When the wind blows

*Photo by Daniel Herwartz

When the wind blows in Greenland, you know about it.

The winter storms are terrific. ‘Terrific’ in that they induce terror. As I write this, the wind is hurling wet snow at our living room windows. Windows which, at times like these, I wish weren’t so large. When the wind really blows, I can see the glass bend and I can feel the sudden pressure change in my ears as the gusts slam against the house. I’m not a fan of that feeling. Friends of ours live in the tall towers of Suloraq, a cluster of seven-storey buildings on a high hill with stunning views of the sea. But when the wind blows they are hammered by relentless winds and those on the top floors have the disconcerting sensation of the floor swaying beneath their feet, a metallic whistling sound rushing through the ventilation as cables on the roof-top stretch and strain.

The summer storms are usually both less often and less severe. But there are exceptions. Warm winds from the south are a sign to batten down the hatches. These warm, or ‘foehn’, winds are the result of air pushed up over high terrain, losing its moisture and descending faster and drier on the other side. One summer during geology field work I was explaining this to a young geologist, describing the weather signs of such winds – high UFO-like clouds that signal their onset.

“You mean like those ones?” she asked, pointing to alarming and beautiful clouds to the south.
“Aaaah…yes” I replied, slapping my notebook shut and stuffing my gear into my rucksack, “Let’s get back to camp”.

We spent the next two hours packing our tents, weighing down gear with rocks, and digging out enough space under a north-facing rock wall to erect a shelter from the coming storm. The next twelve hours we spent inside a single tent, each holding one of the two poles to prevent them being smashed by the downward gusts as we were subjected to forty knot winds.

But this is nothing compared with the east Greenlandic Piteraq. The word itself induces terror. It means “that which attacks”. The weather in Greenland moves, generally, from west to east. When the air moves over the ice cap it cools and ultimately gravity sends the colder air rushing down  to the east where it hits the coast with a force that is truly ‘terrific’. A colleague told me of hearing the Piteraq coming – like anything truly terrifying you can hear it coming – and looked out the window to see an entire team of sled dogs, together with their sled, flying down the street. Actually flying.

By comparison storms in Nuuk are a walk in the park. But from experience of those storms, I now have a true measure of when not to walk in the park. It’s when the wind is over fifty knots.

Lesson one was a winter storm during our first year in Greenland. The buses weren’t running. This is usually because cold and rain has left the roads covered in ice and, coupled with high winds, this means vehicles will be blown off the roads. Probably a good idea to stay home. Undetered, I decided to walk my five year old son to kindergarten. How hard could it be? Half way through the 1 km walk, battling thirty knot head-winds, heavy sleet, knee-deep wet snow, and freezing puddles that were blowing into our faces, with my son bawling and clinging desperately to my hand, I had the sudden realisation that we weren’t actually going to make it. A moment later a car pulled up, the passenger door opened and the driver said “Get in”. He drove us to the kindergarten, me thanking him embarrassingly profusely. When we got there, he said “Don’t do that again”.

Lesson two was the clincher. Winter storms had been pounding us but somehow we had continued to get our son to school every single day, a feat of which we were quite proud. He wasn’t so enthusiastic, but I had promised that if ever the wind physically blew him off his feet, he was allowed to stay home. The day of lesson two I must admit I was a little unsure. There were gusts over fifty knots. The buses were not running – obviously. It was impossible to get a taxi. So we decided to walk, my husband, son, and I. The road was a slick of black ice. Cars appeared through the blowing snow and inched past cautiously through the howling wind. As we reached a long, straight stretch of road, a gust pushed us forward and I found, to my horror, that my boots were sliding. I shuffled forward, so as not to fall, but couldn’t slow down on the ice, the wind hurling me onward. Suddenly, a gust from the side lifted the three of us off the ground and threw us six feet into a ditch on the side of the road, one on top of the other. Our son was wailing. Again a car pulled over and the passenger door opened. We crawled in and were driven to school by another total stranger. “But you promised I could stay home” my son cried. That was a promise I never thought I’d be in a position to break.

Now I know. Fifty knots. Don’t walk in it.