Sea Kayaking Expedition in Greenland: 200 km from Ilulissat to Eqi Glacier
- Bianca Vagabonde
- 1 day ago
- 14 min read
Still half-asleep, tucked deep inside my sleeping bag, I was never quite sure what had stirred me awake — the breath of a humpback whale somewhere close to shore, or the low, distant thunder of an iceberg splitting apart across the bay. I would unzip the tent and peer outside to find giants of ice drifting silently past the thin walls of canvas I had come to call home. In Greenland, even waking up felt like stepping into a dream…
I spent several weeks there that summer, paddling and camping my way along the wild shores of Disko Bay, beneath a sun that barely dipped towards the horizon. The days found their own rhythm: weather rolling in and out across the bay, tents pitched in the shadow of icebergs, cod pulled from the water beside our kayaks, and mosquitoes far too delighted by our arrival.
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It was in Ilulissat that my two-week sea kayaking expedition began, as part of my training to become a sea kayak expedition guide. There were nine of us setting off north, with one destination in mind: Eqi Glacier, before eventually turning around and making our way back to where we had started. Nearly 200 kilometres by kayak through Disko Bay, carrying everything we would need to live independently along the way.
It didn’t take long for life on expedition to find its own rhythm. Hours spent paddling between icebergs were followed by the search for somewhere to land and pitch our tents for the night. We collected water from rivers or melted ice, cooked our meals, dried our gear, packed it all away the next morning and started again. Along the way, we caught cod, gathered mussels from the shore, stopped in the small village of Oqaatsut and crossed paths with countless whales. And somewhere at the end of our journey north was Eqi.
After days of tracing an almost entirely wild coastline, we finally reached the glacier and paddled beneath the presence of its immense wall of ice. From the seat of a kayak, surrounded by a landscape on this scale, our nine tiny boats suddenly felt very small indeed.
This is the story of my sea kayaking expedition from Ilulissat to Eqi Glacier: 200 kilometres of paddling, wild camps and self-sufficient living among the icebergs of Greenland’s west coast.
From Ilulissat to Eqi: Our Sea Kayaking Route
Our journey begins in Ilulissat, on Greenland’s west coast. Ahead of us lie roughly 100 kilometres of paddling north to Eqi Glacier — and then the same distance back again. On a map, the route looks almost deceptively simple: follow the coastline. Out on the water, though, distances take on a different meaning, with headlands to round, fjords to cross, icebergs to navigate around and weather that can shift remarkably quickly.
Before we can set off, there is the small challenge of fitting two weeks of life into nine kayaks. Tents, sleeping bags, clothes, stoves, food, safety equipment, navigation gear… every last pocket of space has a purpose. Packing the hatches becomes an oversized game of Tetris, with one simple rule: whatever comes with us has to make it all the way to Eqi — and all the way back to Ilulissat.
With the kayaks finally loaded, we leave the town behind and point our bows north. Ilulissat’s colourful houses slowly fade into the distance as the landscape opens around us. From here on, there are no roads, no vehicles and no accommodation waiting at the end of the day. Our transport, our pantry and most of our home are now floating beneath us.
The first few hours are about settling into the rhythm of the journey. We trace a rocky coastline broken by small bays, mountains rising to our right and the vast waters of Disko Bay stretching away to our left. Icebergs from the surrounding glaciers drift all around us. Some are little more than fragments of ice, easily passed by; others rise from the sea like enormous white cliffs.
It is also early in the expedition that we have one of our most unexpected encounters. A whale appears in the distance. But this time it is not one of the humpbacks we will come to see so often over the following days. It is a bowhead whale, one of the Arctic’s most iconic species. We watch from a distance, sitting quietly in our kayaks, until it slips beneath the surface and disappears back into the bay.
And already, the question that will come to shape the end of every paddling day begins to surface: where are we sleeping tonight?
On a sea kayaking expedition in Greenland, spotting a beautiful beach from the water is only the beginning. We need somewhere we can safely land nine fully loaded kayaks, enough flat ground to pitch our tents, access to fresh water, and a location that makes sense with the wind and sea conditions expected the following morning.
When we finally find our first campsite, the kayaks are hauled above the waterline and slowly emptied. Within minutes, a stretch of completely wild coastline becomes our home for the night.
This will become the rhythm of the days ahead: paddle by day, build our little camp each evening, then make it all disappear again in the morning before continuing north towards Eqi.
