Qimmiq

In 2001, explorers Lonnie Dupre and John Hoelscher completed the first circumnavigation of Greenland – a 5,000-mile journey by kayak and dog team. In 2022, Dupre – accompanied by adventure photographer Eva Capozzola, and Polar Inuit hunters Sofus and Qajorannguaq Aletaq – returned to visit old friends, as well as witness vast change to both the culture and environment.

When John and I launched our expedition in May 1997, we set out on a journey that would take us four and a half years. Since travel is nearly impossible during five months of storms, thin ice, and polar night, we broke our expedition into segments from February into September. Still, the thousands of miles of mountainous coastline, changing conditions, extreme cold, and risk of hypothermia and drowning challenged us along the way. John, an Australian Antarctic explorer, was a perfect partner in tackling the logistically difficult expedition. When asked about our crazy idea to circumnavigate Greenland, John replied, ‘You don’t have to be nuts but it helps.’

Snow still covered the mountains at our launch site in south-west Greenland, and pans of sea ice still blocked the bays. Paddling north through archipelagos, we gathered seagull eggs to supplement our diet and hard-boiled them for safe transport. These we dubbed ‘fishy rubber balls’ for taste and texture.

Paddling around icebergs and frolicking whales often turned treacherous. Strong winds stacked up angry waves that tried to engulf us. By autumn, John and I had somehow managed to survive kayaking 1,250 miles up the west coast. When we shifted to travelling by dogsled, we ended up camping on the edge of the Arctic Ocean. It was so cold that our Canadian whisky froze solid.

One night, John nudged me awake, ‘There’s a bear in camp, dogs are growling.’ Crawling out of my warm sleeping bag at –50°F was a Herculean task. When I unzipped the tent door, I was surprised to see four Arctic wolves 40ft away. They were attracted to our dogs as potential food.

The wolves appeared demon-like with jet-black noses, gums, and eyelids – a contrast to their white-furred faces. They were all business: intense, cunning, and deliberate in their moves. They had large snowshoe-like paws, lanky legs, and scruffy bodies. When I emerged from the tent, they just nonchalantly walked away. We were probably the first humans they had ever seen.

In a ground blizzard, we pulled our hoods tight and sledded on squeaky snow down the coast to Kaffeklubben Island – the confirmed northernmost land in the world. By spring, beneath 24-hour sun, we descended the Tugto Glacier while avoiding crevasses that could have swallowed our entire team. We entered Qaanaaq after being on the trail for 95 days and travelling 1,800 miles.

We went on to fill in the gaps of our circumnavigation with our final kayak leg down the east coast. The view was daunting. Numerous dark capes, sheer to the water, rose like towering giants. Up ahead we saw white ice and icebergs separated by narrow ribbons of black water. We dug in our paddles, wiggling and wedging our way through the ice stew along with a pod of narwhals. Then came a loud bang – a massive piece of ice burst from a berg and created a roller. The swell reached our boat, lifting our hull, catching on the rocks and turning us upside down. It happened so fast. The undertow of the receding wave sucked us out of the cockpit and under the ice.

My head was hitting the underside of the ice as I spotted the red hull of the kayak floating on the edge of the pan. I swam, instinctively holding my breath, gasping for air when I popped up next to our boat. I panicked when I didn’t see John. Seconds turned into eternity. Then he surfaced, spitting out salt water. We dragged the kayak up on a nearby beach. There we stood – half-naked and shivering, but alive.

With that near-death experience behind us, we paddled on to Ammassalik, our final destination. John and I had circumnavigated Greenland. For four and a half years I had immersed myself in a breathtaking land of ice – artistically sculpted by nature in every shape and shade of blue imaginable, all backdropped by untouched mountains, raw and savage.

Some day I would return.

23 years later

What intrigues me about the Polar Inuit is that they make living seem easy in this inhospitable land, managing to survive completely in tune with their environment. The Inuit and their dogs, or qimmiq, are the unsung heroes of polar exploration. A dog is capable of pulling 100lbs all day long on 2lbs of seal meat, and can sleep on bare ice at temperatures down to –60°F. They’re pack-oriented, like wolves, with an alpha male and female aggressively keeping the rest in line – and, at times, fighting to the death to keep their position.

In January 2022, I stepped off the plane in Qaanaaq, the largest of the five northernmost indigenous communities, only 750 miles from the North Pole. Dwellings of painted wood below steep roofs, blasted by wind, were staggered on the hillside. There was a new airport, a long concrete pier for a supply ship twice a year, and a processing plant built to handle hellefisk (Greenland halibut), the main economy for the village.

I counted 16 dog teams – half as many as years ago. But the howling teams made me feel alive with adventure. I acquired 13 shy and bony dogs, and gave them gentle pets and treats of fatty seal meat to build trust. Our lives might depend on it.

