John Delach

Fog, not dense, but persistent, reduces visibility forcing James Russell-Dunford, the captain of the Maasdam, to warn us that he might be forced to abort the planned west-to-east transit of Prince Christian Sound. “We will be approaching an entrance to the sound in a half-hour. Helicopter observations report the sound to be ice-free, but we’ll have to see if the fog persists when we reach the entrance before I can commit to a passage.”

As he maneuvers the cruise ship, the fog dissipates revealing the mouth of the fjord and the brown-gray rock that is Greenland. Still Captain Dunford remains cautious, “I may have to turn around if conditions deteriorate, but right now I am satisfied with visibility and ice conditions.”

His caution is warranted. The Maasdam carries almost 1,300 passengers and a crew of over 500. Even though visibility is greatly improved, the day promises to be wet and cold enough to force me to prepare carefully before I venture out on deck to observe and photograph this passage. No shorts this July 23, 2010; the air is close to winter here in the North Atlantic.

I don jeans and a golf shirt, rain pants, a nylon wind breaker, wool vest and a water-proof rain jacket. I cover my head with a Tilley rain hat; grab a towel to protect my digital camera when not in use and off I go to the open stern of the ship. I pick the stern to document this passage avoiding the wind, spray and misery of the open bow.

What a passage! The low-lying rocks that frame the entrance quickly rise up to form  rugged and barren cliffs with peaks close to 5,000 feet producing canyons that tower over the ship. How different it would have been had sun been out, but the low clouds and mist add drama that trumps color. The passageway twists and turns as the captain navigates the ship through channels that narrow to less than 300 feet. Layers of clouds wrap around the cliff faces, clinging to the sides obscuring their flanks, but allowing crags and peaks to poke through. Other times, the drab gray, brown and green formations rise triumphantly free of the mist.

I am able to roam the deck freely taking photos from various vantage points as not many of my fellow “cruisers” delight in taking on the cold, rain and wind. Those that do don’t stay long and our ranks are thinned to a foolish and hearty few after the first hour.

Waterfalls drain pockets of ice and snow, so many that soon I take them for granted. The channel follows a crazy quilt pattern with twists and turns revealing new drama. Glaciers descend down mountains, some directly into the sound. They calve icebergs that dot the sound. Fortunately, the bergs are widely spaced and do not pose a danger. The captain’s enthusiasm grows as we continue and, at some point he silently decides we will complete the journey including a side-trip to the lone Inuit village in the sound.

Approximately 150 men, women and children inhabit Aappilattoq, an isolated hamlet of  small metal-sided houses perched precariously on flat rocks and earth at a junction of canyons. Painted bright blue, red, and yellow, they clash with the dull, dreary land; appear transient, as if by tomorrow they will be gone without a trace.

The inhabitants fish for sustenance and hunt seal to make a living. The captain sails the Maasdam past the village into a wide basin to make a 180 degree turn to continue the west – east passage. The ship’s horn bellows as we complete the turn calling out boats from the village, white open skiffs propelled by huge outboards. Four appear, a single man in the first, two in the second, six in the third including three children and three adults in the last. Two of the drivers stand steering by means of long handles attached to the motors. They wave and take photographs of us as we take photos of them.

Before lunch, my wife surprises me with a welcome cup of hot, thick Dutch pea soup the crew is serving on several decks. It is so good that I have more with lunch; a welcome respite from the wind and rain. But I don’t tarry and I leave my wife and mates to resume my vigil. Not one of them thinks to join me and I can’t blame them.

The rain is relentless, ultimately forcing me to seek shelter where I wait and watch for the next bend in the channel, the next waterfall, iceberg, mountain top or glacier. Covering the top of my camera with a succession of dry towels, I dash out to photograph each scene before making my retreat.  When we leave the sound just after 4 pm, I have taken over 250 photos. Tired and wet I am pleased with the experience, especially since my expensive Nikon digital camera survived the elements.

What an experience. A glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey is my delight as I remove my soaked gear, take a shower and prepare for dinner.