Living Off the Kayaks: Life at Camp in Greenland
After hours on the water, our paddling day rarely ended the moment our bows touched the shore. There was still the small matter of turning an empty stretch of Greenlandic coastline into a home for the night.
Once all nine kayaks had been hauled out of the water, camp slowly began to take shape. Hatches opened, dry bags piled up on the rocks and tents appeared against the landscape. We searched for the flattest patches of ground we could find, spread wet gear out to dry whenever the sun and wind were on our side, and eventually turned our attention to dinner. By the time we left again the next morning, there would be nothing left to show we had ever been there.
One thing always came first: water. For a place surrounded by so much ice, finding drinking water could require a surprising amount of planning. Whenever we camped near a river or stream fed by melting snow and glaciers, we could refill our supplies there, boiling the water when necessary.
But some evenings, there was no running water anywhere nearby. On those nights, we went looking for ice.
We collected chunks washed up along the shore, sometimes broken away from icebergs drifting through the bay, and smashed them into pieces small enough to fit inside our pots. Slowly, they melted over the stoves into the water we would drink and use for cooking. Out here, making a pot of pasta could begin with the rather unusual task of breaking up a piece of iceberg.
Every now and then, the coastline provided something extra for dinner. A fishing line dropped from the kayak might bring up a cod, while at low tide we could gather mussels straight from the rocks. After a full day of paddling, it was difficult to imagine anything fresher.
Camp soon developed a rhythm of its own. Damp clothes and gear were spread across the rocks, maps came back out as we planned the next day’s route, and conversations over dinner stretched on with no fading daylight to remind us of the time. At this latitude in summer, the midnight sun plays tricks on your sense of time: at eleven at night, the bay could still look as though it were late afternoon.
And around us, the landscape never really stood still. Icebergs drifted slowly with the currents and, on some evenings, the sudden blow of a humpback whale was enough to make every head turn towards the water.
Perhaps those were the moments when the reality of where we were sank in most deeply. Not necessarily while paddling beneath the biggest icebergs, but sitting outside a tent with a pot simmering on the stove, everything we needed for two weeks of life packed into a handful of dry bags scattered around us.
By morning, though, our little home had to disappear almost as quickly as it had appeared. Tents packed away, bags sealed, food stowed, kayaks loaded — a few paddle strokes later, our campsite was once again nothing more than a wild stretch of Greenlandic coast.
And we continued north.
Paddling Among the Icebergs of Disko Bay
Each morning, once camp had vanished back into the kayaks and everything was packed away, several hours of paddling lay ahead of us. In Disko Bay, ice is as much a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. Some days we paddled across almost completely open water, with only a handful of icebergs scattered across the horizon. At other times, the ice closed in around us and forced us to rethink our route. From the seat of a kayak, it could be surprisingly difficult to grasp the scale of it all. What looked like a small iceberg in the distance could grow into something enormous as we approached. Some rose from the water in arches and towers, or in blue-tinged walls sculpted by wind and sea. Others still carried rocks and sediment torn from the mountains by the glaciers. For all their beauty, icebergs came with one essential rule: keep your distance. They are never truly still — constantly melting, cracking and shedding pieces of ice, and sometimes rolling without warning as their balance shifts.
Paddling here also meant keeping a constant eye on the weather. A perfectly calm sea in the morning could look very different a few hours later once the wind picked up. Before each leg of the journey, we checked the forecast, studied our route on the map and identified possible landing places in case conditions deteriorated.
Yet through all those hours on the water, we were rarely alone. Eiders, guillemots and long-tailed ducks crossed our path, alongside countless other seabirds of the High Arctic — species I had spent the previous months learning about and could now finally watch in their own environment.
Harp seals were far more elusive. We only encountered them two or three times during the expedition, always travelling in groups, moving across the surface in a series of small, almost playful-looking leaps before slipping beneath the water again. They were noticeably wary and kept their distance in a region where seal hunting is still practised and remains deeply connected to traditional Inuit ways of life. For generations, seals provided both food and skins for clothing and equipment, and subsistence hunting continues in the region today.
Humpback whales, on the other hand, became a recurring presence throughout much of our journey. Some surfaced far offshore; others came close enough that the sound of their breath would make us stop paddling immediately. The black-legged kittiwakes gave us clues as well. When whales came up to feed, the birds would gather above the same patch of water, taking advantage of the fish driven towards the surface. That was our cue to rest our paddles. For a few minutes, nobody cared much about the kilometres still ahead. We simply waited, watching the water between the icebergs to see where the whale would surface next.
