Anirudh Dagar

** check out the Arctic Circle Trail collection to see all Greenland adventures ** Sun on the tent. Blue sky. Pack down and go. For long stretches the “trail” wasn’t a trail at all. Dwarf willow and heather to the hips. High steps. More climbing than I’d pictured. Warmer too. T-shirts, sweat salt at the collar, the landscape rolling on and on. I led a lot. Quiet pace. Deliberate. 09:30 to 17:00 on the move. No rush. No faff. Just steady forward. Hours of ridge and basin and those stubborn belts of brush. Views that paid you back when you stopped to breathe. By late afternoon we walked into Kangerlussuaq as the supermarket shutters came down. Typical. I was still turning over my new alcohol burner in my head, trying to get it to behave. Tomorrow I’d have another go. Food fixed everything. Cafeteria first. A pulled musk-ox burger with a quick, bright heat to the sauce. Extra salt on the fries. Honesty of hunger after hours on your feet. Earlier there had already been a toastie and a slab of chocolate. No regrets. Small lesson from a big place. We all under-drank on Day 1. Headaches the next morning told the story. Back at the hostel we strung gear to dry, washed trousers and socks, called Paul, and folded into bed early. How it felt. Heavy going through brush with a pack that still felt new on my shoulders. A flicker of doubt about whether this was the right start. Then the usual cure. Walk. Look. Let it get quiet inside. Tomorrow the real line begins toward the west.

We began the day with breakfast in the airport cafeteria, a simple space that doubles as a communal meeting area. You pay 100 Danish crowns and eat as much as you want. It felt straightforward and almost modest, a quiet start before Greenland began revealing itself. Evelyn had arranged that we could join the Arctic Circle Albatross trip to Point 660 and the Russell Glacier without taking the full tour. We paid for a taxi — still cheaper at around 800 Danish crowns — though the reception was highly confused by this unusual setup. On the way, we passed the remains of an old plane crash. Volkswagen had once been in this area, building a road and planning to stay for ten years. They left after five because maintenance simply was too expensive. They used to race on the ice, but the ice retreated so quickly that continuing no longer made sense. It felt like a snapshot of a strange, half-forgotten era. We reached the ice cap and walked about 45 minutes to get onto the ice. Seeing the different layers up close was impressive, almost unreal. Afterwards, we returned to the Russell Glacier, where large pieces of ice calved off with deep rumbling crashes — small tsunamis rolling out at our feet. We saw it two or three times, each one just as striking as the last. That was also, quite abruptly, where we were dropped off to begin our hike. The trail itself began gently. We stopped at a half-circle bench with wide, open views. Later, we pitched our tents near the water. That evening, the Northern Lights appeared right above us. To the naked eye they looked like pale beams — almost like light smudges in the sky — but when you lifted your phone, the colours came alive. It felt like Greenland was brilliantly saying hello. Inside myself, though, I was nervous. My backpack felt heavy — painfully heavy — especially with all the food. Six kilos just in food alone. Even though some of it was meant for only two days, it was still a lot of weight. And I was a bit on edge about the group: the four of us together, not knowing each other very well yet, surrounded by people who had that particular style of outdoor experience. Instead of being curious about how they move through the world, I felt myself resist a little, like I had to prove something rather than simply observe. But slowly, beneath the nerves, excitement started to build. The sense of being on Greenlandic soil. The wilderness. The rawness of the landscape. The reality that this was the beginning of something big, something other worldly. I should probably start by saying how cool it all was — because it was cool. It was the kind of cool that lives in your chest rather than in your head. And that was Day 1: the first step into Greenland, a mix of nerves, awe and the quiet unfolding of what was to come.

