Greenland is the least densely populated country in the world. Even when you subtract the inland ice, which accounts for about 80% of the area of Greenland, it is still the least densely populated country in the world. There are literally thousands of kilometres of coastline where you will not encounter another human being. Even from the metropolis of Nuuk, with almost eighteen thousand residents, a short sail will take you to any number of anchorages where you will be unlikely to meet another soul. It is remarkably easy to access the pure, unadulterated solitude of the natural environment.
So why – time and again – do people sail out of Nuuk to remote bays and then gather tightly together?
A couple of years ago we took a trip to Buksefjord, south of Nuuk, to hunt reindeer. It was late in the season. The air was cold and the slopes coloured with the oranges of the encroaching autumn. After a couple of hours of sailing, we hadn’t encountered another boat. We pulled in to a bay surrounded by steep, rocky slopes, at the head of which was a broad valley stretching inland. It looked like a good place for reindeer. We settled in for an early night so the hunters would be ready before dawn to trek into the valley. But in the evening darkness, the breeze whipped up a short sea and a light appeared on the black water, growing brighter and nearer. It was a small boat carrying two Greenlanders. As we watched, they drew near and anchored barely twenty metres away. Our two boats sat side by side in the broad bay, in an immense and uninhabited fjord.
Grumbling at having our solitude disturbed, we set about getting ready for bed. But perhaps a half hour later, we felt an unnatural jolt and the accompanying deep thud of something hitting the hull. Rushing up to see what was happening, we found the other boat right up against us. In the growing breeze, they had dragged their anchor, crashed into us and were now scrambling to move away to an anchorage a few tens of metres further distant. With more grumbling, we retired to a restless night, the rising breeze stirring a troubled sea.
In the dark predawn, as I lay in bed while the hunters prepared to leave, willing myself to keep sleeping, I heard more disgrunted voices. The hunters had woken to discover a small dinghy already on the shore. Our neighbours had risen earlier and already started up into the valley. The best hunting spot was now taken. Now they would instead have to trek up the steep slopes and see if there were any reindeer to be had higher up.
On the boat, my son and I spent a restful morning waiting for their return, eating a late breakfast, playing cards. All the while, the breeze was rising, clipping the tops off the white caps in the bay. Suddenly, my son and I simultaneously noticed a movement outside the window of the cabin and looked up from our card game. The boat that had been anchored nearby was drifting by. In a matter of moments, the wind had blown it fifty metres or more. I leapt to my feet. What should I do? There was noone on board. They were onshore hunting, far up in the valley. I thought of raising anchor and motoring over to catch her, tie her alongside. But I took one look at my young son and the white caps on the bay and quickly abandoned all thought of attempting such a manoeuvre on my own. As the only adult on board, a small slip-up could leave us in real trouble. So I sat down again and the two of us watched helplessly as the boat blew further out of the bay toward the open expanse of the fjord. I imagined the boat ultimately smashed against the rocky walls on the far side of the fjord, or drifting on and on out to sea. It was strange to simply watch it happen. But then, perhaps ten minutes later, the boat – now far out in the mouth of the bay where it opened into the fjord – stopped and simply bobbed there in the waves. The anchor, by chance had caught the very end of a long shallow sand spit that curved out across the mouth of the bay. There it stayed.
Later in the day, we spotted our neighbours returning down the valley. When they reached the shore, one slung the large white carcasses of a couple of Arctic hares into the dinghy and the two of them then dragged the boat down the stony beach. Only once they stood in the shallow water, did they look up to where their boat should have been anchored. I watched as they stood there, slowly comprehending that their boat was no longer where they had left it. One of the men turned his head slowly out toward the open water of the fjord and, standing transfixed for a time, I could see that he had spotted his boat, far off, perhaps a kilometre or more away. Then the two of them set out rowing through the choppy water, finally reaching their boat around half an hour later. This time, chance was on their side.
While I prefer complete isolation when we go out into the fjords, I guess it wasn’t such a bad idea this time – perhaps every time – for those guys to choose an anchorage right next to the only other boat in the fjord.