That was probably what I loved most about this sea kayaking expedition in Greenland: travelling slowly enough to notice everything happening around us. At the pace of a kayak, wildlife was not something we went looking for on a separate excursion. It was simply part of the journey.
Oqaatsut: A Village Along the Way to Eqi
As we continued north, a handful of colourful houses eventually appeared along the shoreline. We had reached Oqaatsut, one of the small settlements scattered around Disko Bay, accessible only by sea or on foot from Ilulissat.
Formerly known as Rodebay, Oqaatsut has a long history shaped by hunting and fishing. Both remain part of everyday life here, something that quickly becomes apparent as you wander between the houses.
There are no roads and no cars. Animal skins hang over porch railings to dry, musk ox skulls decorate some of the houses, and dog sleds lie in the grass waiting for winter to return. Between brightly painted homes, the immense shape of an iceberg will suddenly appear, drifting silently through the bay behind them. At the heart of the village, the little church also serves as a school for Oqaatsut’s handful of children.
The village feels remarkably quiet. Most of its limited activity revolves around the fish-processing plant, which provides local jobs and plays an important role in keeping a permanent population in Oqaatsut. A few people come and go around the plant, while only a couple of streets away the village quickly falls silent again.
We leave the kayaks on the shore for a while and follow the few paths winding through the settlement on foot. Then it is back to the water and northwards once more. Behind us, Oqaatsut’s colourful houses gradually disappear among the rocks and icebergs.
Ahead, the coastline turns wild again.
The next major stage of our expedition will take us into a landscape on an entirely different scale: the glaciers of Eqi and Kangilerngata Sermia.
Face to Face with the Glaciers: Reaching Eqi
As we make our way farther north, the landscape begins to shift. The mountains grow steeper, ice becomes an ever greater presence and, in the distance, glaciers begin to emerge between the peaks.
Ahead of us lies Eqip Sermia, more commonly known as Eqi Glacier, one of the best-known glaciers in Disko Bay. Its terminus forms an immense wall of ice, rising 200 metres high before dropping straight into the sea. Approaching it by kayak completely alters your sense of scale. From water level, it is almost impossible to take in the true dimensions of the landscape. Mountains, icebergs and the glacier front seem to merge into one another, with nothing familiar to provide a sense of proportion, while our kayaks look impossibly small among it all.
We paddle through the area while keeping a safe distance from the glacier front. A glacier flowing directly into the sea is an incredibly dynamic environment: huge pieces of ice can break away at any moment, sending powerful waves across the water. Even from a distance, you can hear the glacier at work. Cracks echo between the mountains, sometimes followed by a much deeper rumble as the ice fractures.
But Eqi is not the only giant here. Our route also takes us past the front of its neighbouring glacier. Two vast rivers of ice flowing down from the Greenland Ice Sheet towards the sea, and two landscapes in which a kayak suddenly feels almost absurdly small.
This is perhaps one of those moments when travelling by kayak makes the most sense. No engine, no window separating us from the landscape. Just the dip of our paddles, the sounds of the ice and, every so often, the distant roar of part of a glacier collapsing into the sea.
After all the kilometres it has taken to reach this place, we can finally rest our paddles for a moment and simply watch.
But reaching Eqi does not mean the expedition is over.
Between Two Glaciers: From Sea Kayaks to the Greenland Ice Sheet
After several intense days on the water, we finally make camp on a strip of land between two giants: Eqip Sermia to the south and Kangilerngata Sermia to the north. Two neighbouring glaciers flowing from the vast Greenland Ice Sheet all the way down to the sea.
For once, the kayaks are staying on the beach. We pitch our tents in the same place for several nights and swap our paddles for hiking boots.
Our first hike takes us inland with an objective that still feels slightly surreal to write: to walk on the Greenland Ice Sheet. As we climb higher, the coastline and icebergs recede behind us while the ice takes over more and more of the horizon ahead. Then comes the moment when the rock simply ends. Before us begins an immense white expanse covering most of Greenland and stretching for thousands of kilometres into the heart of the island.
After spending so many days looking at the ice from our kayaks, this time we are standing directly on it.
Our second hike takes us in another direction, towards Kangilerngata Sermia, Eqi’s neighbouring glacier. We climb to a viewpoint overlooking its terminus, far less known than Eqi but every bit as impressive. Below us, the glacier flows down into the fjord, ending in an immense wall of ice above the sea.