Bad hut night. Wide awake at one, out for aurora. Back on a narrow bunk that pinned me to the wall. Little sleep. Blue sky. Air fresh. Adventurous day ahead. The valley opened and we followed the river. Ground switched between clean tread and wet belts that soak you in minutes. Dense willow and heather forced high steps and stole rhythm. Feet wet, of course. At this point it felt like a running gag the trail keeps telling and we keep laughing at. The official notes aren’t kidding: soaked feet for days is normal. The announced four river crossings today turned out to be four. All cold enough to bite hard, never trivial though. We agreed to cross all of them together, the five of us. Ani’s youthful energy and enthusiasm had him go headlong into one before we were complete. He walked straight into the main flow. Stuck mid-channel. It took a while before he gave in and turned back. Evelyn scouted a few metres upstream and found a line. Ani came back to us grinning, buzzing from the lesson and the rush, and made all of us laugh. As always. Lunch on the riverbank with a white wall of mountain closing the view. When the wind dropped the midges found us and out came the head net. At least I used it once. Sun, then shade. Wet feet, less cold now that the dry patches stretched between the bogs. At the end of this stage there are two sites to choose from. We skipped the lakeside hut. It is a detour to the fjord, more exposed and damp at water level, and you have to climb back up to rejoin the ACT towards Sisimiut. The lower hut is also sometimes used by local fishers, which means you may find more activity and the occasional fishy ambience (read: stinky hut). The upper hut area sits nearer the onward trail and stays drier underfoot, so pitching made more sense for us. Beautiful either way, but inland, up on the hill, won the day. We reached early enough to settle. Evelyn and Ani took bunks. Matt and I pitched higher up and watched the ridges warm to late light. Night bit hard. Frost teased the guy lines and the air went sharp the moment we zipped the bags. Matt stayed out, in and out with the camera, tapping my tent to show frames as the sun bled slow colour across the mountains. Long, glorious light. Sub-zero nights are entirely possible here, even in the so-called summer window.

**If you dont feel like reading. Do swipe through the photos. There are many and this is only a tiny selection from such an exquisite day.** Poor sleep. Then a morning that made it irrelevant. Fresh snow on every ridge. Big, lazy flakes still drifting down. The world white and, somehow, a little blue. First our morning ritual. Matt fills the hut book at breakfast and reads it out to us. Today Brian is fully in it too. He sketches a scene to go with Matt’s words. He has no drawing background. I filmed a tiny timelapse as he drew, which I can unfortunately not upload, but you can see the splendid picture. Time to get out. Shouldered packs and stepped into the snow again. We threw snowballs, grinned like kids, and forgot about the cold until our socks reminded us. Yesterday it took hours to get feeling back into my feet; today the sun did part of the work. Once you’re on firm ground again, warmth returns faster than you expect. Wet feet are a constant. Manageable too. We set off along a clean line of rock and tundra stitched with water. One quick ford in the morning — knee deep, quick bite of cold — the kind that makes you laugh when you’re up the far bank skipping stones you should probably leave alone with a big pack on. The landscape here sits wide and high. Waterfalls pulled down the slopes in bright threads. We kept stopping simply to look, because the new snow turned everything to theatre. Ani flew the drone and the hut and mountains fell away beneath it, the whole day humming. Matt spotted another Arctic hare. White on white. Black-tipped ears. He froze behind the lens and we watched, quiet as stones. Like live telly. People, too. Three groups in all. Four hikers in ponchos, soaked to the bone and happy anyway. A young Danish couple at the start of their walk, his pack a monster that made us wince; worried we hadn’t packed enough because our bags looked small. A tight-lipped German duo who camped through the snow and were clearly not having their best day. We traded small talk, weather notes, food daydreams. Then we all went our own speeds. The miles themselves were simple rather than easy. Bog reappeared where you’d most like it not to, just long enough to make the good rock feel like a gift. By late light the valley gathered into a hush and Nerumaq appeared. We ate, compared the day’s favourite moments, and listened to the river. Brian, The Legend, stayed close all day — steady as a metronome — and the mood ran high. It had been that kind of day: snow, sun, a little rain, a lot of awe, and the sense of the coast reaching for us now. If you only want one tip from me today: don’t borrow other people’s solutions. Heavy boots get wet too. Waterproof socks work until they don’t. Good socks and breathable shoes are fine, if you accept the bog and keep moving. That — plus patience for the picture-stops when the light goes magic — was the whole trick.

We began with laughter. Matt read out his Day-5 hut-book: the Crocs rescue, the sticky marsh, Ani’s makeshift tripod, the bridge, the perfect hut above the lake, and signed it off with a rallying cry for today. It set the mood. Wet, cold, keen. Out of Eqalugaarniarfik the line kicked up hard. Slick rock. Careful feet. Then the country opened into a high basin of linked lakes and dark, clean slabs. Fresh snow traced the skyline. We kept stopping just to look in a total state of awe. Waterfalls ran in thin silver chains off the stone. Between the rock plates the ground was still a sponge. One sharp ford. Mid-calf. So cold it bit. The scale here toys with you. You walk and nothing seems to move. Then, all at once, there it is. The Lake House. Red against the grey. Windows on water. Inside was empty. Somewhat warmed by stoves and bodies soon after. We peeled off socks and thawed for hours; toes, then arches, then the rest of us catching up. I was too cold. I had to tuck deep into my sleeping bag for a long stretch to defrost before I felt like myself again. Cards came out. UNO. Evelyn took her first win. Ani stayed ruthless. Brian, The Legend, chose a bunk for the first time this trip. Snow and cold had done their work. Coffee tip. I carried Freshdrip pour-over sachets (https://www.freshdrip.com/en/). Filter coffee. Kept me human. One at breakfast. One on the way. They pack flat and weigh little. No mess. If the wind gives you a calm minute with the stove, they turn a wet hour around. Tip to future me: always keep one extra for the worst weather lull. The weather never settled. Drizzle. A brighter minute. A gust through the door. Back to drizzle. We ate early. Laid out a parade of damp socks. Listened to the hut go quiet. Slept deep with the lake right there outside the glass. Good climb. Bone-cold crossing. A long stare at fresh snow. A red room as a shelter.

