Sleet slaps against the window pane and drags itself in patchy wetness down the glass. The streets stream with water, cars bursting through deep puddles, sending up explosive watery sprays. The ski season is over.
I used to go on skiing holidays as a kid in eastern Australia. Skiing in Australia was different from skiing in Greenland. Skiing in Australia involved the grinding squeal of skis on rocky patches, stumbling on the grassy bits, and getting wet when I fell over, which was often. My brothers were just about as terrible at skiing as I was. I recall ascending a T-lift with brother number one. We were chatting. Then there was a sudden lurch, leaving me grasping for the bar between us. He was gone and I was left clinging for dear life, being dragged desperately, foolishly, up an icy slope. Then there was brother number two. He had more courage than sense. I recall him skiing downhill on cross-country skis, without skill. Having quickly lost all control, he tore straight down, to the amusement and horror of onlookers, racing fortuitously between parallel lines of learner skiers, before hurling himself headlong into the ground to avoid the oncoming trees. Like me, he also didn’t learn well. On another ski holiday, having spent a week trying to alpine ski with no experience and no lessons, we decided to try a red run. We fell on every turn, skiers shouting abuse as they shot past.
Alpine skiing in Nuuk is different and surprisingly not bad. Nuuk has two downhill runs. One is a short beginners’ run. The other is quite long and also not very difficult, but it probably verges on a slightly reddish shade of blue here and there. Alpine skiing in Nuuk is also surprisingly cheap. But the real highlight is the view. From the top, on a good day, the view west is a vista of the city and out to the islands and sea beyond. And the view north looks into the blue water fjord and towering rocky islands and cliffed fjord walls.
And there are other benefits. Last winter, on a cold, grey morning, we reluctantly dragged ourselves out to the slopes, anticipating a miserable experience. When we arrived, we found both lifts running and ourselves alone but for three staff. It wasn’t particularly cold, there was no wind, the snow was good, and it was all ours. We descended silent runs, soft snow swishing beneath our skis, the city laid out far below, only for us.
Last weekend we went skiing for the last time this season. It had just snowed heavily. We left the house lurching through deep mounds of white powder. The experience reminded that although the problems of skiing in Nuuk are not the same as in Australia, they’re similar. Now, instead of brothers with more courage than sense or skill, I have a son who continues the family tradition of terrorising other skiers. As is usual for him, he launched himself downslope with no regard for his ability, aiming for maximum speed, and stopped too fast, spraying snow on unsuspecting small children. Instead of ski edges catching and stumbling gracelessly into wet snow like his uncle, his edges caught and he launched headlong into knee-deep powder. I levered him out of the whiteness and he tore off toward another spectacular stumbling fall. Some things don’t change.
