Alexander Scrimgeour

For ten days we walked across western Greenland. Behind us, the ice stretched beyond the horizon. Ahead, bare rock scoured smooth by the retreating glacier rolled on for nearly two hundred kilometres to the sea. There were no trees to throw shadows under the endless evening sun. There were no roads, no people. The slopes hung heavy with wild blueberries, and Labrador tea perfumed the air. This is a world that belongs to the few that can survive here: the musk oxen, the reindeer, the arctic hares and foxes, and the ghostly rumour of polar bears.