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November 18, at pm. I was nervous about Upernavik. I landed on a Saturday, and there was no option to leave before Thursday. I hoped that I would like the place and I did, very much. I walked around in a heavy fog, looking for the hotel-restaurant my guidebook promised. I pitched my tent on a very high hill, near a giant satellite dish. I cooked elaborate meals on my camping stove and drank whiskey to keep warm.
I wore all of my clothes to bed every night. It was always a relief to rediscover feeling in my fingers and toes in the morning. After a lot of bothering, he finally let me into the old cooperage to shower and shave. The building had been recently renovated to function as a studio for artists. The last artists to live there were two women from North Carolina. They left their long hair in the shower drain and two inches of cold standing water in the stall.
I cleaned the drain and took my shower. I descended the rickety staircase between my tent and the town about a thousand times, always pausing to admire the sawed-off head and hooves of a musk ox, drying on a rock. I walked the perimeter of the island twice, once clockwise and once counterclockwise.
I saw the remains of an old turf hut, barely visible in the grass. I met a Danish doctor who was staying in Upernavik for a month-long residency. He worked mostly out of the hospital, but sometimes did overnights to the smaller settlements, scattered up and down Baffin Bay.
