The goal was set. To combine snowkite racing with expedition craft and cover 1,000 km around Svalbard, powered by nothing but the wind. A year of planning and training. We set out in the last days of winter, before the midnight sun would break through, aware of the hard conditions but with a better chance of catching weather systems that carried wind. A journey where nothing went as expected, and where the goal turned out not to be the kilometres covered, but the limit that very few people ever experience. Reaching the point where body, mind and equipment are stretched to their fullest in one of the last wildernesses on the planet.
At temperatures below minus 30, staying warm is critical. LOOW was with us the whole way and stood the test as technical wool for expedition use, through snowstorms and every imaginable condition in the Arctic wilderness.
Thomas Sørensen and Morten Rejkjær Clausen, snowkiters
It is the end of March. The days on Svalbard are long, but the nights are still dark. We are hoping for several days of wind in the transition to the midnight sun. The forecasts look good. Low-pressure systems are passing over the archipelago, and our hopes of moving fast are rising. We have packed our pulks for everything we might meet in the next three weeks on the ice. Ice axes, rope, food, tent, kites and the special bear alarm with small charges, meant to wake us if one of the Svalbard region's 3,500 polar bears pays us a visit.
We walk out of Longyearbyen, past the lot with hundreds of snowmobiles for tourists, eyes on the mountains. We launch the kites with the wind straight against us and look down at the ground, which is more ice and rock than snow. We know the first part of the route from a trip two years earlier, when we passed calmly through the roughly 100 km of valleys that lead to the glaciers. Now the wind is more unstable and dead against us, so we have to tack our way up through the valleys. Progress is slow but safe.
We have set aside 30 days for the trip. We use no depots and get no resupplies along the route, so everything comes down to saving weight. For the trip to succeed, we depend on wind conditions that let us cover up to 200 km in a day. Easy in the right conditions, impossible on days when the conditions are doubtful.
The first days are straight into a headwind. That means heavy pressure on the skis, and we have to win every metre by tacking from one mountainside to the other in the narrow valleys. There is a heavy cloud cover, the light is sparse and flat, and our navigation depends on the many exposed rocks that reveal the contours of the landscape but also wear hard on skis and pulks. A fall on those sharp rocks could quickly end the trip with a broken leg or the loss of critical equipment.
On the third day we stand at the moraine that marks the start of the endless white plains. The moraine lies like a medieval fortress. There are few ways through it. Where on the previous trip we passed through the valleys in hours and let the kites pull us up through the moraine, this time we had to put skins on the skis and cross the moraine on foot. The mighty sight of mountains and glaciers was cinematic. Without our colourful kites in the air we found ourselves in a black-and-white film of ice, rock and cloud. We had got what we hoped for, wind rather than blue sky, just not from the direction we hoped for. But at last we were on the glaciers we had dreamt of and longed for so long.
Polar storm
Being able to launch the kites and move up onto the glaciers gave us new energy. Soon the wall of the moraine becomes a small heap of gravel at the bottom of the valley. The snow gets deeper, and we no longer have to watch out for hitting sharp rocks or being surprised by bare ice.
Before long we have moved into the cloud cover. Visibility becomes extremely low. We have our GPS screen and stay close together. We can talk through the intercom in our helmets, so even when we cannot always see each other, we can hold the same heading. It goes well until we sense signs that a new weather system may be moving in over the archipelago. One moment it is completely calm, the next there are fresh to strong gusts from shifting directions. We decide to end the day and make camp.
We barely get the tent up before it is clear that we are dealing with a powerful polar low. The snow is drifting, and out come the shovels to build a snow wall to protect the tent. Welcome to the dream landscape. We need the night's sleep, but it is light, because things can turn critical fast if the storm really gets hold of the tent. Once we have to go out and patch our snow wall, which is quietly shrinking as hard snow crystals sandblast it in the storm.
When the storm has passed, it is time to move on. Visibility is better, the wind is light, and we unpack our big 22 m2 kites, a gigantic canopy that creates forward drive even when there is almost no wind.
It is fascinating how changeable the weather is in the mountains. About 30 km further north the wind picks up while visibility drops to zero. There is only one thing to do before the next low hits: out with the snow shovels and get the tent and gear secured behind a snow wall.
Does the sun exist?
We have been out for more than a week, and we have still seen nothing but shifting variations of whiteout and grey sky. We can make out the contours of the steep mountains surrounding our camp. Now and then the mountains disappear completely. We have to get through a narrow pass where the snow is heavy and the wind turbulent. It is all one step forward and two back, hard work, and as we are thrown up and down in the snow we feel like complete beginners who have no control over anything. The question crosses our minds. What on earth are we doing?
