Midnight Sun Mountains - Jim Gregson
By Jim Gregson
Romping round the Rignys Bjerg
We - Sandy and myself - anticipated having another good time in the Arctic. I had been invited to co-lead an expedition to a part of Greenland I hadn't been to before; there were no maps but the aerial photographs held a lot of promise.
We were teamed up with Rob, a fiercely national Scot, Dave who builds nuclear submarines, Graham who was an expert on shrimp biology but works for accountancy consultants, and Norman who runs an outdoor training company and is one of the most amusing characters I've met.
The early part of the trip was a little inauspicious. Firstly we flew to Iceland twice in the same day. The initial arrival coincided with fog in the middle of the night, leading to flying in circles and making two aborted landing attempts before a diversion - all the way to Glasgow! The next try a few hours later led to a bumpy but successful touchdown. A day later we transferred to Isafjordur to wait for our ski-plane. A phone call. There was a "technical problem". Could we stay in Iceland another night? Gloom. Twenty minutes later, another phone call. "Get over to the airport". A second aeroplane materialised, carrying all of our pre-freighted kit, two crew, a mechanic, a huge jack and a complete aeroplane wheel. This enigma took off to fly over to Greenland - but to Constable Point, a very isolated airstrip nowhere near where we were supposed to be going. As we landed and screeched to a very abrupt stop, the "technical problem" was obvious - fifty metres further up the runway stood the ski-plane, canted over to the left with a mangled wheel and blown-out tyre. This had happened when it had landed to refuel earlier in the day so it hadn't been able to come to collect us.
The mechanic began to earn his overtime pay. Everyone else who worked at the airstrip gathered to watch. We waited. Encouragingly, after only a couple of hours we were asked to board the ski-plane and we were off in the evening sunshine. Over the brown tundra of Jameson Land, over the dappled sea-ice of Scoresby Sound, over the gigantic glaciers of the Blosseville Coast, and then over more and more spectacular mountains until after an hour we flashed down onto the massive Broadway Glacier not long before midnight.
In half an hour the plane had gone and it was quiet as we put up three tents and made some tea. The sun shone on us from the north - a sign that we would never get benighted while we were here. Our first night out, sixteen hours later, was taken up with a ski-tour to spy out the land and size up any mountains we'd be brave enough to tackle. We went up a steep bay next to a big rocky pyramid of rubble, nice to look at from a distance but terrifying close-up. Norman took off his non-wax skis as they were slipping - the rest of us were gripping, using skins.
Just before a col, we had to cross a couple of crevasses. The snowbridges weren't too good. "Watch this lot, Norman" I warned before crossing over and skiing up behind some rocks. Four of us were there, Norman and Graham followed a bit behind. Suddenly there was a lot of very urgent yelling. We rushed out from the rocks. All that could be seen of Norman was his head and arms, with Graham rather white-faced a bit further back. With great haste we unfurled the rope we'd brought and hauled Norman to safety, then belayed Graham past the hole. Norman was a bit quiet for a while - fortunately his reflexes had been quick. As he'd punched through he had the adrenalin rush to dive forwards for the upper lip of the crevasse and jam his ski poles iii, while his legs and body swung clear into the abyss. His frantic yelling was thus understandable. The rest of the ski-tour was a calmer experience.
Our first attempt to climb brought home to us the power of the all day and all night sunshine. We chose a nice-looking, south-facing ice-face and set off up it late one evening, but even though it was in the shade we found ourselves knee-deep in breaking crust. At two-thirds height we gathered on a safe rock outcrop where we decided to go down rather than risk ourselves further, and also to avoid south faces on other mountains.
We skied some more, eyed up some really nice peaks and tried to get used to sleeping in hot sunshine. Norman set to work to build an igloo - he'd already built the latrine complete with battlements on its retaining wall. You could have slept in the igloo - but only if you were willing to stand up in your sleeping bag for eight hours, as the thing was more of a sugar-loaf shape than a dome! Nevertheless you could step inside it to be cool for a while.
After that we began to climb some good stuff. The three summits on the South Side Traverse, linked together by lovely arêtes; the north-east face and ridge of Majordomo Peak, steep ice and a never-certain until the end descent north-west through seracs and crevasses; the south face arid ridge of Jack Tar Peak, breaking our own rule but finding flowers growing on the rocks; the long and interesting Starboard Ridge on the right edge of Anchorman Peak's east face to the big, unstable pinnacles forming the summit. Then we were a bit tired as the hot daytime sun prevented us from getting quite enough sleep. A cloudy afternoon turned worse and then it snowed and blew a cold north wind. We were actually glad to get a rest and work out which day it was. Twenty-four hour daylight can be confusing - earlier, on getting back to camp from one of the mountains, Norman announced it was his birthday, so we made inroads into the malt whisky supply (disdaining the "cooking whisky" which Dave, last of the big spenders, had bought at Glasgow airport during our enforced detour). After a few drams Norman then announced that on reflection he thought his birthday had actually been the day before and he'd forgotten it, so we had to have a few more drams to commiserate with him about this oversight.
