My objective in Tasiilaq was to find someone with an Arctic-worthy fishing boat who could ferry me across the perilous ice-laden seas to the granite towers. After talking with several of the locals, my hopes were crushed. They said it was simply too dangerous: A random current from the north had brought impassible sheets of sea ice and massive coastal icebergs. The possibility that my dream expedition could be over so quickly was devastating. On other expeditions, there had been times when the venture seemed destined to end before it even started. In Madagascar, our eight haul bags had disappeared along with our trusty driver en route to the grand walls of Tsaranoro; in China, landslides destroyed roads; in Baffin Island, while climbing the Fin, loose death-blocks demanded retreat. I never lost my patience or optimism then, and everything had worked out better than predicted. I knew a solution would present itself.
Later that day, I got through to Natalie on the phone. Fatherhood was definitely in my future. I was absolutely thrilled with this new reality. Since Iceland, the more I thought about the possibility of parenthood, the more excited I became. Natalie and I had been together for five years, and for as long as I can remember we had talked about having a baby. There was an even stronger urgency for me to be home with her now; we both felt it. I wanted to hold her, cry in each other’s arms, and celebrate our future child. I promised to come home as soon as possible. I hung up the phone with a new enthusiasm for this expedition, for this life. I needed to focus on the journey ahead, then get home safe.
Four days passed. Fatherhood filled my thoughts. The rest of my time was taken over by more tests of patience and optimism. I still couldn’t find anyone to attempt the ocean crossing. Reality hit as I walked to the small market in Tasiilaq on my fifth day in Greenland. I bought a six-pack of Carlsberg beer and some fish jerky, and walked down to the rocky beach. I watched the massive, electric-white sea ice and icebergs drift by slowly. After my third beer, I accepted the fact that the universe wanted me to go home, and resolved myself to defeat. As I finished the last of the tasty Pilsners, the universe changed its mind. My Danish friend Joachim, Hans Christian’s nephew, who happened to be visiting the area, walked over with one of the local Greenlandic Inuits. The local man, along with another experienced friend, decided that the excursion I was requesting might be possible with careful navigation. Another friend of Hans Christian’s, John, would provide the boat — for a steep price, of course. He made it clear, however, that it would be at my own risk.
We started out to sea at 3 a.m. The Greenlandic Inuit spoke little English, so we communicated through laughter and smiles. As the 24-hour sun circled over the jagged basalt peaks, we disappeared into a maze of bright, white sea ice. The ocean looked to be completely frozen over. The ice, with neon turquoise glowing through the cracks, was at times so thick that we had to literally push our way through with the boat’s prow, moving at the pace of a slow walk. The endless maze of sea ice and giant icebergs often turned us around, pushing us miles in the wrong direction and hinting at the uncertainty of reaching our destination. We saw many different kinds of seals sun-tanning on sheets of ice, huge whales bursting out of the water to breathe, and breathtakingly beautiful polar bears dog-paddling through the frigid mazes.

The tenacious crew didn’t give up, and after 100 hours without stopping, we were only a few hours away from our destination. It was nearing the end of summer, the 24-hour light giving way to hints of darkness for an hour each day. There was still enough light for the fishermen to work rotating shifts, one driving the boat while the other slept. I had dozed maybe 12 of the 100 hours since we left Tasiilaq. I stayed up the rest of the time, wired on the most amazing views of my life, taking advantage of photography and videography opportunities I could only have imagined in my dreams.
After 250 miles of travel on the open ocean, we turned west and headed deep into a winding fjord, about three miles wide in most spots, never before seen by a climber’s eye. As we went deeper into the fjord, the walls rose higher and higher — some perhaps 5000 feet tall. Ominous ice caps peered down from atop the giant granite formations, and magnificent waterfalls crashed to the ground from thousands of feet above.
It was easy to decide where to be dropped off. Several of the most beautiful granite monoliths I have ever seen stood at the end of the fjord, all offering a variety of mountaineering delicacies. Giant granite slabs skirted massive headwalls, some ending at summits the size of a kitchen table. All I had to do now was select a tasty tower, and feast. Just a quarter-mile away, a river flowed out of the green valley that I would call home for the next month. Wild mushrooms, celery, and edible flowers grew in lush meadows. A pack of large geese flew by, forming the shape of an arrowhead in the sky. Several arctic fox spied through the bushes.
Once my bags were ashore, the fishermen finished cleaning the fresh seal they’d shot, then walked to the nearby river to fish for salmon. In this part of Greenland, the native people still rely on hunting as a major source of food. I had felt torn watching them hunt the seal, whale, and especially polar bear on the boat ride. Just before they left, one of them pointed to the seals that lounged nearby on the broken sea ice and mimicked an attacking polar bear. He was warning me that where there are seals, there are polar bears. My only defense would be to use my rifle, shotgun, or bear spray, or to get on one of the granite towers as quickly as possible. If a bear came while I slept on the ground, I would be a very easy, very tasty meal.

Absolute, utter aloneness. Solo. Silence. Frightened, but excited, I sobbed like a small child separated from his parents in an amusement park. I was feeling the awesome presence of being alive. I remembered the day, many months ago, when I’d hunched over the aerial photographs of this exact area. Now I stood in front of the walls I’d fantasized about. All the planning, researching, fund raising, training, and lost sleep had proven its worth. I threw my arms in the air and howled. I thought about my growing baby, as I did all day, every day. I laughed as I thought about the sweetness of life and how fortunate I was. I slept for the next 18 hours.