Capturing Greenland's Edge: A Photographer's Journey to Remote Ittoqqortoormiit

Discovering Ittoqqortoormiit: Life at the Arctic Frontier

In a world increasingly connected, the chance to truly disconnect and witness life at its most remote is rare. Yet, a photographic expedition to Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland – the Western Hemisphere’s most isolated inhabited community – offered just that. Here, at 70°N above the Arctic Circle, 800km from its nearest town, lies a village that redefines remoteness, presenting unparalleled opportunities forphotographing one of the most remote places on Earth.

Ittoqqortoormiit (pronounced ‘it-ockor-tormit’) is a vibrant cluster of 370 souls, their brightly painted homes nestled between the colossal expanse of the world’s largest national park to the north and the planet's most extensive fjord system to the south. With no connecting roads, access is limited to a seasonal boat, helicopter, snowmobile, or one of two weekly flights to Nerlerit Inaat airport, 40km away, arriving from Iceland or West Greenland. For nine months of the year, sea ice locks the village in, yet this same ice transforms into a vital highway for its Inuit inhabitants, who navigate it by dog sled for hunting.

While the village celebrated its centenary in 2025, it faces modern challenges. A declining population – shrinking by 35% since 2006 – sees younger generations migrating to cities for education and diverse careers, moving away from traditional Arctic hunting. Compounding this, rising temperatures delay ice formation and accelerate its melt, placing Ittoqqortoormiit directly on the front lines of both climate change and burgeoning geopolitical discussions around Greenland’s future.

A Journey into the Frozen Wilderness

Preparing for Extreme Conditions

My winter excursion to this Arctic outpost was more than an adventure; it was a test of endurance. After flying from Reykjavík to Nerlerit Inaat, I spent five days immersed in the pack ice, enduring temperatures that plunged to an astonishing -40C. My journey involved traveling by dogsled, sleeping in basic tents and hunter huts – devoid of beds, running water, heating, or modern facilities – and even a thrilling 45km snowmobile dash through a white-out blizzard with winds howling at 80kmph.

Ultimately, this proved to be far more than a simple photography expedition. It offered a rare and profound insight into life within one of Earth's most extreme landscapes, revealing the deep-rooted traditions of Ittoqqortoormiit's residents and their courageous struggle to adapt to a rapidly changing world.

The Expertise of Inuit Guides

The expedition was expertly organized by renowned photographer Joshua Holko, who enlisted local Inuit guides, Åge Danielsen and Manasse Tuko. Their mission: to transport myself and two fellow photographers by dog sled from Nerlerit Inaat airport to Ittoqqortoormiit, aiming to capture the stark, stunning beauty of Earth's polar regions.

Our first night was spent in small tents near the airport, as temperatures plummeted to -30C. Dinner – frozen cod, sawed like timber and boiled – was served by Danielsen and Tuko, a welcome meal amidst the growing concern for the days ahead. I had never experienced such cold. As we huddled for the night, fierce winds battered our tents, and the haunting howls of sled dogs punctuated the darkness, signaling the presence of Arctic foxes – and perhaps – polar bears. The biting cold soon brought on leg cramps, a true “baptism by cold.”

Greenlandic Sled Dogs: The Heart of Arctic Travel

The next morning, Danielsen and Tuko meticulously loaded our supplies. With ancestral skill, they transformed empty sleds into efficient mobile containers, expertly lashing bags, cooler boxes, camera gear, and dog food with ropes – a demonstration of knowledge passed down through generations. Two photographers per sled, with a guide leading the way, we began our journey.

For six days, 12 Greenlandic sled dogs per team – known asqimmiitin Kalaallisut, the Inuit language – pulled loads exceeding 450kg, covering up to 25km daily. These magnificent husky-type breeds, believed to have arrived from Siberia with the Thule people a millennium ago, are a national icon. They embody a crucial part of Inuit culture and their enduring connection to the land. We soon discovered their quiet efficiency, a distinct advantage over snowmobiles, enhancing our chances of photographing – or for the guides, hunting – elusive Arctic wildlife.

Encounters with Arctic Wildlife

Majestic Musk Oxen in the Mountains

One morning, after a simple breakfast of toast heated over a burner, Danielsen pointed towards the distant mountains as our dogsleds glided 10km west of Ittoqqortoormiit. There, on a remote ridge, stood four musk oxen.

Weighing up to 400kg, these prehistoric-looking giants, with short horns and long, flowing black and tan fur coats billowing in the strong wind, were as imposing as they were photogenic. We disembarked cautiously, mindful of Holko’s warning: these Ice Age relics are skittish and can be aggressive. Move too quickly, and they bolt; get too close, and they charge. After an hour of capturing these magnificent creatures, they ascended further into the mountain passes, perhaps aware of their status as a local delicacy in Ittoqqortoormiit.

