Polar Bears, First Ascents, and Rockfall: Getting Out in Baffin
"Boomer explained the game of flying in Baffin—it’s basically roulette."
Kylus Hart
I think we all remember the first time we saw a picture of Baffin Island. For me, it was a moment of disbelief—"What the hell, that exists?" Ever since then, visiting Baffin Island has been a pipe dream. That dream lingered until I unexpectedly ran into Sarah McNair-Landry and Erik Boomer in Zion National Park. Initially, I was a bit aggravated, noticing a group below the route my partner, Arthur Herlitzka, and I planned to overnight on. As we approached, a guy came down from the base and said, "Hey, morning guys! If y’all are headed towards this route, you can go ahead!" I asked, "BOOMER?" He replied, "KY?" It turned out I had met this lovely couple years earlier on the rivers of Idaho, though I had never seen them on a rock before. They were working on their hauling skills for their next Baffin trip, and I agreed to give them some pointers if they would share the bivy ledge with us.
The four of us set off with high hopes, hauling bags full of beer, gear, and a dead tree.
That night, the four of us shared the ledge and a fire made from what was left of the tree, swapping stories of our past trips and adventures. Arthur and I talked about big walls in Zion and Yosemite, while they regaled us with tales of Baffin Island and the Arctic, describing the incredible potential for big wall exploration that still exists in Baffin. We were hooked. That night, we made a plan to make it happen. As Baffin Island planning goes, it took two years to bring it to fruition, but we 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 the game of flying in Baffin—it’s basically roulett. 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 km 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, is surrounded by many aesthetic 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 quickly on down to another cove down to unload. In this area, the mountains rise 2,000 feet from the Labrador Sea, offering excellent 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 much different from the granite I had climbed on before, and since no one had ever climbed in this zone before, no one knew what to expect. We established our base camp on some soft tundra near a glacier 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 had all been eyeing. Up close, we realized we were in for a great trip. This granite was solid, with bomber cracks! We continued climbing through untouched splitters, and about three-quarters of the way up, I asked Boomer what time it was. "MIDNIGHT," he replied. In shock at how much light still filled the sky, I was energized. "We can climb forever!" Around 2:00 a.m., we topped out and decided a short shiver bivy was in order before figuring out how to descend. We named the route The Power Nap—5.10, 12 pitches (Grade III)—featuring excellent 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 running down the face of a silhouetted mountain. Noticed from satellite images and Boomer’s photos, it looked promising. We started up from the small glacier, beginning in a rock scar that we quickly climbed out of. Working our way up, over, and right towards looming headwall splitters, we were impressed by the route’s quality cracks. For a ground-up first ascent with minimal preparation, it felt a little like "Faffin in Baffin"—14 pitches, around 5.10..
It was a memorable climb and the summit was rewarding a stillness floated around us for we were the only things up here guided by a system of cracks but it was time to conquer Angijuqqaaq a prominent peak where we spotted our next line.
We returned to the cove where we had met the polar bear prior and the coast was clear so we approached up and left around the crevasses on the glacier. From there, we embarked on our steepest and hardest climb: Polar Frenzy. Picking and choosing the cracks we thought would lead us where we wanted to go, we ascended. The route gradually grew more challenging as we climbed up and away from the glacier, finding ourselves in enjoyable 5.10/5.11 cracks that just needed a little lovin’ and scrubbin’. Climbing over roofs, around corners, and across slabs, we were having a great time. Erik dislodged one of the largest car-sized trundles either of us had ever seen, and after many hours of climbing, we found ourselves atop Angijuqqaaq, feeling elevated. Polar Frenzy—5.11, C2, 12 pitches (Grade V).
All in all, the zone is incredibly suitable for exploration and leisure. Just watch out for the polar bears and the frequent rockfall.
