A quest of harnessing the power of arctic winds, immersing into pure beauty and a dream of unsupported travel around Svalbard, was met with the roughest polar conditions.
When you reach out as far as you possibly can, you might be lucky enough to meet your limits.
By snowkite instructors and guides Thomas Sørensen and Morten Rejkjær Clausen. Words and photographs by Morten Rejkjær Clausen.
A naive dream of ice and wind
In 2017 we were standing on the great frozen Onego Lake in Russia at the Trans Onego Kite Enduro competition. We were about to be among the few finishers at the 400 km multiday monumental snowkite competition. At the finish line, dead tired, the dream stood crystal clear: to be able to be dropped at any icescape and use the wind to get us going in whatever conditions we would face.
Years of training, kite racing, teaching and backcountry trips later we stumbled upon Svalbard. A well known place for ski expeditions, but a yet nearly undiscovered gem for snowkiting. With a successful and comfortable kite trip to the island group in 2023, we decided to return with a race-inspired setup. Ready to kite as far as we could imagine. A possible unsupported circumnavigation of Svalbard. A route of more than 1000 km in total, with start and end in Longyearbyen and turnpoints at the north and the south.
On the best days we travel hundreds of kilometres, on the worst we only cover a couple. We have chosen to be naive, in the oldest meaning of the term, of being close to nature and pure of mind. We would go out with kites from the first possible point at Longyearbyen, the prime settlement at the Svalbard islands. From there it would be up to the weather systems and conditions to decide if we would be able to make the full trip, or cut off half of the route and return after reaching the furthest point north.
Pulkas were packed with supplies, crevasse rescue gear, kites, and the curiosity of travelling Svalbard backcountry: bear alarms and sharp weapons.
Starting at Longyearbyen – the long valleys
Wind was blowing, but head on. Looking down we saw stones, black ice and only small spots with snow, more gray than white from dust released from the exposed mountains. We started as planned, right outside Longyearbyen. Happy to finally be kiting on Svalbard, but with the wind against us we would have to cover vast distances to gain progress in the right direction. The scarce snow and hard, sketchy surface needed all our attention not to break equipment or knees.
We had to reach for the highest possible points at the sides of the valley to navigate our route. Turning on the steep hills made the kites act as paragliders, lifting us slightly from the surface. Beautiful sight, fun, and releasing the feeling of mastery, but mentally extremely demanding. There is never room for failure in these maneuvers.
After three days of hard work in the valleys we stood at the massive moraine that marks the division between the tundra scapes and what we are here for: the smooth, endless glaciers stretching like ice floods between the pointy mountains. The moraine stood as a medieval fortress protecting the great lands from intruders. We laid down our kites when wind turbulence from the gravel towers was too chaotic. We mounted skins and walked. As we passed the moraine we gained sight of the glaciers, partly exposed, partly covered in clouds, awestruck, and with the uplifting feeling of a steady breeze. We rigged our kites and started working our way up the glacier.
Polar low
We soon entered the clouds covering the glacier, and soon it was just thick without. Sky and ground melt together and progress relies solely on instinct, pressure in kites and skis. The only visual reference point is the arrow on the GPS map. Unstable movements in the kites indicated a fast change in weather. From the total loss of power, to fast directional shift and short powerful wind gusts. A great low pressure was incoming and it was way about time to set camp.
Two full hours of working the snow shovels, and the tent stood safe behind a snow wall. First real storm. Welcome to your dreamscape.
When the storm calmed and we packed down our camp, the buzzing sound from snowmobiles came closer. A visit from a patrol from the Svalbard Government, Sysselmesteren. They knew about our trip from the application process, but were more than a little surprised to see us at the glacier. They thought that we wouldn’t have gone out due to the weather. But here we were. A couple of days behind schedule, still not promising conditions, but on our way around Svalbard.
This day we could ride our biggest kites, 22 square metres of thin fabric, slowly pulling us up the glacier. Then entering a deja vu of last night. Hours with shovels to create a safe wall for the incoming storm.
Is there a sun?
We could only sense the steep walls of the mountain pass we entered. The snow was deep and heavy, and the turbulent wind from the unfriendly topography made our kites enter a weird dance in all directions. Lofting describes the unintended flight with a kite. After having dangled downhill with a heavy pulka, decades of kite experience are abolished and you feel like a beginner. These places are not made for kiting. Luckily everything is a phase, and we were able to drag ourselves out of the tight pass.
