Here I am taking a drink of water. Because of the low humidity, you become very thirsty whenever walking or doing any physically demanding activity.

We’re still making our way towards the inland ice. In the background to the left is Sugar Loaf (see next photo), and behind me flows the Watson River, which carries meltwater from the ice cap to the fjord.

Whenever we took a break, it lasted only two or three minutes—thanks to the swarms of mosquitoes. That’s why I never removed my rucksack. On the first day alone, I got more than a hundred mosquito bites. We used repellent, which helped to some extent—but not nearly enough.

After some climbing, we reached the top of Sugar Loaf. It’s lovely up here—windy enough to keep the mosquitoes away, so we can finally relax.

The white expanse in the background is the inland ice, and behind my head flows the Watson River. To the left, you can spot a few small lakes. The water in these is so clean you can drink it. Whenever we camped, it was always near one of these lakes—but never too close, to avoid the bugs.

I'm sitting on a rock left behind by the retreating ice long ago. Behind me is a small waterfall—remarkable considering it's fed entirely by meltwater. The stream is murky and still carries chunks of ice. It’s very cold; I’d estimate the temperature at around 1°C.

It’s peaceful up here. The wind is blowing, and thankfully, the mosquitoes have disappeared.

Across the river lies the area favoured by musk oxen. We'll be heading there later.

You’ll need to enlarge this picture to understand why I keep talking about the mosquitoes.

It was taken on our second afternoon. Both my legs looked like this—and my arms too. It was far too hot to wear trousers and a jumper while walking, so we stuck with T-shirts and shorts.

I reckon I got around a hundred mosquito bites on both the first and second day—one hundred bites per day!

Now we’re so close to the ice that it’s too cold for them, and only a few remain. From where I’m sitting, I have a clear view of the inland ice.

It’s incredibly impressive seeing the ice for the first time—rising ahead like a colossal frozen wall.

We’re closing in on Russell’s Glacier after three hours of walking across sand and stones. As we approach, the rocks become noticeably larger. The river—wild and fast-flowing—is thundering past, stripping away everything except the biggest stones. Further downstream, smaller stones begin to settle.

At this point, we’re about one kilometre away from the glacier.

I think this picture speaks for itself. It’s incredible how the ice just rises—towering between 50 and 75 metres. We couldn’t get closer than 50 metres because of the river, and venturing further would have been dangerously reckless. You never know when a massive block might suddenly break off.

Back in 1961, a 75-metre slab plunged down without warning. Shards of ice blasted through the air like bullets. Four people were killed, and 29 injured.

Sadly, we only saw smaller pieces fall. We were hoping to witness one of the big crashes—and we actually met some people who saw it happen the very next day after our visit.

All the sledge dogs in Kangerlussuaq are kept in a large fenced area outside the town. Dogs aren’t allowed in town because they make too much noise.

These dogs are used solely for work. As they lounge in the sun, they may look charming—but they’ve never been raised as pets. Some can be quite aggressive because of this.

In summer, they’re not used at all. The heat makes it too exhausting for them to work.

The dogs in the photo are true Greenlandic sledge dogs.

We’re now on the far side of Watson River, where it’s possible to spot reindeer and musk oxen. This particular reindeer was just outside Kangerlussuaq. Normally they’re gregarious animals, but this one was alone.

Shortly after we set up camp near a small lake, it came to drink. It wasn’t afraid, and passed us at just 15 metres.

It’s now changing its coat to prepare for the harsh winter, when temperatures can plunge below –50°C.

Frank is cooking supper. Afterwards, we placed stones all around the edges of the tent to block out the cold wind during "night", The temperature dropped to around 5°C.

Behind him lies the small lake where the reindeer and musk ox drank.

The sun was shining twenty-four hours a day. It felt strange trying to sleep under constant daylight.

This is “Store Malene,” or in Greenlandic, “Ukkusissat.” It’s located just outside Nuuk, the capital of Greenland.

One day, Frank and I climbed all the way to the top (see next photo). It was a tough ascent—there are no marked trails leading up, and the terrain was unforgiving. We faced countless obstacles, scrambling over loose rocks and steep ridges. One wrong step, and we wouldn't have stopped until the valley floor, hundreds of metres below.

I'm fairly certain that experienced climbers would’ve shut their eyes in disbelief at the route we took.

After hours of climbing, we finally reached the top. Here I'm holding the Danish flag, and the Greenlandic flag is next to me.
The view here is marvellous. We spent some time there, drinking hot coffee. I carried our primus, and we melted some snow to get water for the coffee.

It’s me again. In the background, you can see “Hjortetakken”—known as “Kingittorsuaq” in Greenlandic.

This old cabin has been turned into a small museum. It’s built entirely from peat, a traditional and insulating material.

I’ve never seen so many mosquitoes in one spot. When Frank took the photo, I had to walk five times around the cabin—it was impossible to stand still! How he managed to hold the camera long enough to capture the shot is beyond me.

Now, we’re heading towards a small valley, said to hold truly extraordinary nature.

After hours of walking, we finally reached the valley—or so we thought. I’m pretty sure I swallowed more than fifteen mosquitoes and ten flies on the way, and crushed just as many trying to get them out of my ears.

We crossed several mountain peaks and streams, thinking we were close. But the map told one story, and the coloured trail markers told another. Clearly, the person who drew the map hadn’t chatted with the one who painted the spots.

We ended up in a completely different valley from the one we’d planned to reach. Instead of battling wild terrain for four hours, we could’ve taken a dirt road and saved two. It would’ve been a much easier route—and a great deal more merciful to the mosquito population.

But in the end, I think we got lucky. This valley turned out to be the most beautiful place we saw on the entire trip. Towering mountains surrounded us, their slopes still streaked with snow. All day long, we listened to the sound of water cascading down their sides.

Leaving the valley, we passed a beautiful waterfall. Its water flows into the lake that supplies fresh water to Nuuk.

I’m absolutely crazy about water, so of course I rushed straight to it—and ended up with soaking wet shoes. Totally worth it.

Nuuk, Greenland’s capital, with its iconic landmark in the background: the island of Sermitsiaq. Its distinct horseshoe shape makes it instantly recognisable.

All across Greenland, the houses are painted in striking colours—just like the ones shown in this photo. Bright reds, yellows, blues, and greens bring life to the rugged landscape and help create a cheerful contrast against the harsh Arctic environment.

Hans Egede (1686–1758) was a Norwegian priest who began his missionary work in 1710. He was the first missionary to arrive in Greenland, and in 1728, he founded the city of Nuuk. His mission was financially supported by the Danish king.

This photo was taken from the plane during our flight from Nuuk to Kangerlussuaq. From above, we saw the vast inland ice stretching endlessly beneath us.

Even after spending twenty-four days in nature—hiking, climbing, watching wildlife—we were still deeply moved by the sight. The raw, majestic landscape had one final surprise waiting for us in the skies.