Ski-touring on Greenland's west coast Leaving the crowded pistes of the Alps far behind, Will Hide joins a voyage exploring remote fjords and skiing on untouched mountains ©Christoph Gnieser/Oceanwide Expeditions The Rembrandt van Rijn, operated by Oceanwide Expeditions, in Greenland My next-seat neighbour on the flight, who had been silent since we left Copenhagen, suddenly burst into life as we crossed the east coast of Greenland at 36,000ft. Maybe it was the sight of the stark, black mountains near Tasiilaq - like lumps of coal dropped into a huge vat of icing sugar - that prompted him into breaking the silence. Or maybe it was the three cans of Tuborg with which he had washed down breakfast. He worked as a boatbuilder near Nuuk, and had spent summers here for more than 25 years, but - goodness, no, he snorted and laughed at the same time - there was no way he'd spend a winter here. "They all drink, you know, it's the only way you can get through the dark and the cold," he said, matter-of-factly, while cracking open a fourth lager and polishing off his scrambled eggs. IN Winter Sports He asked why I was here. To go skiing? Well, that was unusual, but, he told me, nothing in Greenland was really normal, and it was all the better for that. Just look out of the window, he said. He'd tried normal in Denmark and really it was all rather grey and dull and boring, so here he was. Unusual would be an understatement - my trip was about as far from a conventional ski holiday as it's possible to get. The plan was to sail along the west coast and up remote fjords on a converted herring lugger. Each morning we would transfer ashore, don touring skis, hike up the mountains and ski back down. Oceanwide Expeditions, the Dutch company that organises these trips, launched them last year and will send around 100 people here during a ski season that lasts from April to mid-May. After our Air Greenland Airbus landed at Kangerlussuaq, a former second world war US air force base, we transferred to a small, propeller-powered Dash-8. "Ha, more like a Crash-8," the boatbuilder had remarked in sombre fashion over his final beer. It was a 40-minute hop over stunning glaciers and fjords to the brightly-painted fishing and hunting village of Maniitsoq, cocooned by mountains that reach more than 2,000m above sea level. Here we boarded the Rembrandt van Rijn, a three-mast, 56m-long schooner, based in the Netherlands, registered in Vanuatu and with a crew whose origins stretched from Siberia to Patagonia. Her 16 en suite cabins turned out to be on the compact side of cosy but there was a large communal dining area upstairs and a library, which provided plenty of room to relax. ©Jesper Regin Using textured skins on the base of their skis, the group climb up from the fjord "We" were several groups of ski tourers and mountaineers, around 30 in all, mostly from Austria, Switzerland and Bavaria, ensuring a rich and guttural range of German dialects on board. After a safety briefing that included a drill on what to do if we encountered polar bears - thankfully, we didn't - we slipped languidly out of Maniitsoq's inky-black harbour. Having spent four hours in the small, ice-bound settlement of 2,600, during which the crew cleaned the boat after last week's guests, I was glad to skedaddle. Despite the attempt to cheer the place up with liberal use of red and blue paint, Maniitsoq seemed somewhat forlorn, even with the promise of long summer days ahead. Clothes flapping on balconies valiantly tried to suck warmth out of the early-May sun; prams rusted on paths and glacial meltwater gurgled down the main street near the Pisiffik supermarket. Two smiling Thai siblings served American burgers to Spanish and Scandinavian tourists at the main café. Everyone else seemed happy enough. Maybe it was just me, feeling far from family and home, despite being on the cusp of what anybody could rightly call a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Certainly I was more content to be cruising up fjords alongside rugged, snow-smothered peaks, accompanied by gulls, eider ducks and Brünnichs" guillemots with not a cloud in the sky. Offshore I kept my eyes peeled for humpback whales but they were further north in Disko Bay, or at least keeping themselves well hidden below the algae-dappled surface. On our first skiing day we gathered on deck with all our kit and provisions and were ferried in the inflatable Zodiac to a rocky landing site. Skiers divided into two groups - the more experienced setting off first, the less proficient taking more time to get ready. There is also an option to go snowshoeing for those who don't want to ski at all. Most of the Swiss and Austrians went touring in their Alpine backyard at least twice a week, and several were professional guides, so - after climbing out of the dinghy, clattering across the rocky beach in ski boots and attaching skins to their skis - it was not a surprise to see the more able powering up the mountainside and disappearing out of sight. While they raced ahead, I had the chance to stop, look around and take it all in: the contrast