The Land of Desolation: Being a Personal Narrative of Observation and Adventure in Greenland

by I. I. Hayes

The scene had greatly changed in every respect from the day before. Besides the fragments of ice upon the sea that had been broken off during the night, the sky was leaden, and there was a perfect absence of color everywhere. The ice was a dull cold gray, the atmosphere was chilly, and, although our labors were by no means light, overcoats were not uncomfortably warm. The sun had scarcely risen above the hills when we reached our destination, where we were fortunate enough to find a good anchoring-ground, with plenty of room to swing, in a bay where there was no current and very little ice. There being only five fathoms water, there was no chance of any large pieces of ice coming down upon us. Accordingly it was determined to shift our ground; but, since we had come so far, we concluded that we would go farther; and so we landed, to find ourselves upon a green slope, with the side of the glacier to our right, a cliff to our left, and a gorge in front. Over the green slope we walked half a mile, then through the gorge a mile farther; and, having arrived at this point, we concluded to cross the glacier, and to return to the opposite side of the fiord on foot rather than by boat. So we sent back our crew and set out upon a hazardous adventure.

The captain, always ready for any proposition of an adventurous nature, had quickly responded to my own desires; in fact, he was the only man on board who was always prepared for whatever might turn up. Such another captain there never was, as I believe. Brave almost to temerity; yet, possessing excellent judgment, he was just the man to get into a difficulty, and the very man to get out of it. Although only twenty-five years old, he had, nevertheless, been eight years in command of one sort of craft or another, and was a thorough sailor. Buoyant and clever besides, he was always good company; but on a journey his indefatigable zeal and long legs were apt to lead his companions a lively race.

We had no difficulty in climbing the side of the glacier, at a point where the slope was almost thirty degrees. The ice here contained much foreign matter—stones and sand—which deprived it entirely of a slippery character. In a few minutes we were on the summit, and a dreary scene it was that met us there. Imagine the rapids above Niagara Falls congealed to the very bottom; the falls and river frozen everywhere, and Lake Erie solid: then imagine the banks above the falls lofty like those below, and yourself standing on the rapids. Imagine Lake Erie so near that you can see its frozen surface, and you have, on a small scale, the mer de glace which we saw when looking at the glacier. The frozen rapids are the glacier itself; the falls below, the glacier’s front (with the horse-shoe reversed); the river sweeping down to Lake Ontario is the fiord; and Ontario itself the ocean, into which the icebergs drift that break away from the glacier, and go off with the current.

There is this great difference, however—the river, from bank to bank, is straight upon the surface, while the glacier curves. The accompanying cuts will better illustrate my meaning.

It was along the gorge formed by the curve of the glacier on the one side, and the slope of the land on the other, that we made our way up from the sea, all except the first half mile, which, as I have said before, was over a green slope, formed by the lofty land breaking away and leaving a beautiful spot which is one day destined to be completely covered with the ice-flood. And it was such a beautiful spot that I could but regret its ultimate blotting out; for, notwithstanding the wall of ice that was so close to it, it was covered with thick brush-wood, consisting of birch, dwarf-willow, and juniper; among which were matted tufts of heather, crake-berry, and whortle-berry; and many bright flowers were here and there scattered over a rich turf of grass and moss. A greater contrast could hardly be imagined than between this spot of green which we had left and the glacier upon which we stood.

Here the glacier is two and a half miles wide. To cross it was no easy matter; nor was the effort without danger, for it was full of cracks, into which we were constantly in dread of falling from the slippery ridges which separated them. These cracks, or crevasses, were, in a general way, parallel, running inward and upward from the shore at angles varying with the locality, but averaging about forty degrees. In places they were very near together, being separated by only a few yards; in other places they were twenty or thirty yards apart. But they were continually running into and crossing each other, although pursuing a general sameness of direction. It was this circumstance that gave to our journey its dangerous character; for as we followed the ridges in their course inward and upward we were, from time to time, brought to a stand at a sharp point where the two chasms united. We had then to spring over an unfathomable abyss, or to retrace our steps and seek a better track. Sometimes we did the one, sometimes the other. Luckily we were both sure of foot; yet the leaps were often such as could only have been made under the spur of curiosity to see, or the no less common one of unwillingness to abandon an undertaking.

Towards the middle the travelling became better. Here, for the space of a couple of miles, there was a dead level, and the ice was very little disturbed; while above, where the glacier appeared to have poured over a precipice, or at least down a very rapid descent, there was the most wonderful jumble that can be conceived of. The crevasses there ran in every direction, though the prevailing one was, as in other places, inward and upward. The ice appeared at one point to have been let down by successive stages, forming a series of terraces, or escalades, which might be likened to the steps of some giant temple. Indeed, it was a stairway befitting the grand palaces of nature which lie away upon the mountain-tops beyond.

I never tread these ice-wildernesses without awe. One sees so much, and yet so little. There is nothing to withdraw the attention from one sole manifestation of nature. In other places as in the forest, where there is life in various forms; by the sea-shore, where there is perceptible movement, and at all times something suggestive of life; anywhere, indeed, almost, the thoughts are not concentrated upon one, and only one, peculiar force. There is something almost terrible in this boundless desolation. God seems nearer in these deserts; His laws, which never change, are not hidden from the consciousness by delighted senses; and the mind is there inspired with a lofty emotion when contemplating the simple grandeur of His handiwork.

I was particularly impressed on the present occasion. The groaning of the mighty river of ice, which could not have been less than a thousand feet in depth, was constant, and proceeded from every side; even beneath my feet there seemed to be an uneasy trembling; and how much soever I might have been alarmed, I would not have been surprised had a yawning chasm opened beside me or underneath me at any moment.