Skjoldungen Fjord is an Arctic oasis. The mild climate in this area allows for lush vegetation, enhanced by clear streams and rivers. All around are gorgeous open valleys and mountains that rise above 2,000 meters: a picture-postcard idyll. But this breathtaking landscape serves as a backdrop to hostile terrain. In the 1970s, the only Inuit settlement in the area was dismantled by a government order. Prohibitive conditions made procurement of supplies and subsistence impossible for the inhabitants. In 2015, the adventurer Mike Libecki completed the first ascent of several routes that stand out in the area, but he was obstructed by the ice pack and didn’t have time to make any attempts on Droneren.

There it is at last, right in front of us, 10 years since it was last visited. Droneren’s northwest face soars up to 1,980 meters, untouched and dazzling in the warm sun, further feeding our ambitions. At the sight of the wall, the rationality we’ve imposed on ourselves is briefly overcome by exhilaration. The approach is not the easiest, and besides, we need to consider our available resources: the storm has depleted them more than it should have. After a few hours of rest, we toss our gear over our shoulders and set off. 

We go up the valley floor and then climb over moraines and firn fields until we’ve passed the glacier that lies immediately below the wall. Shortly after we get ourselves organized, a huge boulder breaks away from the western area and crashes spectacularly at the foot of the wall. We respond to this welcome by deciding to stay on the central pillar, the most exposed part. The next morning, I identify a line that cuts right up that pillar. The starting point has been established; all we can do now is cross our fingers and hope for a window of good weather. In reality, we know we don’t have much chance of climbing in the next few days. Taking advantage of the last day of good weather, Matteo and Symon are able to put up some fixed ropes on the first part of the wall. After two days of bad weather, Alex and I have the honor of continuing. We insert four shallow peckers in the most complicated sequence of the route (7b), where the cracks had disappeared. It’s not the hardest, but it is one of the most aesthetic pitches I’ve ever equipped in my life.

The second stretch of bad weather allows us to process what we’ve completed so far. While we wait for the sky to clear, we meet a group of curious visitors from a cruise who’ve come to see us at base camp, offering us a case of beer. But our time is running out: there are just five days left to finish the project. We don’t even start the third attempt. During the night, a significant amount of snow falls on the summit, and sheets of ice form on the wall as well. During the fourth attempt, a piteraq suddenly rages, causing dozens of rocks to roll toward us. One of them cuts the rope that Symon is climbing on. Fortunately, he’s fine; he’s still clipped in. The storms that have struck throughout the expedition, and the destructive effects of the wind, remind me of the passage in The Odyssey in which the Greek hero’s companions open the wineskin in which Aeolus had enclosed the winds, unleashing the wrath of the elements. We have the feeling that the gods of the sky don’t want to let us achieve our mountaineering season’s goal.

For the umpteenth time, we beat a retreat back to base camp. In a few hours, our mood has plummeted, as have our chances of success. We’re now faced with a decision that we’d considered before we left but that would inevitably ruin the expedition to some extent. Should we return to Tasiilaq immediately, or allow ourselves one last climb and then recover in the middle of the ocean, given the limited time available to return to Tasiilaq? We choose the second option, ready to gamble everything on a final attempt.

With the fifth attempt, we go all in. We have only three days left to climb to the top of Droneren. To be precise, two days to free the new pitches (nearly 500 of the 1,200 total meters of the route’s length) and a full day to finish the route, rappelling down safely. Now the sky seems to have finally calmed down. Symon and Matteo advance quickly on the virgin surface, while Alex and I carry the two inflatable portaledges and the rest of the ropes. On the wall we move as a real team, energizing each other. That day, we put our hands on the rock and realize our dreams. We’d never pushed ourselves so far before. Falling asleep under the stars, which finally seem to align, is an indescribable thrill, accompanied by that feeling of excitement that precedes something big.

The following day, it’s Alex’s and my turn to lead operations. On the last part, the snow from the previous days has settled in, creating a section of mixed climbing that is treacherous, to say the least. Thanks to Alex’s endurance, we make it through the last few pitches as well (35 in total), leaving the rocks below us. We pass the large ice cap almost without realizing it — so great is our eagerness to reach the highest point — and, with a cry of relief that takes our voices away, we shout our joy. The summit of Droneren! Needless to say, the view from up there will stay with us forever. From the Greenland ice cap to the towering mountains and, beyond, the Arctic Ocean. Our gaze keeps wandering, lost, unable to stay still. According to Matteo, it’s a picture worthy of the horizons that only Cerro Torre can provide. We begin to descend under the last light of the day, returning to the bivouac. Our bodies don’t want to think about resting; the adrenaline rush continues for several more hours. As the day comes to a close, the distinctive green wave of the northern lights paints the sky above us. In a few hours, failure has been transformed into a resounding success, one that nature is also contributing to — an unforgettable life experience. Our route is quickly christened: “Odyssea Borealis”!

But the expedition can’t be considered finished until we get back to Ithaca. After our triumphant return to base camp, we learn that it’s not possible to go back directly from Skjoldungen. We must paddle for another three or four days, covering at least half the distance to Tasiilaq. While we’re preparing our kayaks, a polar bear approaches, coming within a few dozen meters of us. He is powerful and intent on making our acquaintance, but we have other ideas. I fire a couple of shots into the air to drive him away. The third one has the desired effect.

The last few days of navigation proceed smoothly. The undulating motion of the waters gently accompanies our fleet of kayaks. As we proceed northward, the intensity of the wind diminishes and we begin to glimpse the fjords of the Irminger Sea. Our “Pillars of Hercules,” marking the limits of the known world. During the night we take turns on guard duty, worried that we might run into one of the polar bears we’d encountered (the one we saw near base camp at the wall was not the only one). After several attempts, on the 32nd day of the expedition, someone comes to pick us up. Our odyssey to the far north ends here, but it lives on in this story and in our memories!