A few weeks back I asked if you would like to hear more about the exploratory trip Rick Lovelace and I took to the east coast of Baffin Island in 1995. I got a resounding yes, so here goes. Back then, 25 years ago, Sam Ford Fjord was an unknown location that had only been visited by only a few non-Inuit’s. This is an area several hundred miles north of the arctic circle, and extremely remote. Rick and I had seen some photos of massive walls up to 4,000’ tall and decided we had to go. We received a Mugs Stump Award to explore and climb a massive wall. In this photo is the 4,000’ south face of Walker Citadel across a frozen bay. When we first got here we knew we had to climb it.
After flying into the small Inuit settlement, Clyde River, we immediately packed our gear so we could leave the next day. We had well over a hundred miles to go to get up to Sam Ford Fjord and we were packing camping gear, big wall climbing gear, food and fuel for two months, and a shot gun with slugs to ward off polar bears. We traveled via Qamutiks (traditional sleds pulled by a snowmobile). The sleds carry most of the weight in the back so the front can be pushed over watery crevasses like this one to make a “bridge” for us to walk across on. Up here in the Arctic, north of the Arctic Circle, the sea ice freezes as much as 6’ thick.
Walking on water. Conrad Anker recommended we bring rubber boots with us, and they were money. After Joshua left we were on our own, hundreds of miles away from any form of civilization. We were broke and unable to afford a sat phone, so we had no way to communicate with the outside world for the next two months. So we went to work. From our camp on the far side of the bay it was a short 1 mile hike across the frozen ocean to the start of our climb on the 4,000 foot buttress in front of us. We were a bit unnerved by how much water was on top of the ice. Good thing we had the boots, but the main question was how long would the ice last. It was critical to our success.
So off to work it was. After arriving at where we set-up our Basecamp we spent a few days getting familiar with the area and using binoculars to piece together a route. Since we were some of the first non-native people to visit this area we weren’t sure what we would encounter. Polar bears? Check - we had a shotgun for protection. Seams that looked like cracks but that we’re not really cracks and therefore unclimbable? Perhaps. And that water on the ice.... how would that impact our post-climb plans? Since there was no time like the present, and after piecing together what looked like a route that would go, we set off climbing on the lower section of Walker Citadel. Since I had the free climbing shoes I got to lead these pitches.
At this point we’re about 1,600 feet up a 4,000 wall. The ledge below me is Mastadon Terrace, about 800’ above the ice. It’s taken a lot of blue collar work to get here, and on this lower section we’re having to do upwards of three hauls since we have so much weight in food, water and gear. Remember the water on the ice, and the up and down tidal action? At this point we note that the ice next to the wall is starting to break up, and at this point we’ve only been on the upper wall for 3 days we’d planned for 10-14 days. Since our wall drops right into the ocean we need the ice to escape back to camp.
How cold was it? It was pretty darn western much of the time. While the lead climber was moving, the belayer would stand at the belay for hours on end. All bolts were hand drilled 3/8” x 2 1/2 to 3” which took awhile to drill in the hard granite. Dancing in place took on a new meaning. At this point we had been on the wall for 8 days. Remember we had brought 10 days of food, stretchable to 14. And we were now just barely half way up the wall. What we hadn’t counted on was the wind, or rain/snow mix. We were only able to climb two days in a row once. Otherwise every other day was a storm day. Sometimes we’d have two storm days in a row. And the wind was frequently hurricane force, blowing off the frozen ocean and screaming up the fjord. Damn that was really slowing us down.
We’ve now been on the upper wall for 20 days. We’ve stretched our 10-14 day food supply by being on half rations for over a week, so we’re pretty hungry all the time. The good news is that we’re near the top of this 4,000 foot wall. In fact, this photo is the second to last pitch. From our vantage point though it looks like there’s only open water below us. We continue to believe that somehow someway we’ll solve this problem once we get down. How, we’re really not sure, but we’re confident we can figure some way off this cliff. For now though we are just focused on the summit.
Water, water everywhere. On our 21st day on the upper wall we summited and then rapped back to our portaledge camp. We intended to rappel our route as there was no easier alternative; the anchors were already in, and we would have otherwise needed to haul all of our gear to the top of this quasi 4,000’ spire. We had left a fixed rope on one of the traversing pitches to get down. We reorganized everything at our bivouac so we could begin rappelling the route the next day, figuring it was going to take two days to get down. There was no ice to be seen anywhere near the base of the route, so we started to piece together a plan to try and traverse sideways below Mastodon Terrace to get to dry land further around the bay. Maybe that would work. We went into problem solving mode. What else are you going to do?
It took us a full day to rappel 3,200 feet to Mastodon Terrace, but that was pretty uneventful. We got down right as gale force winds struck. We still had over 800 feet to go to get to our bay. After a short sleep we loaded each of our packs with about 90 pounds worth of gear and started traversing some downward trending ledges. We had to get about a quarter mile over to the side to be able to touch dry land. Each ledge petered out, and a rappel was required to get down another level. Eventually we got to a spot where we were about a hundred feet above the water. I stopped, and took my pack off to scout whether we should take an upper or lower route. Right then a particularly strong gust hit us, lifting my 90 pound pack, and tossing it over the cliff into the ocean. I was incredulous- my pack, with everything in it was now at the bottom of the ocean. I was able to find a quick route down to dry land and the waters edge, and miraculously the wind caused such strong wave action, and my pack didn’t immediately sink, so I was able to wade out and snag my pack. From here it was a several hour walk and scramble around the bay back to our camp - 23 days after we left. There was a lot to dry out, but the epic was just beginning.
As a long time big wall climber I’ve always counseled approaching big walls in small bites. The whole thing can be overwhelming, but if you break it down into consecutive steps it will feel a lot less daunting. If you recall, our plan for our way back to civilization after the climb was to cross several miles of sea ice to the south side of the fjord, then pick up an old hunting trail back to Clyde River, about 80 miles away. We would leave our big wall gear for our outfitters to pick up by boat after the full break up. With the early break up of the sea ice, at least where we were, getting to the start of the hunting trail was now impossible. We’d been talking about this while on the wall as well, but were pretty much focused on how we were going to get off the wall as our first step. So now we concocted a plan to try to escape by gaining several thousand feet above our camp to access an unexplored glacier. From there we would traverse west to the bottom of the main fjord, cross the inlet river, and hike a series of valleys to get back to Clyde River - that would be an approximately 180 mile stroll. We’d been on half rations for two week already, but after a day of eating, drying our gear out, and repacking, we left a note with our wall gear about what we were doing, and started hiking. There’s no time like the present.
On our third night Rick and I had a serious conversation about what was becoming more evident, our crazy plan to hike 180 miles back to civilization. Here’s the deal though. We had left almost all of our big wall gear back at our camp on the bay, along with a note about what we were doing. What if our Inuit outfitter made it into the bay, picked up our gear, and left thinking we were heading back a different way? We considered this possibility for hours, and decided we’d sleep on it and decide whether to continue on our course, or head back three days the way we came. One thing was clear to us though, and that was if we continued on we’d need to figure out the food thing, as we’d likely run out of food soon, and a week or more before getting back to Clyde River. In the morning we decided the smartest choice was to head back across the tundra, the dicey glacier, and down to our melted out bay.