Precisely what I feel—connection, ebb and flow—after two days at sea. Toward the end of day two, we have our first glimpse of Greenland, the eastern edge of the world’s biggest island. Icebergs appear in tabular slabs, some snowy white, others the frigid blue of glacial rifts. Gulls wheel and call with the fulmars, and three minke whales roll languid to starboard.

As the coast grows, we veer south, down Greenland’s east side: Sikuiuiteq to Kangerluluk, the fjords of Lindenow and Igutsaat. The landscape is rugged, a radical blend of immediate and ancient. Plummeting gneiss cliffs, some of Earth’s oldest rock, buttress the ice sheet in fingers now cracking and drifting to sea. To avoid gale-force winds, the vessel finds shelter in a tight, craggy fjord. Weather demands a flexible schedule. The next day, sea conditions improve, and we resume our planned route.

A stop at Kuusuasia, dropping anchor, launching zodiacs, and a small group of us hike into hills where waterfalls tumble in emerald hues. In strikingly clear air, each view becomes grand. Visuals touch on the incomprehensible, shifting spatial perspective, where cliffs crane to 1000, 2000 metres, and scale dissolves. Pushing inland, I high-step through tussock, the same motion as trudging through deep-drifted snow. An Arctic hare bounds up the rock. Sheep cling to a cliff, igneous adding dark basalt stripes to the metamorphic sheet grey. And somewhere, far below, zodiacs wait to return to our vessel, now anchored in thickening fog.

A short passage through open water, then we dock at an industrial pier in the harbour of Nuuk. An uphill stroll brings me to the urban-esque thrum of the capital: a shopping centre, high apartments, swaths of “jelly bean houses” in maritime paint. Bypassing stores and museums, I make my way to an alternate shore (every snippet of coastline is snaggletooth). Another pocket of relative silence, just the ambient calls of kittiwakes, murres, ravens and gulls, with the intermittent hum of an outboard as boats navigate bays. Near a beached dory, the sound of a ripsaw rasping through something resistant. Someone’s using a handheld saw to cut antler—the branchlike rack of a reindeer, severing it into chunks for a carver. I imagine the stag’s lifeline, tundra to tool: knife handles, a tin flute or a hand-turned souvenir.

During the journey, I sampled 10 types of fish. Some I know: salmon, cod, herring and haddock. Others I don’t bother to learn include groundfish and gamefish, as well as others that are cured, pickled and smoked. On separate excursions, I find onshore eateries offering reindeer and musk ox, eager to taste local flavours. To get there, I trod through wild sage and thyme, aromas released like a Sunday roast dinner.

Sailing again, with Nuuk in our wake, we’re now under robin’s egg sky. A barbeque is stoked on the deck of the ship, and we moor in a fjord near Kangerlussuaq, straddling the Arctic Circle. Passengers wear T-shirts, eat corn-on-the-cob. More sunscreen. Another shift in perspective, as though the world’s somehow spun upside down. While passengers reload their plates, I visit the bridge, chat with the crew, and enjoy a broad view of a glacier reflected in teal-coloured sea. Days aboard have been pleasantly filled with presentations and lectures, including glaciology, ornithology, and local language and culture.