of the blue sky and the white slopes sinking down to the water's edge, the sense of space and peace and being cut off from the rest of the world. With our German-Canadian guide, Chris Gnieser, the rest of us marched upwards on a gentler slope through a valley, on one side of which small avalanches cracked and rumbled ostentatiously several kilometres away. Everyone wore transceivers and carried shovels, and Gnieser carried a rifle in case of polar bears. On most days the faster group climbed to around 1,500m, whooped down through the powder, then did it all again in the afternoon. Meanwhile, my slower group ascended to around 1,000m and skied down just the once. Ski touring is a contemplative pastime. Even when you're in a group, it can feel quite solitary. Rhythmically trekking ever higher, the heel of my boot lifting away from the ski with each step, in my mind I composed army marching-style songs when the terrain became steeper and my breathing more laboured. You're in Greenland, yes you are, keep on climbing, you'll go far. But otherwise, with no wind, there was silence save for the crunch of our skis on the snow. We ascended a glacier for a striking view out over the island and the iceberg-strewn sea, paused for lunch, and then turned tail to go back down, flying over the untouched snow. The half-hour it took to descend what had taken hours battling gravity in the opposite direction, seemed rather cruel. Back on board later that afternoon both groups collected to down a few beers in the sun and tell tales of the skiing. Then, we motored on to another bay for the night, with a fine meal en route prepared by the jovial Argentine chef. People gathered in groups to chat, some just read, or sat on deck, wrapped up in down jackets and woolly hats, staring at the mountains as if hypnotised. ©Will Hide The village of Kangaamiut One evening, as we cruised through a particularly scenic bay, a local boat, with crew well bundled-up against the cold, came alongside. We waved, they waved. And then they pulled out that most Greenlandic piece of hunting equipment - an iPad - to capture a picture of that elusive creature, the Greater European Ski Tourer. Photo taken, they waved again, peeled off and went back to their fishing. The weather didn't play ball all week - a trip to Greenland requires flexibility. One aim had been to try and land at Tateraat Sermiat glacier but strong winds prevented us from making the shoreline and plan B rapidly ran through to plans C, D and E, the latter being to admit defeat, put the sails up and make the most of the storm. The sun still shone though, despite the gale continuing to rage, as we cruised away from the glacier with the flag of Vanuatu flapping violently over the stern. Conditions did improve, and the skiing for the rest of the week was magical. A whole morning of steady climbing near the village of Kangaamiut was a highlight. Under cloudless skies, we zigzagged upwards past glaciers, reaching 1,500m above sea level. Any need for conversation with my fellow skiers was supplanted by a desire to just revel in the surroundings. And the reward? A wide grin and a long, nonstop descent on perfect snow, back down the broad expanse of a glacier to the shoreline. Best of all was the realisation that, apart from our group, the nearest skiers were thousands of kilometres away. Will Hide was a guest of KE Adventure Travel (keadventure.com), which acts as an agent for Oceanwide Expeditions, and easyJet (easyjet.com). An eight-day trip (in April and May 2015) costs from £2,895, full board and including flights on Air Greenland (airgreenland.com) from Copenhagen to Maniitsoq. Will Hide flew from London Gatwick to Copenhagen with easyJet, which has returns from around £53 More Arctic skiing Sweden Some 300km north of the Arctic Circle, Riksgransen is the world's most northerly ski resort. It's small but has a season that runs from February until June. riksgransen.se Iceland The remote Troll peninsula, just shy of the Arctic Circle in northern Iceland, seems to be becoming the new heli-ski hotspot. Five years ago, few people had ever skied the peninsula's peaks but this spring it will be home to three separate heli-ski operations. Longest established is Arctic Heliskiing, which ran its first full season in 2011 and is based in a luxurious converted farmhouse. Runs often start on mountain peaks and end on the beach. articheliskiing.com Norway Forty miles west of Tromso (the Norwegian city with the world's most northerly university - and brewery) is Lyngen Lodge, a turf-roofed hotel built by Graham Austick, a British mountain guide who made his name in St Anton. Each day, guests travel by speedboat from the lodge to different mountains, which they climb, then ski down. lyngenlodge.com Svalbard Only for the real hardcore: Basecamp Explorer runs five-day ski-touring trips on Svalbard. Guests travel by boat to Ymerbukta bay, then set up camp on the Esmark glacier, before hunting out first descents in the surrounding peaks. basecampspitsbergen.com Photographs: Christoph Gnieser/Oceanwide Expeditions; Jesper Regin; Will Hide