Polar Bears, First Ascents, and Rockfall: Getting Out in Baffin
"Boomer explained the game of flying in Baffin—it’s basically roulette."
Kylus Hart
Most of us can think back to a moment when we first saw an image of a place so wild and remote, it almost looked unreal. For me, that place was Baffin Island—a massive, rugged expanse of cliffs, glaciers, and untouched wilderness in the Canadian Arctic. I remember staring at a photo of it, half in awe, half in disbelief. "That place exists?" I thought. Ever since then, visiting Baffin Island became one of those dreams you tuck away but never fully let go of. And then, one day in Zion National Park, fate stepped in.
I ran into Sarah McNair-Landry and Erik Boomer there, completely by chance. At first, I was annoyed when I saw a group camped below the route my partner, Arthur Herlitzka, and I had planned to overnight on. But as we approached, a guy came down from the base and said, “Hey, morning, guys! If y’all are headed toward this route, you can go ahead!” I asked, “Boomer?” He replied, “Ky?” It turned out I had met him and his partner, Sarah, years earlier on the rivers of Idaho, though I had never seen them on rock before. They were practicing their hauling skills for an upcoming Baffin trip, and I agreed to give them a few pointers if they’d share the bivy ledge with us.
The four of us set off with high hopes, hauling bags filled with beer, gear, and a dead tree.
That night, we all gathered around a fire on the ledge, swapping stories. Arthur and I talked about big walls in Zion and Yosemite, while Sarah and Boomer regaled us with tales of Baffin Island and the Arctic, describing the incredible potential for big wall exploration that still exists up there. We were hooked. That night, we sketched out a plan to make it happen. And as Baffin Island trips go, it took two years to bring it to life, but we finally made it. We landed in Iqaluit, preparing for an ascent of Mt. Asgard. After packing up, we set off for Pangnirtung. However, after almost landing in the ocean, the plane returned to Iqaluit. On the ride back, Boomer explained that flying in Baffin is basically roulette. We spent the next six days trying to fly to Pangnirtung but with no luck.
So, we shifted our objectives to somewhere we didn’t need a plane to reach. Boomer and Sarah pulled some strings with their friends in Baffin and secured us a boat! About 200 kilometers southeast of Iqaluit, surrounding the Grinnell Glacier, they had spotted some big walls during a kayak trip a year or two prior and thought they might be good for climbing. Angijuqqaaq, a beautiful mountain visible from miles away, stood among several striking peaks lining the coast. A short six-hour, gyrating boat ride southeast of Iqaluit brought us there. After being greeted by a polar bear in the cove, we decided to move down to another cove to unload. In this area, the mountains rise 2,000 feet from the Labrador Sea, offering incredible views of whales in the ocean below, the Grinnell Glacier, polar bears around your tent, and the occasional rabbit.
Initially, I was skeptical of the rock; it looked different from the granite I was used to. Since no one had climbed in this zone before, we had no idea what to expect. We set up our base camp on a patch of tundra near a glacial stream—perfect for keeping the beers cold. Although it was already 2:00 p.m., we wanted to at least go touch the rock. We racked up and set out, starting up the cliff nearest us. We meandered through 5.8 cliff bands until we reached the steep headwall we’d all been eyeing. Up close, we realized we were in for a treat: solid granite with bomber cracks! We climbed through untouched splitters, and about three-quarters of the way up, I asked Boomer what time it was. “Midnight,” he replied. I was stunned by how much light still filled the sky. “We can climb forever!” I said. Around 2:00 a.m., we topped out and decided a short shiver bivy was in order before we figured out how to descend. We named the route The Power Nap—5.10, 12 pitches (Grade III)—with some perfect tundra nap ledges.
After a day of rest, we set out to tackle the line that had brought us there in the first place: a beautiful prow on a silhouetted mountain face. Boomer had noticed it from satellite images and some of his own photos, and it looked promising. We started from a small glacier, climbing out of a rock scar and working our way over and right toward looming headwall splitters. The quality of the cracks amazed us. For a ground-up first ascent with minimal preparation, it felt a little like Faffin in Baffin—14 pitches, around 5.10.
IIt was a memorable climb, and the summit felt rewarding. A stillness floated around us, as if we were the only ones up there, guided by a system of cracks. But it was time to conquer Angijuqqaaq, a prominent peak where we’d spotted our next line.
We returned to the cove where we’d first encountered the polar bear, and since the coast was clear, we moved up and around the glacier’s crevasses. From there, we started our steepest and hardest climb: Polar Frenzy. We chose cracks that seemed to lead where we wanted to go, moving up and away from the glacier. The route got progressively more challenging, with enjoyable 5.10 and 5.11 cracks that needed a bit of cleaning. Climbing over roofs, around corners, and across slabs, we were in high spirits. At one point, Erik dislodged a trundle the size of a car—the biggest either of us had ever seen. After hours of climbing, we reached the top of Angijuqqaaq, feeling on top of the world. Polar Frenzy—5.11, C2, 12 pitches (Grade V).
All in all, the zone offers an incredible mix of adventure and beauty. Just watch out for polar bears and the frequent rockfall.
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