Expand Your XC-Ski Experience: Greenland’s Arctic Circle Race

April 8, 2026

I fully believe that contrast forms the composition of our lives. We thrive on the good stuff, we coast on the easy stuff, yet the difficult passages are what make us grow.

Searching for a bit more excitement than skiing circles on machine-made snow? There is adventure to have on your skis of any style; classic, skate, back country or more. Explore all you can do with winter and skiing. One of those places is 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 my character, heightens my 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 artic 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 (grooming machine) 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 needed required to support us racers was humbling.

It is obvious the ARC has evolved into one of Greenland’s most significant annual events and highlights this remarkable dedication of volunteers from many Greenlandic communities. 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.

We settled into the comfortable Sisimiut hotel, explored the town, arranged ski waxing. We chose not to bring an iron and recently racers could purchase ski service from ‘Lars’, a Star Wax sponsored seasoned, Greenlandic skier who appeared confident in his waxing abilities. We tested the trails, resisted the irresistible urge to pet wandering sled dog puppies, and dove into dinners featuring reindeer, musk ox, and whale — or, for the less adventurous among us, salad, and fish roe.

The Race.

Day One began under sunny skies yet eventually delivered a rude reality check-long, slow and cold.

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 participants 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 a tight-knit community — an oasis where racers and volunteers warm up, eat, rest, and take care of those who need extra help on each race day.

I confess, this was my second time at the ARC. The first was 13 years ago and I wanted to share this amazing experience with more of my 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 cold nights was and remains predictable but the surprisingly warm weather during my first visit was not. During my previous visit to Greenland, I now realize above freezing temps made every race much easier; I had finished with enough energy to linger in the winter sun, wax my skis and feel competitive for the next day’s ski.

My 2026 version of the race was different — experienced from the perspective of perhaps the oldest participant at age 66.9 — and is best described as SLOW and COLD. Of course I was 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. Helpful thoughts for my non-conforming psyche.

Still, Day One took me 5 hours and 15 minutes to complete. A time which is roughly two hours longer than the time to finish the American Birkebeiner race and a glimpse into 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.

The ski was longer, colder, and far more draining than I remember from my previous experience. My energy was spent after crossing the finish line. And yet there was no reprieve. I skied directly towards the shipping container which housed the wax crew and Lars. I requested to have the kick zone shortened on my skis. (I contributed a portion of my slow going to ski drag!).

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, 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. Yikes! Cold squeaky slow snow and very hilly terrain. Volunteers in orange snowmobile suits dotted the landscape at crucial junctions, always smiling and ready with a hug when asked. Yet 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 forward motion: 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 a wave of emotion: joy of accomplishment mixed with utter exhaustion.

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 strange, specific kind of satisfaction: health and strength to be able to finish 160 km of racing; age, feeling every one of my years; and nostalgia because 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). We were a bit battered and deeply satisfied. 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 genuine adventure, and the quiet knowledge that we worked our body hard to complete a genuinely difficult goal — on purpose, with happiness and satisfaction.

I returned home reminded of why living a life of contrast matters. 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.