I’ve been backpacking for 5 decades, but the Arctic was new territory for me. Before heading to Greenland, I researched potential dangers extensively—learning about fjord tsunamis from calving glaciers, the impossibility of outrunning a walrus, and proper quicksand escape techniques (go flat on your belly). I thought I was well-prepared, but as always, it’s what you don’t know that gets you.
Three weeks ago, we were hiking north of Narsarsuaq Greenland toward the glaciers. The route followed a small creek for several miles through a beautiful meadow. Our plan was to cross the meadow, climb the hills behind it, and establish camp with views of the glaciers above.
Conditions were ideal—sunny, around 55∘F/13∘C during the day, dropping to near freezing overnight.
We had ascended about 20 meters above sea level before slightly descending into a meadow traversed by a small river. The water was glacier meltwater—crystal clear and full of trout and char. However, near the head of the meadow, I noticed the water becoming silty. The grass along the banks was partially submerged, and the river had slightly exceeded its normal boundaries. These details registered but didn’t seem significant at the time.
We encountered a local day hiker returning from the hills—one of only three people we would see over three days. He appeared shaken and disoriented, unable to locate the trail he had used just an hour or two earlier. We helped him navigate through the thickets back to his trail. We still hadn’t connected his distress to the rising water levels.
At the far end of the meadow stood storage barrels containing camping equipment used by a seasonal “glamping” operation. We later learned they only unpack this gear a few times each summer when hosting paying customers.
We continued ascending to the alpine zone near the glaciers. The views were extraordinary—glaciers, cirque lakes, and dramatic terrain. However, an inexplicable unease prompted us to cut our trip short by a day. Despite the fact Major Karen (USMC retired) never gets tired, I attributed it to fatigue from two weeks of strenuous hiking, we both decided to descend early.
Upon returning to the meadow, we found 60% of our trail submerged in cold, silty water containing ice chunks. We successfully skirted the flooded area along the meadow’s edge and rejoined the trail below without any real incident.
The following morning, the glamping operators discovered their meadow had transformed into a deep lake filled with turbid water and icebergs ranging from automobile to school bus size. Their equipment barrels, safely stored there for years, had vanished. The meadow was completely impassable—even a kayak would have been useless.
Had we not heeded our instincts and descended early, we would have faced an alternate route adding at least one very difficult day to our journey. Had we camped in the meadow as originally contemplated, the situation could have become genuinely dangerous.
After weeks of research, I am fairly certain we had experienced a glacial outburst flood (jökulhlaup) – a phenomenon where water trapped within a glacier releases suddenly. There’s no warning, no precipitation—just an unexpected cold flood.
While relatively rare, these events range from minor incidents that might trap hikers to catastrophic floods that have destroyed entire Alaskan communities. They’re increasing in frequency due to climate change and typically occur later in the summer season.
I could be wrong about the source, but I have found no other explanation. I welcome any input on the matter as I try to figure it out and spread the word for my own and other hikers’ benefit.
