The forces of nature are not to be taken lightly. We are small, insignificant beings, lost in a huge and unforgiving landscape. The wind doesn’t care if we are paddling as hard as we can yet making no forward progress. The tides don’t care that the favourable flow is happening in the middle of the night when our bodies would rather be blissfully asleep. The snowstorm doesn’t know that we clinging to the side of the cliff with frozen fingers and toes…

I paste my technical climbing shoes onto the soaking-wet rock, willing the friction between the rubber soles and the granite crystals to hold me on. Thick fluffy snowflakes are falling all around. I grunt as I desperately manoeuvre up a slippery corner, digging dirt out of the thin crack in the back with numb fingers so that I can place protective gear and clip the rope through it. I pull over a steep bulge into a restful stance (well, somewhat restful) and let out a sigh of relief, amazed that I haven’t slipped off.

I’m in surprisingly good humour: when do you get to climb perfect granite cracks 700m above the ocean in a full-on Arctic snowstorm? It’s certainly atmospheric. After warming my fingers in my armpits, I carry on up to a good ledge, where I build an anchor. ‘Off belay!’ I shout down to Kelsey to let her know I’m secure. Kelsey and I aren’t the only ones up here. There are six of us dangling on the side of this giant sea cliff in a blizzard. I chuckle to myself at the ridiculous scene before quickly addressing the situation – my friends must be miserably cold, and we need to get moving.

We retreat to our established vertical camp a few pitches below. Soon we are all back inside our claustrophobic and not-so-waterproof portaledges, facing the harsh reality of waiting out a second storm up here. Our dream of making it to the summit of Qaersorsuaq is slipping away like the water cascading down the rock and out to sea.

I snuggle up inside my sleeping bag beside my husband Jacob. For the next two days we only leave our cramped nest to boil water for freeze-dried meals and hot drinks. I poke my head outside now and again to be met with the same familiar view: thick cloud. Sometimes we hear commotion from the other portaledges. Our routines are asynchronous, but we all have one thing in common: we mostly sleep. We’ve been going full speed ahead for over 50 days out here and we’re utterly exhausted.

Nearly two months earlier

Kelsey, Angela, Zack, Jaron, Jacob, and I stepped excitedly off the small plane in Ilulissat, Greenland. The pungent smell of fish and sea salt wafted over us as we walked past the harbour crammed with boats to where we met Kaj to finalise arrangements for the 300km boat ride to Uummannaq. Kaj greeted us. ‘High winds tomorrow. We will travel by night if that’s OK?’

I guess scheduling works differently when the sun never sets. We all piled into Kaj’s little water taxi for a cold and bumpy 10-hour ride north along the open coast, arriving in Uummannaq at 4.00am. Nestled on a small rocky island, the name translates to ‘bleeding heart’ in Greenlandic, a reference to the crumbling heart-shaped mountain that sits above the town. We spent nearly a week here, as the ocean freight ship was delayed with our food and gear (which we had sent from our home in Canada months in advance). We sourced some final items in town, such as fuel for our stoves and polar bear protection, and then delighted at the opportunity to learn more about the community.

On July 5th we set off and reality set in. After a year of preparation, we were alone on the edge of the Arctic Ocean, with heaps of dried food and climbing gear and inflatable kayaks that would hopefully take us past countless huge cliffs to our main objective, Qaersorsuaq, roughly 450km to the north. My stomach did a somersault. Was I nervous? Excited? Scared? Absolutely.

The next 35 days were perhaps the most physically demanding of my life. Progress in the overloaded inflatable kayaks was worryingly slow. We paddled 12–15 hours a day. Any wind would ruthlessly thwart our efforts, so we started travelling by night when the sea was calmer. We aligned ourselves too with the flow of the tides – anything that could make us faster. In the eternal daylight, the 24-hour clock and calendar quickly lost all meaning.

But despite the physical strain, we were easily distracted as we weaved among giant sculptures of ice, each one unique and beautiful. In the warming of July, huge chunks would spontaneously calve off, upsetting the balance of these frozen beasts and sending them into a slow-motion roll. The dance was both mesmerising and terrifying.

On day 13 we arrived at a big question mark – the 20km gap – where the fjords didn’t quite connect. On the maps, the elevation gradient seemed reasonable to portage, but would we be prancing on flat dirt or trudging though muddy swamps? We couldn’t find any reports about the overland pass, although it’s likely that generations of Inuit have used it as a winter dogsled route.

Our week of portaging amounted to a 100km hike or thereabouts, each of us carrying three soul-crushing loads. On arriving back at the ocean on the north side of the pass, immediately we noticed the change in landscape: red granite domes now lined both sides of the narrow channel. We treated ourselves to the first proper rest day of the trip – we slept all day – and then climbed two 200m domes in teams of three. These proved the perfect warm-up routes for what was to come.