We started the day with Matt’s Ikkattooq story. As of now his hut-book entries become a ritual. He’d twist the previous day into his sideways version, would make a small drawing and then read it out loud. A tale about long glorious landscapes. The tiny red hut as salvation. Brian The Legend for pitching in the lee. Narrow bunks as a contact sport. We were doubled over. Probably one of those things you had to be there for. But it set the tone in high spirits: wet day ahead, bridge to find. Sisimiut bound. Leaving Ikkattooq, the route went straight into work. Almost on all fours over slick rock, water running down the slabs so the path briefly felt like a small waterfall. After all that climbing Matt realised he’d left his Crocs at the hut. Camp shoes, river shoes, small comfort with big value. He turned back. We continued on the rocky plains that eventually turned into a steep descent, careful steps on wet stone and mud, until the valley finally opened up. I slipped twice. Shoulder, ankle, pride. Nothing dramatic, just the taxing effect of hours on uneven, saturated ground with a full pack and no clean line to follow. We stopped in a rare wind-sheltered spot waiting for Matt, lunch and were instantly surrounded by stubborn mosquitoes. From there the “trail” across the moor is no trail. Compass leads the way through saturated ground, clay mud, knee-high plants, hidden holes. Slow, uneven going. Eventually the new bridge appeared. Fresh wood. Bridging the river. We’d heard the horror stories about the old Itinneq crossing. People chest-deep, almost neck-deep, packs overhead, all wet and cold. Standing there now, I didn’t buy every dramatic version, but I could see how deep, fast and brutally cold this river could be. The bridge did not feel like cheating. It felt like a very good idea. On the far side it was shorter than expected. A last stretch along water and then Eqalugaarniarfik hut exactly where you wanted it to be. We arrived early enough to wash, eat in peace, spread out socks and shoes. We sat on the grass in the sun. Ate, talked, laughed. What a splendid afternoon.

**If you read nothing else: flip through the photos. They tell the story too.** Grey from the first step. Fine drizzle that crept into everything. Clouds banded round the hills like pencilled contour lines. I’d pictured Greenland flatter; instead the path today kept tilting up in pulls that raised my heartbeat. Underfoot it was a living bog again. Peat that sighed, heather that grabbed, black seams under moss. My shoes squelched and stayed that way. Not a mishap, just the state of things. The first snowy tops rose from the clouds, a fresh dusting that made the ridges look newly minted. A reindeer with just one antler watched us pass, lopsided crown against the grey. We stepped into Aasivissuit–Nipisat, the old Inuit hunting ground between ice and sea. Its long history of human settlement shows in winter turf houses, colonial ruins, ancient graves, cairns, trails, hunting features and summer camps such as Aasivissuit. The area is still used as a traditional hunting ground, shaped by seasonal migrations between coast and inland over thousands of years. By late afternoon a small red dot on a hill appeared in the distance. Small and red in a lot of weather. Inside, with our gear spread out to dry, tugged deep into our sleeping bags on bunks so narrow you turned carefully in your sleep, we slowly defrosted (especially our feet). Food was made. Laughter loud. Outside, Brian shifted his tent into the hut’s lee and rode out the gusts like a pro. What a day. P.S. If you haven’t yet, swipe through the photos. So worth it.

