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The International
Greenland Expedition (1997-1998)
Page No 1
Page 1 of 6 - Article appeared in Australian Geographic No62 Ap-June
2001, text and photography by John Hoelscher.
Major Sponsors: Australian Geographic, Victorinox, Comfortemp, and Greenlandair
Visit the Australian Geographic website www.australiangeographic.com.au
ANXIOUSLY LONNIE AND I LAY, fully clothed for
safety, inside our sleeping bags. We shouted in order to communicate
whilst the arctic storm - with winds exceeding 100 knots - violently
shook our tent.
It was 20 February 1998 at Pittorafik (Clements Markham Glacier) northwest
Greenland. We had been tent-bound for over two days locked in our
small dome shaped shell of rip-stop nylon with constantly bending
aluminium tent-poles, when I noticed one of the snow flaps lifting
and snow being blown under and between the two outer layers. This
build-up was reducing our living space even further. Lonnie decided
to venture into the night to try to cut then place more snow blocks
on this fabric and also to resecure the thin guy ropes. It was not
safe for us both to venture out. I had to sit with my back supporting
the frigid upwind wall of the tent. The suspended lantern danced and
shook with each gust as the storm punched down along this narrow glacier
valley surrounded by high precipitous bluffs. I could see Lonnie's
torch beam and the amazing effort he was exerting to anchor the tent.
Occasionally, I could hear the whines and cries of our sixteen faithful
Greenland sledge dogs curled outside, their noses tucked up under
their bushy tails, forever burrowing down as their snowy windbreak
was ablating from one side and building on the lee side of their thick
fur coats. A few minutes passed before Lonnie, covered with snow drift,
appeared at the entrance to our shelter. As I helped him in we were
shaken by a swell as the tent floor as it started to surge under us.
We quickly retook our positions keeping our weight spread on the tent
floor and sat and waited…there was nothing left to do but wait and
hope that the wind would soon drop. We were concerned about our three
experienced Inuit companions, not thirty metres away. How were they
faring in their traditional single skinned A frame canvas tent? With
their two dog teams they were assisting us by carrying some of our
essential food supplies north to our first depot, whilst we gave them
the opportunity to carry out some traditional hunting for the polar
bears that live in this remote area. Eventually the wind eased to
30 knots with stronger gusts blowing stinging spin-drift needles of
snow into our faces as we quickly tried to check for damage, untangle
and feed the dogs and regroup with Aaron, Asiajuk and Benigne.
They
hadn't fared so well. Early in the storm their thick wooden harpoons
used to support the frame of the tent, had snapped - causing them
to take the experienced emergency action of remaining under the flapping
canvas - trying to keep warm in their polar bear, fox and caribou
skin clothing. These garments are worn with the fur to the outside
and a great deal of snow had built up and melted in the warm underlayers
causing a damp frost to constantly chill their body cores with air
temperatures in the minus twenties. They were busy cutting snow blocks
out in the pastel coloured landscape creating an igloo under which
they would place their tent, start the kerosene stoves and try to
thaw out. As they were moving into their new abode the blizzard hit
again as violently as before. It was another two days before we could
re-emerge from our shelter. Aaron approached us stating in broken
English: "Come, we go Pittorafik - igloo, fangsthus (hunting house)".
This small basic plywood shack was at the base of the glacier about
13 km distant. They needed to thaw out and repair their tent before
travelling on up and over the barren icecap to our north. We all quickly
broke camp and leaving one sledge loaded with supplies behind, we
followed the others down the side of the glacier in the fading light,
crossing narrow crevasses and stony fields of windswept creek beds
as we were chased unmercifully by the tail of the storm. We all gathered
inside the shelter, darkened by years of sooty kerosene lanterns and
stoves. We sat on the large sleeping platform and huddled together
trying to feel some warmth from the stove, choofing below us on a
floor, stained from years of spilt food, beverages and seal fat. A
usually jovial Asiajuk, sitting beside his wife Benigne, lowered his
steaming mug of tea and held it between his thighs clad in his polar
bear skin trousers, and stated: "Wind ajorpoq - no good! April OK,
na-ah February. Sorry, we go back. Good luck!". Regretful at seeing
our friends with their dog teams slowly fade across the sea ice towards
Siorapaluk, the world's most northern village which we had left only
1 week earlier, Lonnie and I knew we must go on to beat the challenge
which lay ahead - heading north through this desolate icy landscape.
We still had about 4500 kms and five months to dog sledge on this
stage of our 15 month circumnavigation of Greenland. During the brief
hours of sunlight I settled down on the rocky foreshore outside the
hut to carry out some equipment repairs. Deep inside both Lonnie and
I felt somewhat relieved that it was once again only the two of us
we had to worry about.
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