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The wind was howling around me, trying to slip through every crack and crevice of my outfit; at the cuffs of my jacket, the hems of my snowpants, the tiny gaps in my helmet.
It was mid-January, and I was zooming toward an ice fjord in Greenland, clocking at least 30 miles per hour on a snowmobile. It was, maybe, five degrees out. Everything around me was frozen, and even though it was close to 11 a.m. the sky was black, like night. This is how it goes in the Arctic Circle during the winter.
I was tagging along with a Greenlandic family, on their way to their favorite fishing spot. The journey was part of a nearly two-week reporting trip to Greenland, an island that conjures up images of icebergs and polar bears and has been thrust recently into the news by President Trump. He covets Greenland for its size, its location and its minerals and has threatened a U.S. takeover.
So off I went to Greenland.
I started in Nuuk, the capital, interviewing members of the political class and everyday people, asking them what they thought of Mr. Trump’s talk. Short answer: They didn’t like it.
After one long day of reporting, I went for a jog. It was snowing, and Nuuk’s streets were covered in ice. A mile or so in, a pack of runners plodded past me, headed in the other direction. I pulled a subtle U-turn and thought I had stealthily folded myself into the group until a Danish guy turned around and asked: “Who are you?”
I grunted back, “American journalist,” and he cracked a smile and insisted that I stick it out to the end. Nuuk’s running club, I learned, always ends at a bar called Daddy’s, where we had a few beers and talked about life on the island.
I had been dying for a little exercise, but the run was also part of the job. I was using the classic anthropologist’s tactic of participant observation. By joining activities and just hanging out, I gained a deeper understanding of the place I was covering and in this case, Greenland’s fusion of cultures.
Greenland has been part of Denmark for centuries, and people here have iPhones and running clubs and countless other aspects of life in a developed country. But at the same time, many Greenlanders still hunt seals, use dog sleds, ice fish and follow traditions that are unique to this part of the world.
I’ve reported from various places, and the participant observer approach isn’t always appropriate. When I’m reporting from the front lines of the Ukraine war, it’s not like I’m going to join the battle. But for an article like this one, sharing a few experiences with people on the island was enriching and fun.
That’s why I wanted to check out ice fishing in Ilulissat, a town perched on Greenland’s west coast that’s surrounded by a skyline of sapphire icebergs. (Danish geologists say the iceberg that sank the Titanic might have come from around here.)
I learned that ice fishing is quite an involved activity. At a certain point, we had to get off our snowmobiles and travel the rest of the way, across delicate ice, via dog sled. A dozen happy-looking huskies kicked up a cloud of snow as they tugged us along.
When we got to the fishing hole, it took us hours to reel in the line; it is bated with hundreds of hooks and the fjord that it is dipped into is more than 3,000 feet deep. I pitched in, winding up some of the line and then later, cinched down some of the reindeer skins that covered the fish. It wasn’t much, and of course the Greenlanders did everything much better and faster than I did, but it helped me connect a little better with the people I was writing about.
Part of our mission as journalists is to connect on two levels: First, with the subjects of our stories, who may then feel more comfortable sharing information, sometimes very personal information. Second, with you, our readers. The more material we can gather in the field, the more details, experiences and texture we soak up, the better we can write an article that brings you into the action.
Around midafternoon we headed back, and passed an abandoned ice hole. By this time, the dogs were howling and hungry. As soon as they saw a pile of fish scraps next to the hole, they lunged. The sled started to slide sideways and I thought to myself: This isn’t good. Our sled was 20 feet away, then 10 feet away, then closer and closer to getting pulled into a hole of near-freezing water, half a mile deep.
At the last second, the three of us on the sled — me, Ivor Prickett, (a photographer), and our translator, Maya Tekeli — abandoned ship. We tumbled off into the snow and the sled kept going, barley missing the hole. We climbed back on, laughing so hard our sides hurt.
Maybe it was a little too much participant observation. But at least someone, somewhere in a warm room, gets to read about it.
