Expand Your XC-Ski Experience: Greenland’s Arctic Circle Race
By: Jan Guenther
Searching for more cross-country ski excitement? There is adventure to have on your skis in Greenland!
My experience at the Arctic Circle Race in Sisimiut, Greenland is why I love winter and skiing. Pushing my boundaries in sport, physically and emotionally, builds character, heightens awareness of life outside work and adds a fun experience to my ever-shortening time on earth.
If you love to travel and prioritize cross-country skiing, consider signing up for the Arctic Circle Race and the chilly paradise of Greenland!
Sisimiut is located on the west coast of Greenland roughly 50 miles north of the arctic circle. The race starts and finishes in Sisimiut and boldly claims 29 years of producing the “World’s Toughest XC Race”. The race length IS challenging but specifically, the weather and the event structure is where the fun and toughness originate.
Each year, more than 190 participants from 20+ countries converge in Sisimiut, from Olympic champions to local Greenlandic citizens. It is a remarkable mix of outdoor lovers united by snow, cold, and shared determination.
The 160km three-day event unfolds as a 52km ski from town to a Base Camp on Day One. Day Two is a 57.9km undulating loop starting and finishing at Base Camp. A 50.8 km return journey back to Sisimiut comprises Day Three.
The Arctic Circle race logistics are staggering. Beyond managing constantly shifting snowfall and temperatures, volunteers build the entire tent city from scratch, setting up 75 North Face tents (three racers per tent) and shoveling away fresh snow from tent entrances. A Piston Bully hauls sledges full to the brim of participants’ luggage including extra skis, food, clothing, sleeping bags, and reindeer skins. Volunteers also transport and service a container of enclosed portable toilets for 400 racers and volunteers. They set up the timing system, start and finish lines, and build both the food and the drying tents which double as staff sleeping quarters. Police, firefighters, course marshals, and a small army of other organizers round out a volunteer-to-racer ratio of nearly 1:1. Prerace safety and course presentations by students from nearby (tiny) colleges and towns illuminate the local excitement of hosting outside visitors. The scale of effort required to support us racers was humbling.
It is obvious the ARC has evolved into one of Greenland’s most significant annual events. In many ways, the race is more about those who make it possible than it is about the skiers. The entire event is an embodiment of Greenland’s rugged wilderness, intense weather, and the enduring strength and culture of its Indigenous people.
The adventure began the moment the seven of us Americans landed at Sisimiut’s tiny airport. A prop plane ferried racers and ski gear from the tiny military outpost of Kangerlussuaq. A 30-mph blast of wind under angry grey skies nearly knocked us off our feet as we collected our luggage outside the terminal. I lugged a heavy ski bag carrying two pairs of skis (my waxable classic and my skins) plus two pairs of boots (classic and ski-athlon), two pairs of classic poles, back up wax, and a lot of warm clothing. My friends stared at me with careful neutral expressions — no one wanted to be the first to admit concern — until one leaned in and whispered, “Are we actually going to ski in this?”
Ah, the contrast. The following morning delivered brilliant blue skies, crackling cold subzero temps, and much-improved attitudes.
The Race.
I confess, this was my second time at the ARC. The first was 13 years ago and I wanted to share this colorful adventure with more skiing friends. A few memories from my first trip include befriending a wonderful group of American doctors from Dartmouth. One was a neurosurgeon practicing in Chicago whose talents included removing a tumor from an ape in the Lincoln Park Zoo and who belted out an operetta during the closing ceremonies of
the race. I remember the boisterous Russians who snored loudly in the nearby tent and explained how Moscow was home to several broken-down Piston Bully snow machines due to missing parts. I remain amazed, true to Russian lore, on their ability to laugh, nibble on whale blubber and drink their way through the races.
The shimmer of the northern lights on clear nights did not disappoint but the surprisingly warm weather during my first Greenland visit was absent. I now realize warm temps made my past three-day race experience significantly easier; I had finished each ski with enough energy to linger in the winter sun, wax up again and feel competitive for the next day’s event.
My 2026 version of the race was different —from the perspective of perhaps the oldest participant at age 66.9 — and is best described as SLOW and COLD. Of course I was again, utterly captivated by the surrounding beauty. The wild and rugged expanse of snow, ice, and open space grips something deep within my soul and holds my attention most of my ski.
More deeply than 13 years ago, I skied while in awe of the jagged landscape and the fjords defining the coastline. My mind tries to imagine a life of dog sleds and fishing boats within the Greenlandic people. I felt genuine gratitude: for the ability to travel to Greenland again, for the hard-won knowledge of how to dress for cold, and for the reminder that the discomforts of home look entirely different when you are standing in the middle of the Arctic.
Day One began under sunny skies yet eventually delivered a rude reality check. The ski was longer, slower and colder than expected.
Before the gun launched the start of 199 skiers, pictures were taken, inhabitants from Sisimiut’s old folks’ home waved little flags of various nations and town gawkers filled the stadium. All participants were laden with a backpack stuffed with a puffy jacket, an extra pair of mittens or socks, snacks to supplement the aid station offerings of bread squares, chocolate, and energy bars, an emergency kit and a cup clipped to the outside for grabbing warm energy drinks along the course.
