As I started my descent, gray, hazy clouds darkened the evening and spindrift stung my eyes, which already burned from dehydration. I could have fallen asleep right then and there, completely exposed, shaking in the frozen wind that chilled my sweat-soaked clothes. By the time I returned to my high camp, I’d been on the move for 30 hours straight. Little did I know that 12 hours later an unforeseen variable would reveal itself.
In the Arctic region, near the ocean, storms can attack at any time. A sweet bluebird day with sun warming your face and a pleasant breeze can produce a storm-from-hell in no time. Such storms are high on my list of ingredients for a grand adventure. What sweeter reality is there than being alone in a remote wilderness on a monster granite tower, while a sinister storm leaves you facing the grim possibility of freezing to death? Yeah, right.
Almost four feet of snow fell in 72 hours. My hands felt like they were made of steel that had been rusting in the rain for a year. I was over the discomfort and anxious to get down, my body saturated with cold. I had to dig my tent out of the snow every few hours. The storm lasted for over three days, and the little sleep I had consisted of hallucinations and nightmares that included the horrific visit from April. Her manifestation had blurred reality — I couldn’t discern what was actually happening and what was a momentary lapse of reason.
Finally, thankfully, the storm abated. As I ended my last rappel and took off my soaked harness, I felt like I’d completed another training session that would only lead to future tests. I had lost only seven pounds and ran out of food for a single day, and my last bit of fuel ran out while I was heating water for breakfast the day I returned to the ground. I named the 4200-foot route Giving Birth to Reason (VI 5.10 A3+), for reasons both obvious and secret. Without question, it was the most mentally challenging climb of my life.

The fishermen arrived right on schedule, just six hours after I had shuttled my last load back into basecamp. They were the brother and cousin to the men who had brought me here over a month ago. They spoke no English. I spoke no Inuit. We all smiled, shook hands, and loaded my gear into the boat. On our journey back to Tasiilaq we camped on the shore — the 24-hour light had decreased to about 20 hours. The cusp of autumn was upon us. We hunted duck and seal for our meals. During the two-day boat ride we laughed, gestured, and looked into each other’s eyes for perfect communication without words.
On my last night in Tasiilaq I watched the Northern Lights dance under the stars with such glory that I felt I was in another dream. I thought of our child who would be born in April. With dawn I would be on my way home to yet another grand adventure.

Mike Libecki and Natalie Taylor had a beautiful baby girl, Lilliana, as
this article was being written in April. Libecki would like to thank the
Mugs Stump Award and the American Alpine Club’s Lyman/Spitzer Grant for help in making this climb possible. This was his third
expedition to Greenland.