In the Realm of the Arctic Explorers: Somerset Island and the Northwest Passage

Somerset Island lies 800km above the Arctic Circle in the Canadian territory of Nunavut. The population of Nunavut is approximately 40k people, the vast majority of them Inuit, the rest are sent there for a sprinkling of mining projects, research stations and a few hardy individuals that want to get as far away from it all as possible.

The Canadian Arctic is spectacular but is mostly visited by tourists on ships. The window to visit is small: six to seven weeks in July and August (although this may change, sadly, with climate warming). And getting there is logistically tough. The distances are very long to cover making planes the most efficient way of getting there. But runways are few. All food has to be flown in and all refuse flown out. The weather is unpredictable and the cost is high. Very high. But if you can overcome any and or all of these hurdles, it has the potential to be a trip of a lifetime.

The crew at Weber Arctic know this and have spent decades building up a business to cater to tourists at the top of the world. So when I was looking for options to explore one of the most remote places on earth, these were the people I called. With over 30 years experience working in the Canadian Arctic, they offered pretty much everything I was looking forward to and I spent 10 days at their Arctic Watch camp, exploring the west and north coasts of Somerset Island and the Northwest Passage and a bit of the inland. It didn’t disappoint. Although I was too late in the season for the beluga breeding, I was able to photograph muskoxen and polar bears as much as I wanted making the trip worth every hard-earned penny.

From Powder to Mud: A Tale of Two Seasons in the Racha Valley, Georgia

"Next year, I'm staying in Switzerland, taking a chairlift, cheese, and beer!" Timo declared, shedding his hoodie during a brief respite on a climb up Georgia's Racha Valley. Now clad only in his Merino shirt, he still glistened with sweat, vapor rising from his shoulders. It was Day 1 of a 5-day ski trip into the heart of the Racha. He had only logged 234 vertical meters of the 1,000+ he would climb that day.

March 2023 was unseasonably warm in Georgia. Children in Oni, the charming town where we met our guides for the expedition, frolicked on deserted streets, their canine companions ever-present. But for us, the mild temperatures meant wet snow and a heightened avalanche risk.

For now, though, we were ensconced in Oni, welcomed by the proprietors of Family Hotel “Gallery” with a feast of local delicacies and homemade chacha. Taking advantage of the balmy weather, we unpacked our duffels and ski quivers on the lawn in front of the 19th-century guesthouse, sorting through gear and discarding items that would be of no use in the mountains, such as cotton T-shirts and jeans. We retained our ski gear, waterproof layers, and several Merino base layers. We also distributed clothing provided by NuYarn and water bottles supplied by Hydro Flask, our sponsors for the trip.

Once packed for the following day, we gathered around the table and indulged in a selection of regional specialties: soups, meats, breads, pickled vegetables, and chacha, all served family-style beside a crackling fireplace. As a motley crew of four skiers from Germany and three from Poland, we seized the opportunity to bond and banter.

The morning after our convivial gathering arrived far too early. As we journeyed to the gateway to the Racha Valley, we witnessed the devastation wrought by mudslides, streams swollen with meltwater cascading from snow-capped peaks above. We navigated treacherous potholed roads winding along the edges of deep ravines in a battered Soviet-era 4x4, perfectly suited for such rugged terrain. Upon reaching the trailhead, we commenced a 500-meter ascent to our basecamp.

Operated by WildGuru, the basecamp is situated at an elevation of approximately 2,000 meters. It comprises several sleeping tents, a mess tent, and a sauna tent. Upon arrival, we were greeted with hearty food and chilled beer. The resilient (and younger!) Polish contingent elected to continue their upward journey, making an additional 546-meter climb that day to test the snow conditions. Their findings were encouraging. Above 2,300-2,400 meters, winter still held sway, offering promising skiing conditions.

Skiing

Skiing in the Racha Valley is a symphony of solitude. Within a radius of more than a dozen kilometers, there is literally no one else. It is just the team, the mountains, and the owls, their haunting calls echoing through the night.

We began our days early, knowing that later starts would result in overly damp snow. For our first run, we typically ascended 500-600 meters to the crest of a ridge above 2,600 meters. At the 2,200-meter level, we would often soar above the clouds, continuing our climb in full sun. Shells were unnecessary during these ascents; we remained clad in our Merinos. Some donned hoodies, while others opted for base layers alone. With only a few base layers with us, we harbored concerns that the stench at camp would soon become unbearable. Surprisingly, it did not. The Merinos lived up to their reputation, fending off odors until the very end.

Once atop a ridge, we transitioned to skis and shells, donning goggles and helmets. Our skis ranged in width and length, from 90mm underfoot to 120mm. All were perfectly suited for dropping exhilarating lines through pristine powder. Ridges offered enticing overhangs, allowing us to launch into the air and dynamically descend slopes or couloirs. After a few turns, we would pause, allowing the rest of the team to catch up. Then, we would continue our journey down the valley. At times, we traversed avalanche fields, carefully negotiating our turns amidst the ever-present danger. Serhii and Anton, our guides, were invaluable assets, possessing an intimate knowledge of the snowpack and safe faces to ski throughout the day.

On our longest day, we ascended a cumulative 1,579 vertical meters. Our destination: a mountain face that had never been previously descended by our guides. They had avoided it in the past due to the avalanche risk. But this year was different. The Spring, arriving earlier than it was supposed to, had made the avalanche conditions favourable.

We made a long descent on perfect snow. Sharp turns, long lines, and good speed made that day a day we wouldn't forget. On top of that, it is highly probable that we were the first humans to ski down that particular mountain.

Adventure

“Most accidents happen on the way down.” It's a phrase often heard in the mountains. On the last day, we were already 200 meters above the camp when one of our mates dropped from a 10-meter cliff. The light was flat, we were already in the clouds, and the cliff came from nowhere.

Blood, unresponsiveness, and melting snow making it difficult to pull the pulka stretcher made us call in the heli rescue. Help arrived within two hours of the accident. We packed the jumper and one more skier and sent them to Kutaisi Hospital.

Having no clothes but the Merinos they were wearing, ski boots, and mobile phones, they had to quickly update their hospital wardrobe with local fashion statements. They spared no effort to get a look that would make them feel proud.

The team that stayed behind packed the gear and the following day tried to ski down to the road, pick up the cars, and catch up with the hospital team. On the way down, we quickly realized how good a decision it was to call in the helicopter. The Spring had crawled up the hill. Where the week before there was snow, now a trail of mud was all that was left.

We descended maybe 200 meters on skis before switching to boots. We continued knee-deep in mud to the road. Where last week there was plenty of snow, now there was already green grass.

Three months later, we were dancing at the wedding of the friend who fell off the cliff. Thankfully, his concussion, cuts, and fractures healed quickly.

As we celebrated, we couldn't help but reflect on the capricious nature of the mountains. They are a place of immense beauty and exhilaration, but they can also be unforgiving. We had been lucky this time, but we knew that the mountains would always demand our respect.

Oru in Svalbard