The race started and the skiers followed a parade-type course up and down a short alpine hill. Spectators cheered until we skied out of sight and into the vast emptiness of snow-covered land.
The race followed a circuitous groomed route to the Race Camp, where we spent two bone-chilling post-ski nights in tents. The chosen living arena (a location which changes yearly depending on snow conditions) is encircled by the white-capped, jagged peaks that jut dramatically from Greenland’s vast and open landscape. This temporary village becomes an oasis where racers and volunteers warm up, eat, rest, and take care of those who need extra help on each race day.
Day One took me 5 hours and 15 minutes to complete. A time which is nearly two hours longer than the average classic American Birkebeiner race and highlights how challenging this course truly is. I skied alongside my American acquaintance Tom French, whose experience of summiting Mt. Everest had given him an unrelenting ability to simply keep moving forward, one step at a time. I was happy for company — but humbled I could no longer keep pace with younger skiers.
My energy was spent after crossing the finish line and yet there was no reprieve. We still had to locate our sleeping bags in a pile of snow, arrange them within a cold tent and change out of wet layers. I eventually found my bundle of clothing among 198 other piles of gear. I trudged to the warming tent and plopped down on the plywood floor underneath the canvas cover to recover. It seems that being of an “older age” required me to take a moment to rest my aching tendons, stretch my stiff joints and recover for the evening organization ahead. Eventually, I made my way to the neighboring food tent, warmed a bag of Indian food over a camp stove and shared a hot cup of tea with others while swapping ski tales.
Sleeping attire for a night at -19°F included a caribou skin to insulate my base pad, two sleeping bags (double bagged!), long underwear, mid layers, a Gore-Tex shell jacket, gloves, and a hat. Luxury, Arctic-style.
Day Two meant 7.5 hours of cold classic skiing for 58km on squeaky slow snow and very hilly terrain. Yikes! Volunteers in orange snowmobile suits dotted the landscape at crucial junctions, always smiling and ready with a hug when asked. The views continued to be otherworldly and the snowmobile support extraordinary — together they made the experience feel almost transcendent; an enormous expanse of land and snow showcasing a volunteer and their sled, brightly dressed against a white background, perched on top of a rock spire, waving their arms and singing.
The morning and afternoon were full of plodding forward: uphill climbs which required a lot of herringbone technique, a few descents steep enough to demand ski removal and long, grinding stretches of double-poling. I skied into camp late afternoon feeling quite the mix of emotions, joy of accomplishment and bone tiredness.
The evening routine consumed my remaining energy: changing layers again, boiling dinner water, locating my chocolate dessert stash, teeth brushing, face washing, and the nightly puzzle of untangling one sleeping bag crammed inside another. Remarkably, I slept soundly and totally missed the northern lights which were captured by friends.
Day Three brought the final 50k ski — and a storm. An earlier start was scheduled to move everyone ahead of the deteriorating weather. Whiteouts rolled in and out without warning. Many of us cycled through the same futile eye glass ritual: swapping to yellow lenses, then clear, then giving the goggles a good wipe, certain that better visibility was just one adjustment away. It wasn’t. More than a few of us nearly skied off the edge of the Piston Bully tracks into the whiteness. At times I simply trudged on skis or snowplowed from one red-tipped stake to the next, hoping the following marker would materialize before I lost the trail entirely.
The storm made plain just how serious Greenlandic weather can be — and we were relieved when clouds lifted on our descent towards Sisimiut and we could view the finish line. By that point I was managing a boot blister on one toe and a persistent stabbing pain between my shoulder blades. The discomfort most likely stemmed from sloppy technique on the uphill climbs. I just did not care anymore; I wanted to be done.
Crossing the last finish line delivered a specific kind of satisfaction: thankfulness for my health and strength to finish and the nostalgia of aging. I felt every one of my years and I knew there would never be a third ARC for me.
The event final unfolded slowly and beautifully all afternoon. Skiers trickled in one by one, chips were collected by volunteers who were quick with a warm drink and Inuit words of congratulations. A posse of snowmobiles swept in behind the last finishers as the light faded, closing the course for another year. Gear was hauled back to the hotel, boots finally removed. And then — the shower. Hot water, steam, silence. Simply wonderful. I relish such hard-earned feelings of contentment.
That evening, our small group gathered for dinner. Each of us held personal and shared stories of perseverance, gratitude, wonder for the Greenlandic outdoors and thankfulness for having participated (and finished). The real reward of an event like the ARC is not the well-earned finisher’s medal, it is the shared love of the great outdoors, the adventure, and the challenges of working hard.
I returned home reminded of why living a life of contrast matters. Difficulty vs ease. Cold vs warmth. Focus vs relaxation. At every age I have embraced a life which asks much from me yet always, the outcome is worth the struggle. I must continue striving for adventure and challenge in sport even when my pace lessens and activity is redesigned. I must keep embracing the mental endeavors that push my boundaries of predictability and uncomfortable things. Doing so will keep me sparkling with life. (Plus, I own a lot of gear I must continue to use!)
If you’re a skier who desires more than skiing groomed trails and familiar loops, the Arctic Circle Race is your answer. Start planning now.
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