It Has Fallen Snow in Nuuk
A light blanket of snow has settled over Nuuk, not enough to disrupt daily life but just enough to soften the city’s edges. In these moments, the familiar sounds of the city are muted, and for a brief interlude, I can hear my own breath slicing through the crisp air. Standing at my doorstep, I lace up my running shoes, which today sport a new accessory: tiny spikes strapped securely beneath the soles. These are my small shields against winter’s unpredictability, promising steadfast traction as I venture out.
(Photo: Oscar Scott Carl)
One Step at a Time
I set out towards what many in Nuuk refer to as “The End of the World.” It may sound dramatic, but this spot—at the edge of Qinngorput where the roadway yields to the fjord—represents a boundary where urban life wanes and nature reigns. It’s an ideal destination for anyone seeking to reconnect with the essence of being alive, perhaps even a humbling reminder of our fragility in the face of nature’s vastness.
Today, I opted to leave my Apple Watch and AirPods behind. I want to experience my run from the inside out, to immerse myself in the sounds of the wilderness rather than the lyrics of popular tunes. The first few strides are an adjustment; the spikes scrape against asphalt where the snow has already begun to melt, triggering a delicate balance between caution and momentum.
When the World Opens Up
I glide through a winter wonderland painted in muted shades of gray, with the sky heavy above and snow flanking the roadside. The distant mountains loom as dark shadows beneath a light quilt of clouds. Each breath I take stings the nostrils and emerges as a vapor in the cold air. A few kilometers in, those initial spikes start to feel like a natural extension of my feet. They sink into the snow and creak beneath my weight, and soon enough, I find myself placing my trust in them—much like one learns to forge a relationship with the wild.
As I continue, the road hugs the coast, and here the wind shifts—sharper, direct. Below, the fjord stretches out, dark and calm, while across the water, the mountains of Nordlandet begin to reveal themselves. It feels as though the world is expanding and contracting in tandem.
(Photo: Oscar Scott Carl)
At the End
Upon arrival, I can’t help but pause, struck by the view before me. The road stops abruptly, and the ocean sprawls wide and blue—a panorama so compelling that it demands stillness to absorb it fully. I take a deep breath, feeling the wind tug at my jacket. Here, at the “End of the World,” there’s no agenda, only a moment to be reminded of how small we are against the grandeur of nature.
(Photo: Oscar Scott Carl)
As I head back home, I contemplate the transformative impact of a simple pair of spikes on my stride. Not merely in a physical sense, but mentally as well. They allow me to embrace winter a bit more, shifting my perception of snow and ice from barriers to merely another surface to navigate. Each run toward the end of the world teaches me that boundaries, much like the seasons, are not fixed; they shift with the snow, the wind, and our own resilience.