Luckily the answer comes after hours of fighting wind and snow. Suddenly the wind steadies, and the skis gain speed and direction. Slowly the thick fog lifts, we can see contours in the snow, and then the curtain goes up. The stage is open: razor-sharp peaks, glistening snow, blue sky and soft snow.
We charge at full speed out towards the open expanses. We are inside a gigantic postcard, tiny dots, alone and heading north. We are behind schedule, but only now do we feel we are really underway. The hope of a full circuit of Svalbard is alive.
Today we kite until the sun has dipped below the horizon and go into the tent grateful for the day's experiences, but also aware of a creeping challenge. The first signs of frostbite. When we kite with the wind we use very little energy and the skis float along with us. When we go against the wind we put pressure on the skis, and the blood flow in our feet can suffer. A week of headwind has left its mark, and Thomas in particular is starting to have trouble getting the warmth back into his feet. The most beautiful day came at a price: temperatures below minus 30. That evening we burned a little extra fuel to raise the temperature in the tent, to recover and be ready for another long day tomorrow.
The northern limit
Our huge kites, in ultralight fabric with thin lines, carry us silently across the ice. Without them we would be left to walk, but we move steadily north at 20 to 30 km/h. Good visibility, hard snow and extremely cold. We glide across the last flat glacier sections before reaching the next series of mountain passes. We have a view of Newtontoppen, Svalbard's highest mountain, as we aim for the Trinity glaciers that will take us towards Verlegenhuken in the north.
The wind grows more unstable, and visibility is back to poor. Even though we are still making good progress, it is becoming clear how physically and mentally exhausting the trip has been. In the grey, unpredictable weather every sense is on guard, so we do not navigate wrongly or risk an unforeseen gust lifting man and pulk off the snow.
The wind picks up, and we see our chance to move on. What at first feels like a release, with speed in the skis, quickly turns critical. I see Thomas a couple of hundred metres ahead, at full speed through drifting snow, suddenly stop dead. The canopy above him crumples and is taken by a whirlwind. He releases the kite so it falls to the ground. "Release", I hear over the intercom, and I see another whirlwind, now right behind me. I grab the safety releases and my giant kite goes to the ground, but it is caught by the uncontrollable wind and wraps itself up before the force finally dies. Through the lines I feel something give, and sure enough, there is now a large tear.
Paralysed by the situation, I sat there with what had been a high-performance kite and was now just a useless rag. Relieved that we had both managed to react before we would inevitably have been flung into the air by the force of the mountain wind, but in despair at what this might mean.
Thomas made it clear when he came over. He sat down and looked me in the eye.
"That's it." A big hug, and the tears rolled. Our agreement about the trip was clear. We give everything we have to go the distance, but never at the expense of safety. Even if arguments could be found for giving it all one more push, this was the limit. No further.
The way home
There was no time to sit still in frost and wind. So we quickly had to rig small kites and get going, back into the whiteout to a suitable place to camp. That evening we fired up the reserve stove until the tent felt tropical, and we feasted on the rations we now knew we would have to spare. Now it was about enjoying our time in the Arctic wilderness and hoping for good days of fine kiting on the way home. The big mission was called off, but never had we been so far from home and so alone on the ice. Several hundred kilometres lay ahead before we could pack up the tent for the last time.
A closer look at the frostbite confirmed our decision to turn back. Had we been caught further north, or pushed our bodies further over the edge, we would likely have come home with lasting damage.
With new energy in our bodies and a good strong wind from the north, we could put our kites in the air and, for the first time on the trip, truly feel the unmatched potential and ease of snowkiting. Over 50 km/h in loose snow, straight towards home. In hours we watched distances that had taken us days to fight through disappear in a fantastic feeling of flow.
We could camp by familiar mountains, and we could see Svalbard approaching the midnight sun. With the moon above the sharp ridge and the deep blue night sky, dream and reality melted together. Meeting nature as raw Arctic wilderness. Being out where every decision has direct consequences for whether the next experience is fantastic or terrible is intensely life-giving. Every moment counts, and all we can do is be grateful.
The dream of Svalbard had come true.
Around Svalbard from Longyearbyen to the north and south and back again, without depots, was not completed on this attempt. It is hard to know whether it can be done, but the impossible always makes room for new adventures.
Words and photos: Morten Rejkjær Clausen. The English account of the trip, written right after their return, is here: Thin Lines, Svalbard.
Morten speaks at TEDxKalundborg on Friday 18 September 2026 at Kino Den Blå Engel, Kalundborg.
