AS THE open blue North Atlantic gives way to the ice-locked coastal islands of Greenland, from the plane window you first see the broken white confetti of smaller ice floes and formations. Then, as the sea thickens, bigger snow-covered icebergs appear like coagulated lumps of caster sugar in a sea of white. But the height of the plane cheats the eye. These icebergs are ancient, often gigantic formations, sometimes the height of a 55-storey building and weighing up to 200,000 tonnes.
After marvelling at these frosty sculptures and wondering whether there were snowboarding secrets to unlock there, we landed on the tiny dirt-track runway at Kulusuk – a relatively ice-free outpost that serves as heli hub into the tiny communities of
the neighbouring island chain. Two days before our arrival, a polar bear had been shot dead a few hundred yards from the terminal building.
You hear stories like this the minute you arrive in Greenland, along with tales from the many expedition leaders or ice-sheet scientists who are waiting for transfers from the airport. Then it strikes you – people come here to find wilderness or to study climate change; for an extreme experience in the true sense of the word. So, as an ex-marine standing beside me rambled on about guiding rich businessmen across the ice cap, I looked around at our crew of snowboarders – dressed in skate trainers and jeans – and wondered if we were prepared. Shrugging off equipment concerns, we boarded the Air Greenland helicopter, bound for one of those remote villages – Tasiilaq, a 20-minute journey from the airport.
Situated by a natural harbour, Tasiilaq (population 1,700) is an Inuit settlement. Football-mad children play in the village square, while husky dogs howl for their dinner. Bright-red houses are propped up above the almost- permanent snow cover and fishing boats lie dormant in the ice-locked harbour, waiting for summer to free them. There are a couple of hotels, some supermarkets and a bar.
This is a thriving community. Some people still supplement their incomes with hunting (mostly seal, sometimes polar bear); others make money from sculpting, carving and printmaking – and the fruits of their labour are for sale at the local tourist office.
Our eco-boarding plan was to use teams of dog sleds to access mountain zones never snowboarded before. We'd camp in remote huts normally used by mountaineers in summer and by Inuit hunters seeking refuge from the extreme cold in winter. This being late April, camp life would still be harsh (-20C overnight) but with artic weight sleeping bags, a sat-nav phone, a few bottles of red wine and a deck of playing cards with us, we were confident of managing. Anyway, we'd have a crew of Inuit dog-handlers with us. Along with their dog teams, these guys are used to hauling 800kg sleds across the ice cap in midwinter. Dines Mikaelson, a swarthy man with a beaming smile, was their leader. With his crew of seven mushers, they handled a total of 86 dogs.
And so we set off across the frozen fjord northward in the general direction of the ice sheet. The dogs yelped as the dog mushers urged them on over the frozen water, using a mix of actual words and guttural noises.
Strategic shunting and weight shifting is required to get from A to B in a dog sled. One minute you're jumping off, hiking alongside and helping push this wooden "komatik" up the steeper inclines, the next you're leaping back on as the sled builds speed down the hills. Miss this leap and you'll be running downhill after the accelerating sled.
As the musher claws at the snow, scrubbing off speed with the metal brake, the dogs push on, seemingly more thrilled than you are to be hurtling down the mountainside. This is exhilarating stuff and totally addictive. Up and up we glided through the system of valleys, passes and frozen lakes, avoiding boulders the size of apartment blocks strewn in the valley.
Our accommodation in the back-country consisted of three wooden huts by a river. With surrounding mountains of about 3,000ft, plenty of granite around and even some heather, you'd be forgiven for waking up and thinking you're in the Highlands. But a husky howl later and a wander round the corner to see the glaciers and the frozen lakes and you remember you are in fact at 67 degrees north and on the east coast of the planet's largest island.
After dinner and card games, we were glad of an early night. With the temperature dipping to -20C, our four season Ajungilak sleeping bags did their jobs so well that on the second night a few of us moved our mats and bags outside to sleep under the stars. The sun rose at about 2:30am so there was only an hour or so of semi-darkness, meaning we could sleep the rest of the "night" in the warmth of the arctic sun.
