Greenland Heaven

For the first eight days we paddled in a complex of sinuous, deeply indented fjords where the ocean, even in late July, was just a degree or so above freezing. We stalked herds of shaggy musk oxen across fields of tundra and, in turn, were stalked by a polar bear, the most powerful predator in the Far North. And we were dazzled and at times overwhelmed by the ice, including towering bergs that loomed off our bows.

We were traveling as a group, but for safety each tandem folding kayak was a self-contained unit in case of separation. Tom and I shared a boat, and in most regards we were a good, strong team. With a brownish goatee and wire-rim spectacles that give him a bit of a mad scientist look, Tom can be a handful on trips, as he tends to be a perfectionist, a tad cynical, and opinionated on just about everything. But he’s always the first to lend a hand, witty, generous, and capable in the field. In brief, I always welcomed teaming up with him, even though we sometimes butted heads.

Roughly halfway through our Greenland odyssey, we reached the head of glacial-carved Forsblad Fjord, a long, mountainous, and, to our relief, ice-free branch of broad King Oscar Fjord. Ringing the constricted cove were high table-topped mountains festooned with wispy waterfalls and capped by a thick dome of ice. Depending on the sun’s angle, the smooth cliffs constantly changed color from pastel rose to carrot orange, from sepia to pale violet and dull gray.

Elated, we made camp on a comfortable bed of mosses and grasses at the edge of a gushing glacial stream. The plan was to spend two days. Some of us hoped to go on a long trek the next day, while others were looking forward to a well-deserved spell of rest and relaxation. I was one of the group that couldn’t sit still, but my reasons went far beyond the fact that I was energized by my surroundings in this land of the midnight sun.

Less than a week before I departed for Greenland, my marriage of 17 years appeared on the verge of collapse. After sharing untold wilderness journeys, we had drifted apart. We had talked separation. We had talked divorce. To complicate matters, I had recently met another woman whom I wanted to know better. When I left for Greenland, my normally focused, compartmentalized, in-control life was in disarray. Anxiety, guilt, remorse, uncertainty, excitement at the prospect of a new romance, all were nagging, gnawing, confusing me.

As I said, I couldn’t sit still. My brain was red-lining. My energy level was at an all-time high, like I was on a steady intravenous drip of Mountain Dew. During lunch stops, while others took well-deserved breaks, I would wolf down a couple of Clif bars and march up some nearby rock-and-tundra-cloaked hill. Upon reaching the summit, as if I hadn’t already gotten enough exercise, I would drop down and pump out sets of push-ups. My body was on a rapidly whirring, dizzying treadmill. But the really freaky thing was that I couldn’t see it. To the contrary, I thought I was handling things pretty darn well.

Only Tom knew about my problems at home, but he wasn’t particularly sympathetic. He was a never-married, show-no-emotions macho-male who viewed relationship troubles as a sign of weakness. To my friend’s credit, however, he didn’t divulge anything to anyone, preferring that the others—all strangers before this trip—make their own conclusions regarding my conduct, which was probably that I was a “little crazy.” Fortunately, another party member exhibited his own bizarre eccentricities—muttering to himself, bursting into inexplicable laughter, strolling about in his underwear—and deflected most of the attention that might have otherwise been given to my own acts of strangeness. All bets were off, however, after my sudden, confrontational outburst that no one could ignore.