We woke to a lake the colour of pewter and made a small, practical deal with the wind. Ani and Evelyn would take a canoe with the tail behind them; Matt and I would walk the north shore*. We split the kit so the boat carried the tent and some food and promised to meet where the valley opened again. The walking felt honest (and wet of course). Glacier-smoothed gneiss underfoot, low hummocks of heather and dwarf willow, crowberry and lichens stitched between rock. The path kept slipping in and out, sometimes a sure tread, sometimes nothing but wet moss that moved like memory. Reindeer lifted their heads and went back to grazing. The lake lay long and silver to the horizon, a U-shaped corridor carved by ice and now busy with small weather of its own. For once, “boring” tried to have a say. Twenty kilometres of lakeside is a long conversation with yourself. The pack didn’t feel lighter, not really. But the day softened around the edges. We fell into a rhythm of small, deliberate things: choosing rock over sponge, skirting trickles, letting the wind keep us cool. Across the water a bright yellow dot moved just as steadily. Later we would learn his name was Brian. The rendezvous worked perfectly. Canoe and walkers arrived within minutes of each other, when tail became head wind. The Canoe Centre sits like a barn of stories — big, simple, social. I got my own dark little room as a joke christened the princess suite, played my first ever game of UNO and even won the very first round. Outside it sounded like a storm. Step beyond the door and the air was calm as sleep. Practical whisper. Canoes on Amitsorsuaq are community maintained. They can’t be reserved and aren’t guaranteed; use what’s there, keep close to shore, and always leave them racked at the Canoe Centre or Katiffik. We treated the canoe as a bonus, not a plan. That worked. * The route is theirs; it combines the canoe and the hike. Matt and I hiked. The trail is easy to follow as you simply follow the lake.

The trail tightened to a foot’s width and the ground turned to sponge. Stone cairns with a red half-sun kept appearing just when a nudge was needed, then vanished again where the bog took over. Soaked feet were simply the price of admission. I stopped fighting it and walked.. Matt fell behind in a thicket of dwarf willow and heather, tiger-crawling his way to a perfect seat. An Arctic hare held the slope. Whiter than white. Black lining on those long ears. Black lashes against the white fur. The hare had seen him. Matt made himself small and quiet until the animal settled, shifted, and finally pooed as if to say that humans could wait their turn here. We laughed later at the image and how patient you have to be for a moment like that.. Midway we met the day’s river. The others pulled on waterproof socks. I kept moving. Mid-calf. Cold enough to steal language for a few seconds. Crossing a river is never just the water. You read the braids, choose a line, loosen the hip belt, plant poles, feel for push, then rebuild yourself on the far bank and get your heat back. It all adds time and it is time well spent. The ACT asks for balance and calm more than speed.. By evening we reached the place we had in mind and I pitched my tent right on the lake’s shore. Water for a lullaby. Stove sighing in the porch. I watched the light go silver over lake and tundra and felt the day leave my legs. If there is a better sound to fall asleep to than a Greenland’s water I have not heard it. Note: The others swore by waterproof socks — for three days. Then the water came through anyway, and washing didn’t help. Wet, they were heavy in the pack and the smell was… determined. The on-off ritual at each ford also stole minutes. I stayed in trail-runners: light, warm when moving, quick to dry IF the ground turns dry or you get a breezy night. IF you’re not ploughing bog all day, your feet re-warm the moment you hit firm, dry tread. We met plenty in big boots; they were wet too, only heavier, and every extra kilo at the foot taxes the body. My mistake was bringing an already tired pair, thinking I’d wreck them anyway; next time I’d bring fresh shoes. There is no single right answer on the ACT. Pick the compromise you can live with. Mine was to accept wet, cold feet and keep walking.

Greenland lowered its voice and asked me to walk. I pointed my trail runners west and followed a thin line of cairns and wet tread across low mountains and lakes towards the sea. We slept where the ground said yes. A tent on a shoulder above a lake. Lichen for a porch. Wind for a lullaby. Huts were a kindness now and then, but the trail itself was the home. Full day journals will follow in separate posts. I met Evelyn on the Dreampath in 2021. At the end of 2022 she wrote and we planned Georgia. In 2023 we hiked the High Caucasus and met Matt there, camera in hand, on his own journey. We stayed in touch. For 2025, Evelyn and Matt floated the idea of Greenland in a couple of Facebook groups. Anirudh answered from Berlin, fresh off an Ironman and the Atlas Mountain Trail. On the trail we folded in Brian from Hong Kong. Five of us. A small, international caravan under a very large sky. Day 1 — a short beginning We rattled the gravel out of Kangerlussuaq, shouldered packs, and three kilometres later claimed a battered cabin as heavy rains moved in. We lay on warm rock until the first drops, then slept on a kitchen floor while the roof dripped into pans. It felt like a doorway. The tread was already narrow and peaty in places, cairns with a red half-sun giving quiet confidence whenever the line blurred. As said this is Day 1. We set off on 28 August, right at the tail end of the ACT’s summer window, and still hit sub-zero nights. The rest will follow here, one day at a time. Stay tuned.