From up here, the scale of the landscape we have been travelling through for days becomes much easier to grasp. Fjords carve their way into the coastline, icebergs drift beneath the mountains and, somewhere along the shore between the two glaciers, our nine kayaks sit quietly waiting for the journey to continue.
For a few days, our kayaking expedition has become an adventure on foot. And it is difficult to imagine a better place to stretch our legs than between two glaciers, on the edge of the Greenland Ice Sheet.
In the Footsteps of Disko Bay’s Former Inhabitants
After our time on foot between the glaciers, we load the kayaks once again and return to the water. Our next stop takes us to a small island that, at first glance, looks much like any other: a scattering of rocks, low Arctic vegetation and sea on every side.
But once ashore, it quickly becomes clear that Inuit families once lived here.
Their traces are still written into the landscape. The outlines of former dwellings can be made out on the ground, while hollows and stone structures mark the remains of food caches. In the Arctic climate, these stores were used to keep meat and fish cool and protect them from animals.
What strikes me most, though, are the bones scattered around the old settlement. Seal, bird and fox bones still lie among the remains, offering, two centuries later, a glimpse into the lives of the people who once lived here and depended directly on the resources around them for food.
It is difficult not to picture the life that once filled this tiny island: families living beside the very same bay we are paddling through today, travelling across these waters and shaping their lives around the seasons, hunting and fishing.
Turning South: The Journey Back to Ilulissat
When we wake, the landscape is almost unrecognisable. Overnight, the temperature has dropped to -1°C and heavy snow has fallen. As we unzip the tents, we find the entire camp buried beneath a thick white layer, our kayaks on the shoreline covered too. The mountains, dark and rocky only the day before, are now dressed in snow. In a single night, Greenlandic summer seems to have slipped quietly into winter.
The sky is still low and overcast as we break camp. It is cold, our gear is damp, and the kayaks have to be brushed free of snow before we can load everything back inside.
We push the boats into the water once more. This time, their bows point south. Eqi and the glaciers are behind us now, and the journey back to Ilulissat begins.
We are retracing a coastline we already know, yet it feels completely transformed. Snow-covered peaks are reflected in dark water, clouds cling to the mountains, and the icebergs almost seem to disappear into the fresh white landscape. Only a few days earlier, we had paddled these same waters beneath the midnight sun; now, with gloves on and collars pulled high, the atmosphere could hardly be more different.
There are still almost a hundred kilometres ahead of us. But following the same route does not mean repeating the same journey. The currents have shifted the icebergs, the weather reshapes every bay and headland, and a change in light is enough to give the coastline an entirely different face.
We settle back into the familiar rhythm of the expedition: long hours on the water, broken up by pauses and new wild camps along the way. Day by day, the glaciers fade farther into the distance while Ilulissat draws closer.
Back in Ilulissat: The End of Our Sea Kayaking Expedition in Greenland
After nearly 200 kilometres of paddling across Disko Bay, the first houses of Ilulissat finally reappear on the horizon. After two weeks of wild camps, glaciers and remote coastline, the gradual return of the town’s sounds and movement feels strangely unfamiliar.
We take our final paddle strokes and pull the kayaks onto land one last time. This time, there is no need to search for a flat patch of ground for the tents, or a stream to refill our water. The expedition ends exactly where it began two weeks earlier.
As we empty the hatches, I realise just how much these few metres of kayak have carried for us: our food, clothes, tents, equipment — almost our entire lives for fifteen days. It is a kind of simplicity you adapt to remarkably quickly. Paddle, eat, find water, build camp, sleep, pack up and move on.
More than anything, though, this journey has been an extraordinary way to experience Greenland’s west coast. At the pace of a kayak, we watched the landscape change kilometre by kilometre: the icebergs of Disko Bay, whales surfacing between paddle strokes, the colourful houses of Oqaatsut, traces left behind by Inuit communities who once lived along these shores, and finally the immense glacier fronts around Eqi before walking onto the Greenland Ice Sheet itself.
Two weeks earlier, Eqi had been little more than a distant point on our map. Now it lay behind us, along with nearly 200 kilometres of paddling in our arms and more images than I could ever hope to forget.
And if this sea kayaking expedition in Greenland confirmed one thing for me, it is that a kayak may be one of the most beautiful ways to travel through places like this: slow enough to notice what is around you, self-sufficient enough to reach remote places, and small enough to remind you, in the presence of glaciers and icebergs, just how small you are too.
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