Knowing summer wouldn’t last forever, we pressed on. Exhaustion became the norm as we continued our northbound slog. On about day 25 (we’d lost track by this point), we rounded a peninsula and froze awe-struck by the majestic red cliff Agparssuit rising 400m sheer out of the ocean. We camped, unable to pass it up.

In a blur of timelessness and perseverance, the boys climbed the central prow in a 28-hour continuous push. Meanwhile, we girls quested up the previously unclimbed rightmost wall over 50 hours with an unplanned bivvy. Ecstatic from the success, we collapsed in our tents and slept for an undefined amount of time until we woke. The time was irrelevant. It was time to paddle.

One long ‘day’ later we arrived at the base of what was unmistakably the biggest and best piece of granite we’d encountered yet. We floated beneath in wonder, staring up at the El Capitan of Greenland: a climber’s jackpot. We took high-resolution photos of the 900m wall and then established a base camp across the channel. After eagerly studying the formation, we chose to attempt an unclimbed system of cracks that likely connected up the right-hand part of the face from sea to summit.

The team spent nearly two weeks climbing and establishing a high camp about halfway up the wall. Temperatures were dropping as we entered the second half of August. Due to storm systems forming and fizzling nearby, te weather forecasts on our inReach proved temperamental and unstable. We just needed winter to hold off a little longer.

High camp stocked with a week’s rations of food and water, we ascended our ropes with a final load and moved into our skyroom hotel. A full spectrum of emotions swirled around in my head. I was ecstatic to be halfway up a new route on Qaersorsuaq with some of my closest friends. At the same time, I was worried about the weather. I was one of the most experienced in the group, but none of us had ever been on the side of a cliff in a proper storm, let alone here in the remote Arctic. Was this an acceptable risk?

Then there was the uncertainty of the climb itself. No human had been here before. Would we find a way to the top? How hard would it be? How long would it take? Were we appropriately prepared to face whatever hurdles arose?

A benefit of approaching this climb in capsule-style – establishing a high camp on the wall as opposed to the ‘single push with a backpack’ method we’d employed on the smaller walls – was that we could bring more safety equipment with us. We had a hefty first aid kit, VHF radio, inReaches. Additionally, a sheltered camp up on the wall would give an injured climber better odds at evading hypothermia, and would help with patient care during a long and arduous retreat. The sudden thought of facing a serious injury out here sent shivers down my spine.

***

‘Bron?’

I snap out of my trance and take a moment to focus my vision. Jacob is poking his head into our portaledge. Outside looks just as miserable and dreary as ever. ‘I’m taking team orders for breakfast. What do you want?’

I pick a flavour of freeze-dried packet and thank him for braving the cold. I’ve lost all concept of time or how long we’ve been up here. My phone is dead and any remaining charge in the solar kit is reserved for the camera. Jacob delivers breakfast 20 minutes later, rappelling down wet ropes to each fabric door flap. He also delivers an unexpected proposition: ‘I think I’d like to go climbing today.’

I look at him, sizing him up. ‘Are you serious?’ He is. Kelsey, Jacob ,and I rack up with climbing gear, wearing down puffy suits under full rain gear. The snow has stopped, at least for now, but we are still in a thick cloud and our route is a waterfall. Although I have low expectations, I can’t argue a good reason not to try.

We ascend the ropes to our high point. Jacob leads the next two pitches, shouting and power screaming as he wrestles wet slimy rock that tries to eject him. Kelsey and I follow with just as much struggle. But then something incredible happens. At the top of the second pitch we pop through the clouds. Suddenly we are looking down at the storm with the sun shining on our faces. What a miracle! It’s sunny up here! We hoot and holler in amazement and disbelief.

It’s like popping through the cloud layer in an aeroplane. We can see the top of the cliff, so close to our reach! We radio down to the guys at camp: ‘Get your climbing stuff together and come up the ropes. The sun is shining up here and we’re going to the summit!’

An hour or so later, Jaron, Zack, and Angela appear out of the mist and all six of us climb the remaining few pitches to the top. The rock is dry and our smiles are beaming as brilliantly as the rays of sunlight. We pull onto the flat top-out, untie from the ropes, and skip to the true summit of Qaersorsuaq.

I swivel my head to take in the full panoramic view: mountains and ice cap to the west, ocean and icebergs to the east, and endless granite coastline to the south and north. But the best view of all is of our smiling faces as we hug each other, basking in the beauty of the moment – a moment that only the six of us will ever fully understand in all its depths and nuances, the doubts and sense of discovery, the fear and elation, the struggles and triumph.

For as much as I can try to put this experience into words, pictures, or even though our documentary film, these are just shadows of reality. Real life happens in an instant and then we are left with memories. Yet even as memories will slowly fade, the feelings are imprinted forever. And what is more human than feeling? Is this the true motivation? Even now, as I write this, I reflect on what it is all about. Why do we work so hard to pursue such arbitrary dreams? I think these questions might take a lifetime to answer, but that’s just it, isn’t it? The mystery is compelling.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 26