From various sources we had heard that there are muskoxen not just in the north and east of Greenland, but in the south too. They lure us, entice us, seeming just out of reach. What a marvel it would be to set eyes on one of those striking animals that appear as though they have travelled through time from days bygone – the past ice age. Greenlanders call the umimmak, “the animal with skin like a beard”.
I first got to know of these prehistoric animals just 10 years ago, in a talk by Arctic photographer Florian Schultz, who shot an emblematic photo of three muskoxen bulls walking side by side in an advancing line, facing the wind in an evening snow drift. The low mellow light on their faces in a white-out landscape, their legs invisible, the snow wafting and coasting near the ground, their long, glossy coats of dark brown, chestnut, and sienna colours billowing and rippling in the breeze like mares’ tails, the pale downy wool on their saddle tangling the rose light. Their muzzles raised, these three musketeers look into the distance.
I was taken by this photograph and Florian Schultz’s vivid descriptions of these extraordinary Arctic animals. I guess it was then that a desire and longing took root somewhere deep inside to some day go and see them myself.
Although muskoxen have for a long time populated all northern coasts of Greenland, they are not endemic to the south-west. Possibly the ice expanse of Melville Bay prevented them from moving further south. Nevertheless a shred of unfounded, unreasonable hope has been glimmering inside me that, despite all implausibility, we might just see some while in Greenland. But really we are far too far south. Or so I thought.
We had been anchored near the “Serengeti” with its herds of caribou pouring and eddying over the hills into the fertile verdant glacier flood plains, like grey wood smoke over a web of meandering streams the colour of pearly aquamarine. Consulting the weather forecast, the charts, and our ideas and longings, we pondered whether to return south or carry on following the lure of the muskoxen further north. Seductively close by then, they were but a long day sail away. The dice fell in favour of finding those special animals — we’re all too excited to let the chance slip — so we set forth to retrace our wake out to sea, around a couple of increasingly mountainous and towering islands.
The first we see of the umimmak is a small herd with several young on a hillside above the sea while approaching the outer stretches of the Ivittuut peninsula. 15 individuals were introduced here in 1987. By now, the population is estimated to be around 800-1000. They stand out in the landscape like dark brown big boulders. We can discern several adults and a couple of youngsters.
We decide to head in and find a decent anchorage just around the point before a pebble beach and the backdrop of a stream snaking and curving through the lush basin of a valley that stretches towards encircling tall mountain rims. As we drop the anchor, we spot yet another muskox resting by herself in the stony riverbed, her dark coat showing prominently against the bright grey crystalline rocks.
Piling into the dinghy with our photo gear, we settle on the plan to split up into two parties so as not to approach the resting animal as a crowd. Accompanied by chirping snow buntings and Lapland longspurs, Alex and I track over the springy multicoloured willows, mosses and lichen in a wide arch inland. We crawl down into the riverbed after a bend and scramble downstream towards the muskox. Richard and Arnaud take the via direttissima.
We cut cross the river and find ourselves nearly above her, for she too has swapped sides. Backing off and retracing our steps, we traverse back and, trying to be inconspicuous, ever so slowly grope through the undergrowth and keep to the shadow of boulders along the steep slope of the river gully. Munching willows, scratching and scraping along the rocks on her side with visible delight, the muskox doesn’t seem disturbed, just attentive, when in the end she makes me out.
Their natural predators are wolves and men, the former of which don’t live here. Although muskoxen are hunted – or “harvested” – here to prevent overpopulation, they are not alarmed when they discover us.
Lying in a cloud of mosquitoes that feast on us, we watch the animal browse and scratch her body and neck to shed the thick, dense fine under-wool. It hangs in shreds between the long skirt-like glossy guard hairs that sway almost to the ground. The guard hairs protect the animal from the elements while also trapping the heat within the wool. Muskoxen wool, locally called qiviut, is said to be eight times warmer than sheep’s, and as soft as the pashmina of Kashmir goats. We dream of pullovers made of the stuff! Despite their name, muskoxen aren’t bovines, but have a sheep/goat ancestry, and their closest living relative is the takin of northern Tibet.
Later, we trek around the headland to locate the herd we had first seen from aboard the Atlas. We find them in nearly the same place as before. One large adult is lying on her side and appears to sleep, with her head periodically slipping down to the stream she’s lying next to. She reminds me of grandmother sat in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, nodding off, her head dipping onto her chest from time to time.
Across from us, three adorable young calves are gambolling about like playful little foals, while two adults graze. A sooty arctic fox stealthily zigzags across the scene and closes with one of the calves, who starts chasing it around. Entertained by the odd pair’s capers and prances, we are surprised when the entire group suddenly stampedes after them, disappearing over the side of a hill. The entire group, but grandma, that is.
Grandma lies oblivious and dreamy in her old spot. A long while later she slowly rises, sits up on her haunches and looks about sleepily. Without hurry, the muskox gets up, shakes her body, and follows the group in deliberate strides, her skirt billowing in and out with her steps.