The Expedition That Melted

When Sébastien, our polar guide, began sending satellite images of the region around Kangerlussuaq, a certain tension crept into the group chat. The pictures told a worrying story: the snow cover was thin, far thinner than we had hoped.

In Greenland, the ground belongs to three distinct worlds: sea ice, the vast inland ice sheet, and the Arctic tundra. Our route runs across the tundra, a landscape that loses its snow completely during the brief summer before turning white again when winter returns.

At the moment the thermometer reads around –20°C, which sounds reassuringly Arctic. But winter is not only a matter of temperature; it also needs snow.

Even here, almost exactly on the Arctic Circle, winter no longer behaves with the reassuring regularity one might expect from a map. The route between Kangerlussuaq and Sisimiut is normally a winter highway of snowmobiles and dog sleds, tracing the broad valley system that in summer becomes the Arctic Circle Trail. But this year the tundra tells a different story. Temperatures remain deeply negative, yet the snow simply hasn’t arrived in sufficient quantity. Without that insulating blanket, the ground hardens into a patchwork of exposed rock and wind-polished ice, turning what should be a smooth white corridor into something far less forgiving. It is a quiet reminder that latitude alone no longer guarantees winter. Even on the edge of the Arctic, the conditions that explorers once considered reliable have become, year after year, a little more unpredictable.

Still, motivation remains intact. Final packing is done.

Twenty-five kilograms of equipment, carefully organized and nested inside a colorful mosaic of waterproof bags, each with its own color code so I can remember what lives where. I have reviewed the packing list so many times, handled every item so often, that I could probably repack the whole thing blindfolded.

For a moment I allow myself a small wave of satisfaction, admiring my North Face duffel, a perfectly balanced piece of expedition Tetris.

Then Sébastien sends a message.

Pack a pair of snow boots. Removable ice crampons are being shipped to you.

The message is clear enough: during the first few days, our Arctic traverse might turn into something closer to a skating holiday.

Then the verdict arrives, carried by yet another satellite image: the expedition will not launch this year.

At first, the icy tundra seemed to be the problem. Progress would certainly have been slow, each kilometer negotiated with caution over treacherous ground. But that is not the real reason.

The real issue is rescue logistics. The Greenland authorities have not authorized snowmobile travel between Sisimiut and Kangerlussuaq this season.

In winter, our route normally doubles as a supply corridor, a track gradually opened by snowmobiles traveling between the two towns. Their passage means that, if something goes wrong, someone can eventually reach you.

Without that traffic, the line goes silent.

And without snowmobiles moving along it, we would simply be out of reach.

It comes as a shock.

I am in Paris, latitude 48.85° N, longitude 2.35° E. In the end, the Haneda check-in agent was right: this will be my final destination.

My large red North Face duffel eventually appears on the luggage carousel. Twenty-five kilos of gear, meticulously chosen and perfectly packed. Suddenly the bag feels very heavy.

It is still night on the A1 motorway. Eight degrees outside. Yet I sit in the back of the taxi absurdly over-equipped, wrapped in my Millet Jorasses down jacket rated for –35°C. I refused to check it into the hold, just in case.

My schedule for the day had been planned with military precision. Already I can cancel my errands. I had planned to buy a few things to improve the freeze-dried rations: some Comté cheese, Speculoos biscuits, Snickers bars, and a selection of Clif Bars, my favorite energy bars. Chocolate Brownie. Peanut Butter Banana. A compact little bomb of 268 calories per bar.

Instead of boarding a flight north, my next journey will be a train ride to the south of France, not quite the departure I had imagined, and certainly not the horizon I had been preparing for.

The second zoom session with Romain, my performance coach, meant to be the final shot of adrenaline before the flight to Copenhagen, turns instead into a lesson in resilience and rebound. It's now time to go back to planning the next trial for 2027. Greenland, Svalbard, somewhere in Arctic !

I had also packed Mike Horn’s book The Ice Survivor, his account of the 2019 North Pole crossing, probably his most extreme expedition. Every page reads like a survival manual.

I flip through it at random. I had mostly brought it for the evenings in the tent.

In three days, the setting would have been perfect.

Mike Horn. That was supposed to be me :)