***

The dogs were running in fan formation, each tied to my komatik (sled) by an 18ft trace. We moved silently over snowdrifts like a magic carpet over clouds. Even though two decades had passed, it was as if my soul had never left Greenland. On the peaks to my left, the erosion of brown sandstone over millennia had created figurines called The Dolls. We swooped silently over snowdrifts, through a cloud of frozen crystals from the breath of panting dogs. I pulled up my fur hood to cut the –35°F sting on my nose. Sled runners squeaked over the abrasive snow.

Accompanied by Sofus Aletaq, we were on our way to visit his older brother 65 miles away in Moriusaq. Sofus was a young 40, with honest eyes and a kind smile. His brother, Qajorannguaq, was the only resident of this isolated village. As we rounded the first cape, I was surprised at how much two decades of warming had reshaped the landscape.

We soon spotted the dozen abandoned houses of Moriusaq, an old post office that doubles as a store, and a one-room school – complete with a swing, empty seats moving eerily in the wind. There were new blue shipping containers belonging to a mining company. A sobering reminder that few places are spared from the long reach of capitalism.

Our teams moved towards a house with smoke lazily rising from the chimney. Dogs howled wildly in excitement. Polar-bear skins were draped over poles connected to the house. Qajorannguaq came to the door, surprising us with a ‘Hello!’ He was wearing insulated blue coveralls from Denmark, glasses, and a big smile – and he brought walrus meat for our dogs.

The entryway was cluttered with rusty rifles, dog lines, harnesses, frozen rabbit and fox skins. Warm, humid air felt good on our cold faces. Our noses picked up seal meat boiling on the stove. In addition to three bears, he alone had secured five walruses. I had a feeling that nobody would go hungry around Qajorannguaq.

He pushed piles of gear, boxes, and clothes to the four corners of the room to make way for his new guests. Greasy parts from a portable generator occupied their own space. Poring over maps for a hunt, we tried to anticipate where the thin ice would be along the coast.

In the morning, our three teams headed out. To help assist Qajorannguaq’s slower dogs, I attached a long tow rope from my sled to his. This also controlled my over-powered sled.

As we moved down the coast, the sea ice suddenly looked grey and wet. Before we realised, we had glided onto a section too thin to hold us. I felt the back of our sled breaking through the ice, and with sinking nausea I shouted at the dogs to pull. Ahead, Sofus watched with fear in his eyes, unable to help. The dogs sensed the danger and dug in their nails, penetrating the salty ice, and leaning into their harnesses. We accelerated.

Qajorannguaq was being pulled across the broken ice by the attached rope – and I could sense his fear from behind. My strong dogs stayed fast and kept the front of the sled just ahead of the breaking ice. Finally, we all lifted back onto thick ice. Wearing sober faces, we heard Qajorannguaq shouting from behind, ‘Lonnie, I love you!’ We all laughed, taking the edge off.

Our experience was a grim reminder of the effects of climate change, which the Inuit face each day. We returned to Moriusaq and bade farewell to Qajorannguaq. It was hard to say goodbye. He seemed content there all by himself, but I still wonder whether he gets lonely.

We sledded down the Bowdoin Fjord to explore the Tugto Glacier – the same glacier that John and I travelled down in 2000 after 95 days on the trail. We stopped and marvelled at the rolling rivers of ice cutting through black escarpments. The glacier had receded greatly, leaving just gravel at our feet. I was struck with a powerful vision of two young men, bearded and dirty, coming down this same spot, 22 years earlier.

The thawing sun of May released the smell of dirt and muddy ground as we struggled our way back to Qaanaaq. I knew this would be my last trip with these dogs. Melancholy set in. Holding back tears, I went to my dogs and gave each a rubdown. I would miss them all terribly. I gave half of my dogs to Sofus, who taught us so much about his culture, and the other half to my friend Aleqatsiaq Peary and his 12-year-old son Jonas, who dreamt of being a hunter. Aleqatsiaq is a descendant of Robert E. Peary, who discovered the North Pole in 1909.

I saw many changes on my return journey. Snow machines are beginning to replace dog teams but are still banned for use in hunting. Hunters communicate using smartphones with apps providing satellite images of sea-ice conditions. The downside is the addiction of social media. More modern clothing is being worn, replacing traditional skin garments. Technology changes traditions and cultures – but the Qaanaaq district is the last holdout of traditional Inuit culture.

Receding glaciers have changed the topography. Warmer air and ocean currents are melting sea ice from above and below at an alarming rate, making travel dangerous. As a result, villagers will also become depressingly isolated.

Greenland, the Inuit, and sled dogs have moulded me into who I am. Their dogs have enabled the Inuit to survive and explorers to explore. I once heard an Inuit elder say, ‘If we no longer have ice and snow, we will no longer be Inuit.’ I hold out hope that the amazing ability of these people to improvise will help them adapt to their changing environment. I also believe that the earth will repair itself over time. How much time will depend on us.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 29