All during this time of jollification the weather was poor, we thought, until Rob had to go out to the "battlements" for a leek. He came back to tell us the sun was shining and so it was. Less than an hour later we skied away from camp to explore another glacier further east, where we were overflown by a fluorescent white Ivory Gull which circled twice over us, couldn't decide which of the six people to try to crap on, then flew away.
As we skied back to camp the beautiful light of the early hours highlighted what we had decided was the best-looking mountain in the area and now we were ready to try it. Next night we skied over to the foot of our chosen route, the long and attractive north arête. Roping up as usual in two threes we set off. At the front I sought a line slanting up an ice slope to get alongside the rock towers and buttresses of the lower section. This meant going through an area with some crevesses, firstly announced by the sound of water flowing into deep holes, then by weak snowbridges which shed lots of tinkling ice when probed with an axe. A foot went through - time for caution. A solid anchor of ice screws was set up. The crevesses had to be literally crawled over, with knees punching holes here and there. Eventually all six of us were safely across then up a ropelength of ice to a "moat" by the rocks. Now for the long arête itself.
Norman was keen to lead and I was keen to photograph, so I handed him the much-derided bunch of wired nuts which had been up everything so far but not used, and waved him on in front. The next few hours were delightful, progressing upwards with gentle night sun warming our backs, turning rock towers and steps on steep ice as we went. As I followed there were all these wired nut runners to retrieve, causing me to smile. The upper ice arêtes were terrific, more and more exposed, Norman picking a line sometimes on the right, sometimes on the left, and sometimes delicately duck-footing right up the narrow crest. I balanced carefully to get my shots. At the top the arête ran into a long convex slope of very hard ice where we front-pointed from ice screw to ice screw to finally get all six of us onto the small summit cone. Superb - the first ascent of Harpoon Ridge on Narwhal Tooth Peak - like an Arctic version of the Biancograt.
To top off the night we opted to traverse the mountain, so changing rope positions we went down the very interesting west ridge, also steep and exposed. At its foot we had to cross a rocky gap to get back onto the glacier where we had parked our skis, but our journey back to camp was a happy one. The whisky took another celebratory bashing.
Later we climbed the zig-zagging Zorro Route on Farawa' Peak, and for a finale made a very long ski-tour up to the high Col Beyond to look out over the Inland Ice, the main ice-cap. A wind-chill of minus 25°C meant we didn't stay long before a rapid ski descent. A relaxing couple of days rest followed, packing up our gear while waiting for the ski plane, shifting a bit more whisky. We were due to go out on a Monday morning. Snow fell on the Saturday night, which was the coldest one of the whole trip at our campsite. Sunday started cloudy but as the sun finally reappeared I passed the hours in sculpting a life-size polar bear from the snow. This magnificent specimen was much photographed, not without I may say, suffering some indignities of which the RSPCA would not approve. Nevertheless it provided some humour to help the time go by. In the afternoon the sky clouded up and a little doubt insinuated itself into my mind. The evening turned quite cool and by nine o'clock I retreated into my sleeping bag to keep warm.
After only fifteen minutes my dozing was interrupted by distinctive engine noise. Instantly I knew - a Twin Otter. Looking out of the tent in disbelief I watched the plane circle then drop in to land. Rush, rush! Where are my pants? By the time I'd dressed the wingtips were almost over the tent and it was a mad scurry to pack away the rest of the kit. "The weather is due to worsen" the pilot told me "so let's go now". Up into the air, Akureyri bound. The duty-free shop was opened specially for us, and just after mid-night we were downing cold beers. Later, in Reykjavik, we downed a few more, even at £5.50 a pint, but nice ones, particularly when pulled in the African theme decor of the Café Svart by the girl with no navel. Another enigma.
June/July 2001. Jim and Sandy Gregson were in the Rignys Bjerg area of NE Greenland, extending their list of first ascents to almost fifty. Since then they have been on a hut-to-hut tour through Austria's Zillertal Alps where there was a lot of new snow to make things more interesting.
