In July 2025, Heather Smallpage, Kelly Fields, Shira Biner, and Natalie Afonina traveled to Baffin Island in the Canadian Arctic for a five-week, human-powered exploration of the island.

In part 1, Heather breaks down how a far-flung expedition to Baffin Island was exactly the kind of reset they were after. This is part 2 of their journey.

***

“I found myself in a wide pitch at midnight, looking out onto a river of clouds flowing through a glowing fjord. Laughing, crying, in disbelief—at the fun, the scenery, at the pure fact that I am here, I am living right now. I felt disbelief, questioning how it is I am here now? Then I believed it. This is real. That climb offered the perfect balance of safety but being on the edge.”

– Excerpt from Heather’s journal.

This balance has been something I’ve become more aware of, how life cannot exist without it: Duality. Night and day. In a physical sense, the Arctic showed me how both night and day dictate our lives, and how much space there is for other perspectives when we allow ourselves to understand how we exist within this duality. Light and dark is in everything—it is in us.

I feel like there is such an emphasis on the light in the culture we live within. The good, the progress, the beauty, the joy. As someone who is a natural optimist, I try to live my life in a way that is always open to this light. Yet it has taken a few years to understand that I cannot exist in a state of brightness without recognizing that it cannot exist without the presence of shadows, too. In this life I have built for myself, we fly close to the sun, and it shows us colors, energies, and beauty that has no place for words – and sometimes it burns us.

My first experience with unexpected grief came when a close friend to many in my community suddenly passed in a climbing accident. Followed by another. And suddenly every few months was another passing, another close call, another shattering and rebuilding of our humanity. The depth of pain that emanated from our friends’ deaths was a reflection of our love for these people.

Every day I try to respect and admire the places I experience and be intentional with the life I’ve crafted for myself while making space to feel the pain and grief that doesn’t ask for permission, but shows itself nonetheless. If I have learned anything, it is that shadows cannot exist without light.

I had hoped going to Baffin Island could be a chance for me to reconnect with the wildness of nature, and that the remoteness might offer a reset to my grief—another opportunity to see my own resilience. It felt like a no-brainer that this would be propelled along in our female+ team. I had so many expectations that this would be it for me: my big break, the deep connection to myself, the earth, and the women whom I’d be sharing this adventure with.

It wasn’t until a few weeks into the expedition that my expectations slowly started to align with reality. Not only was it my expectations that had let me down, but it seemed my teammates, too, were struggling with the misalignment that what we each thought would happen, in fact, wasn’t happening.

There were unspoken expectations about how to treat each other, and a belief that you can treat people without respect because of the extremes of being isolated in this environment. There was an attempt to be hierarchical, hiding behind the excuse of experience, but ultimately based in ego. We weren’t communicating, and we weren’t connecting. The stress became an excuse to strip away the very things that would have allowed us to connect with each other: our humanity.

I had to accept the reality of the situation. 

The influences of society had followed us to the far reaches of the globe. These days, it seems to me that people make their judgements and decide how much worth and respect someone deserves based on their achievements, or what is showcased on social media. I’ve noticed how our true selves get skewed over the screen, and how much of a division there is between people because the way we connect keeps getting farther removed from our own flesh and bone. I struggle when it feels like there are abundant opportunities for disconnect, disrespect, and a sureness in our own views, without attempting to consider other perspectives.

Where has our wonder gone? How is there so much space for hate? Where is my humanity in this?

***

I steadied myself on a chunk of sea ice bobbing and rocking in the ocean. We were navigating a small section of ice break-up on our way to Ayr Pass. About two weeks into the expedition, we had just climbed Eglinton Tower and established the first technical rock climb in the area, a 600 m route we named Lemnos in the Clouds (5.11 A0). We left base camp to give ourselves the best chance of traveling on the still-strong ice.

Here I was, on a precarious piece of sea ice in the Arctic Circle, contemplating my own humanity. An already challenging environment to be questioning my worth, and having just experienced one of the defining moments of my climbing career, I was shocked and confused to be feeling that way.

At this point I let go of my expectations of connection, respect, and joy for the group. I reframed my perspective and asked how I could best be there for myself? Who is the person I want to be, and how can I be that person in an environment as challenging as the Arctic? How can I see my own light? How can I be my own rock?

After moving the grief around my body (over a grueling moraine pass, 5 times), I didn’t have to look far to start answering that question. I looked to the ground on which I stood.

“Heather! I am out here too. I love that my name exists in the world. Standing in a field of Arctic Heather, I felt at home in myself; I heard the plants saying, ‘Ah yes, another one of us!’”

“I feel like I’m entering into a phase of heart; of abundance of joy, love, connection. On the brink of something that feels deep. It’s been a hard while of just going through it. Accepting the hardships and grief. Being more hurt, confused, insecure, and trying so hard to find fleeting moments of joy and connection. I have held grief in my body for a long time—and I can feel it moving on. I move, therefore, I am. Grief is me, and it moves as I do. So is this joy that’s coming, that I hear in the bird’s song.” – Excerpt, Heather’s Journal

I let go of my need for connection with everyone in the group. Instead, I found it in the earth, in those who shared my perspective of being who we are, and eventually in myself again. Once I could feel I wasn’t alone, that I had a friend in the plants and certain people, I was greeted again by my own resilience.

If there’s anything grief has taught me, it’s that it moves. The more we moved, the more I leaned into these other ways to connect.

I am a slow mover, no longer interested in rushing to hold onto moments of joy that slip through my fingers before trying to grab the next. I find it when I slow down. When I stop to hear the world around me and become a part of it; when I listen to others to hear them, not to simply respond; when I lose myself in the magnitude of hurt that is out of my control, I turn in and cradle the mind of the only one that is in my control. I turn off the distractions and focus on what I know to be true: myself.

For me, there is no point in running from this grief. Without it, there would be no joy. It seems I’ve learned this lesson over and over, and I’ll learn it again. I’ve learned that grief does not ask for permission. It’s often not in our control. Yet the opposite is. Joy is something we can choose to practice, even if it feels impossible at times.

Getting better at balancing these, or at least understanding the waves they come in, has let me become someone I’m proud of, to be in love with, and to spread care throughout my life and my community.

“I feel in touch. There’s no choice not to be in connection with it, moving through so much land, water, air. I feel grateful to move slowly through it. To be observant and aware, alert and open.” – Excerpt, Heather’s Journal

***

Editor’s note: In July 2025, Heather Smallpage, Kelly Fields, Shira Biner, and Natalie Afonina traveled to Baffin Island in the Canadian Arctic for a five-week, human-powered exploration of the island. In total, they traversed more than 300 km of ice, rock, and water by ski, foot, and boat and made history as the first team of female+ individuals to establish an alpine-style big wall in this area.

–

Guest contributor Heather Smallpage grew up in Wisconsin where they explored the many lakes and rivers, which instilled in them a deep appreciation for the natural world. They moved out west after graduating from the University of Minnesota, and have been pursuing adventures in the vertical world ever since. They are non-binary, a climber, a singer, writer, and lover of loons. You can follow along with their adventures and find more of their thoughts and writings on Instagram: @hsmallpage. 

Photography courtesy of Heather Smallpage, Natalie Afonina and Kelly Fields.