shining in my eyes and promised me he’d soon let me use it.
We continued the drill. A never-ending march on hole-ridden terrain, many of which claimed us, many a times. A strong gale force wind blew, making us feel cold, while we sweated inside from the hiking exercise, making us feel unbearably hot and cold at the same time. It was a hypothermic death march.
We hiked, enticed by JP that at the end of one stretch, and the start of a lake, he’d canoe our luggage in his boat which he keeps there, hidden in an enclave between some rocks and we’d be able to walk the last stretch free from our bags, as free beasts without burden of baggage.
We reached a gorgeous lake, its water bluer than the deepest blue, shining. The wind howled at gale force directly in my face, making hiking an even tougher enterprise. In that weather, canoeing meant getting the boat capsized, so we marched ahead, beaten by the weather, like packed mules.
I hiked the shoreline, while the alpine lake spread on my right. Its name- Taserssuatsiaup Qalia- tougher to pronounce than it was tougher to reach there.
It would soon be dark, so we were forced to set up camp in an area exposed to the severe elements.
******
The tents have been set up and dinner is served. Add hot water, boiled over a makeshift fire from twigs collected with team effort, to potato and beef casserole. The water was hot when it was boiling, lukewarm as it heated the powder in our food packets, and cold by the time we spooned the mixture into our mouths. It’s a struggle to eat. It is cold. I am freezing like death despite huddled next to the water-boiling pan. I am even up for setting myself on fire and getting roasted in turn. We sit and chat, and plan our next day while cleaning our ‘utensils’ and ready ourselves to retire for the day. If we leave ‘stuff’ (pans, clothes, equipment) outside (of our tent), JP says, ‘the fox might come and pee on it’. Arctic Foxes can sure get very getting territorial. This was a territory worth getting territorial for.
I haven’t shot anything substantial today. I can hardly think of shooting and photographs. The chill is too much to bear. 80% of my brain is not working from the cold and the remaining 20%, working overtime to fight it. It’s a dichotomy that you wind your way up struggling for that pristine landscape and beauty and the struggle leaves you so exhausted that you can barely think of what you hiked all the way up for.
Before retiring for bed and planning the next day, JP asked as all, ‘what would you like to see tomorrow?’ and Jason replied, “another day of my life!”
It was jovial, but you can surely imagine.