Hunting Traditions and Modern Realities

On our third day, Danielsen kindly invited us to his hut, located about 25km away, for a two-night stay. His hospitality was humbling, especially considering the hut’s strategic position for spotting polar bears on the pack ice. The brightly painted blue hut, though modest with a small sofa, chair, sink, stove, and a rare sit-down toilet, featured a striking element: a large slaughter hook hanging prominently from the ceiling. This was a stark reminder that while Danielsen supplemented his income by guiding, hunting remained his profound passion, profession, and ancestral calling. By law, hunters cannot sell meat or skins from their kills; instead, resources are exclusively used to provide food and clothing for families, perpetuating a tradition spanning generations.

During our stay, we learned Danielsen was not only a proud Inuit hunter but also a father of four. He shared his family’s legacy: his father was a hunter, his grandfather was a hunter, and he hoped his youngest son would continue this lineage. Holko, having found a musk ox skull the previous day, gifted it to a delighted Danielsen. I seized the opportunity to photograph him proudly holding the skull, which he happily obliged.

Later, over dinner, Danielsen shared photos on his phone. “Look at these,” he smiled, showing me an image of his father standing over a massive polar bear killed just the day before. He then swiped through photos of three enormous adult polar bears he himself had hunted. The conversation highlighted a poignant reality: warming temperatures have altered polar bear migration patterns in recent decades, bringing them dangerously close to communities like Ittoqqortoormiit, posing risks to both humans and the bears themselves.

A Landscape of Awe and Wonder

From Danielsen’s hut, we journeyed 20km east. As our sleds glided effortlessly across the snow and ice, I marveled at the profound serenity and breathtaking scenery. The light was magical – misty and moody, with soft sun rays gently caressing the blue-toned pack ice. We passed towering icebergs and sculptural eruptions of compacted ice, nature’s own masterpieces. This was truly a landscape photographer's paradise. At night, in complete darkness devoid of light pollution, the Northern Lights – locally known asarsarnerit, “those who play ball” – frequently danced across the clear skies. Even this celestial phenomenon holds a connection to hunting in Inuit lore, believed to be the souls of children playing with a walrus skull.

The Elusive "Ghosts of the Arctic"

After five arduous days of travel, we reached Kap Hope, a small settlement of about 20 old huts, 14km west of Ittoqqortoormiit, offering panoramic views of the ice pack for miles. Exhausted and bitterly cold, the six of us unfurled our sleeping bags in one of the cabins. The next morning, peering out a small window with binoculars, Danielsen suddenly shouted, “Polar bear! Polar bear!” pointing into the distance.

My adrenaline surged at the prospect of photographing Earth's largest land-based carnivore – an apex predator capable of smelling prey from 32km away. We descended the mountain carefully, laden with cameras and our longest lenses, bundled in heavy winter gear. The bear, approximately 6km away, remained on the ice for about 20 minutes before ambling away. I had long dreamed of capturing what Holko calls the “ghosts of the Arctic” – polar bears whose white fur blends so perfectly with their surroundings they are barely visible. This encounter was the closest I came to that dream.

Embracing Community in the Extreme North

The sole guesthouse in the Western Hemisphere’s most remote community is aptly named “Guesthouse.” Here, we were scheduled to rest for three days before our departure. After nearly a week in the frozen wilderness, it took some adjustment to Ittoqqortoormiit itself. Brightly painted houses stood out against the deep white snow. Teams of dogs, chained to empty sleds, resembled an Arctic taxi rank, while snowmobiles zipped through town, signaling daily life.

In recent years, Ittoqqortoormiit has embraced its image as a destination for adventurers – a place to navigate ice-choked waters, trek the tundra, marvel at icebergs, and explore a corner of the world few will ever see. However, as a local policeman (one of three, I was told) waved as he passed on his snowmobile, I no longer felt like a mere adventurer. Instead, I felt like a small, transient part of this remarkable, far-flung community.

Ittoqqortoormiit can be traversed in about 30 minutes. Its infrastructure includes a church, a small travel agency, a police station, a bar, the guesthouse, a heliport, and a small supermarket, Pilersuisoq, supplied by just two ship deliveries per season. Wandering the sparsely stocked aisles, I was struck by the exorbitant costs. It made me wonder how locals, with limited job opportunities, could possibly afford such prices.

Outside, polar bear skins hanging on scaffolding near many homes served as a powerful reminder of this community’s origins and its enduring connection to the Arctic. While my primary goal of capturing unique wildlife images, particularly the elusive “ghosts of the Arctic,” wasn’t fully realized on this trip, it ultimately didn't matter. I had gained something far more profound: a deep and abiding appreciation for the incredible resilience and ingenuity of people living in one of the most remote places on Earth.