In six long days we had only seen the landscape through different shades of whiteout, but suddenly the curtain was taken away and the full stage was revealed. Crisp endless ice and razor sharp mountains. We were miniatures cruising around in a frostbox postcard. Tears were rolling down from the overwhelming beauty. The tears froze in the now screaming cold high pressure environment created by the glacial microclimate. This day we kited till the limits of the temperature of our extremities.
That night we discussed our status. We were certain that we would be able to reach Verlegenhuken, the point furthest north, in two to four days’ time, but we also felt the realism of what our bodies and equipment had gone through the first week, and it demanded a minor wind miracle to let us go to the south. We would be more than happy to reach north.
Crossing the line
Our big, 22 square metre lightwind kites delivered pure flow when we covered the big flat glacier. Mountains came closer and wind was going down. Whiteouts were back, with unstable winds.
Our track went through a valley. On our way down from the higher parts of the glacier the wind went from a light breeze to fresh gale. Looking down there was sharp sastrugi. This place gathers winds.
We continued. Full speed. Thomas in front. Suddenly the kite was caught by a whirlwind. The movement of the big wing was surreal, possessed by an evil force. The power of an unexpected pull would create a massive loft of pulka and rider. Thomas immediately releases his kite. It flags out and goes to the ground. Through our helmet intercom he describes what he sees. Behind me is a sharp whirlwind heading directly towards me, ready to slingshot me off the ground. I pull the safety release, and the power goes out of the wing, but only partly. The big wing folds in the middle and inverts, transforming it into a rotating butterfly. Eventually it went down and I could secure the kite and retrieve it, only to see the result of the butterfly. A big rip in one of the main cells of the kite, beyond fixing.
I knelt down beside my broken kite. What seconds ago harnessed the super powers of the wind was no more than a useless cloth, and I felt exactly the same. The last eight days fighting the wind, screaming cold and mental pressure had come to an all time high, but at this moment the energy just left.
I knew this was the line. If we would push on further north, find that extra race gear to keep going, we were risking our self-sustained return and even our health. Thomas walked to me, sat down, and he said what there was to say:
This is it. No more. We are going back.
I cried.
The great way back
The space for emotions was defined by the fact that we couldn’t stay. Back to work. Once again navigating through whiteouts, only with the difference that we were able to release the force on the edge of our skis, as we now didn’t need to go against the wind but could float downwind.
That night we went deep into the most precious supplies of cheese and chips, and lit up an extra burner to get heat in the tent. Food and fuel supply was now in generous size due to our earlier return.
The mood was mixed. We buried the long expected quest of reaching our ultimate snowkiting peak. But in the sorrow of our broken dream, there was thankfulness for being out here, and a not yet realised meaning of the experience of facing one’s outer limit in arctic nature. To be at that point and still be able to go back is extremely precious.
From now on it would be all about enjoying the time on ice, even though we had to cover hundreds of kilometres before we were back.
When we were setting camp there was only white; now a horizon with endless mountains revealed itself in the razor sharp cold. A sort of thank you for taking limits seriously and not overriding them in a one sided mindset. We could launch our small kites and now we got the feeling that we know so well, but did not get when fighting against the wind. Cruising in fresh snow, more than 50 km/h, effortless flow dead on our planned course. Within hours the distances we had used days to gain disappeared in one effortless motion of flow.
We were on the verge of the midnight sun and the moon stood clear in the blue evening sky. Even brighter was the realisation of the dream behind all this fun, hassle and experience. The dream of being able to be on whatever ice sheet, with our kites and technique, in all conditions. The ability to be in nature, and to find out how far you are willing to go and know your limits, was what brought us here in the first place.
The arctic nature had become a prism that mirrored something within me that I could not see before. I looked at the moon, the white mountains, and I could look at my fulfilled dream. Here it is. What now? What next?
New lines
We set out to circumnavigate Svalbard with the use of kites, fast and unsupported. For us this was not possible, but the line has been drawn up, maybe waiting for the right conditions and the right team. The questions that remain are why we should go for such projects. What are the real goals for going into nature? And the most important for us who need these places: how do we preserve the ever shrinking ice sheets that hold the last wilderness to live out the wild within?
Thomas Sørensen and Morten Rejkjær Clausen are snowkite instructors and guides. Morten wore LOOW merino wool as his base layer throughout the expedition. All words and photographs are his own.