Morning duties saw us taking a brisk wash in the icy meltwater beside the river, then hauling water containers back to the cooking area. And for breakfast? The only way to get enough fuel on board for a day of dog-sledding, hiking and putting in powder turns is by eating big, steaming bowls of porridge, made even more tasty by the addition of dried cranberries, raisins and apples.
After breakfast I helped unhook the dogs from their resting shackles to put them into their harnesses for the day ahead. There's a system for this: the animals are tied up for their overnight rest in a sequence, the same pattern used for when they're harnessed to the sled, ie youngest, least-strong near the back, working up through experience and strength to the two lead dogs at the front. To get them to their sled positions, you start at the back with the young dogs – energetic and eager, but totally manageable and if there's any sign of unruliness then a sharp tug or a strongly voiced command is enough to quell rebellion. It's a different story when you get to the lead dogs. These are clever, supremely strong animals with the character needed to lead while negotiating tricky terrain, all the while communicating with their musher. When you handle an animal like this you feel its strength; the hind legs are sheer muscle. These dogs are used to trekking and running 40 kilometres a day in severe weather conditions, with loaded sleds weighing up to 800 kilos.
Always eager, once harnessed, the dogs howled to get going. The snowboarders – rather less vocally eager – were soon ready and keen to check the possibilities. Off we mushed, sled runners zipping along, their cold steel breaking the morning crispness. What a way to go snowboarding – no engines, no gas fumes, no piling kit in and out of helicopters. This was a truly natural practice, and so very much richer for it. We delighted in the sound of hundreds of dogs' paws padding quickly through the snow, while admiring the colours of rock and snow – and appreciating the gradients. At one point we stopped at the rise of a pass with a clear view of the most unmissable feature of the geography of Greenland – the awesome ice sheet. This icy behemoth covers 677,676 square miles and is the second largest ice body in the world, after the Antarctic ice sheet. The sight is spellbinding – almost enough to distract you from the task at hand, which was to find suitable places to snowboard.
It wasn't long, though, before we reached the edge of a glacier, its tongue halted before a frozen lake. And right in the centre was a giant fissure, a crack that revealed the glacier's cold, blue heart. In the far corner of the lake we harnessed the dogs and left them to chew seal meat, as we found a route to hike way up onto the smooth part of the glacier. Once Buff, our guide, had given the all-clear that the area was crevasse-free, we found a zig-zag angle to enjoy carve after carve down this smooth, white canvas. Probably the first people to snowboard this pitch, we savoured every turn and put in long sweeping carves in the snow.
With hungry dogs, and dog-mushers bemused by our antics, it was time to head back to camp through the peachy, slushy snow of twilight. The wind whipped yon and hither, but only the sound of a snowboarder's joyful hoot echoed down the valley. We followed the river as it wound back to camp, where for dinner we feasted on boiled chicken and rice, the dogs looking on enviously as they wolfed down their pellets of protein. Everyone grinned. Then the pack of cards came out, candles were lit, drinks were poured and the light outside grew dusky. We hunkered down, as in the still arctic night a husky howled.
Factfile
HOW TO GET THEREIcelandAir (www.icelandair.co.uk) flies from Glasgow to Reykjavik four times a week, return fares from £200. They also operate the transfer to Greenland. Flights from Reykjavik to Kulusuk operate three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Fares start from £175 return.
To book a helicopter transfer from Kulusuk to Tasiilaq, contact Air Greenland (www.airgreenland.com), fares from £60.
WHERE TO STAYn Robert's Place, a two-level house in Tasiilaq, has a double room with en suite, another double room and three twin rooms (tel: 00 299 981052, clubverl@greennet.gl).
AND THERE'S MOREHire dog sled crews locally via Mikaelson Tours (tel: 00 299 982143).
For more on Tasiilaq and its environs, visit www.eastgreenland.com
For alternative winter sports destinations contact Ski Independence, tel: 0845 310 3030, or visit www.holidays.scotsman.com
