We sail on, landing in the softening sun at the village of Ukkusissat, settled in the shadow of a 4,300-foot granite peak.

The entire town of 180 has come to the dock to meet us. It's a happening; the ship will stop here less than a dozen times all summer, and few if any other tourists will find their way here. Groups of children get to go aboard for their first glimpse of elevators and Sony PlayStation.

One woman handles a small table set up for handicrafts: a few carvings in the local soapstone and one of the intricate beaded collars that are part of a woman's traditional dress here, and still worn at confirmations and holidays. A dead seal lies to the side, brought in by a 12-year-old hunter who has shot more than 30 in his young years.

An informal parade takes us to the small schoolhouse - 26 study here - for a welcome and square-dance-like performance, executed in the summer uniform of jeans and Nike T-shirts. Several homeowners invite passengers for "kaffe," more social occasion than meal, where we nibble on sweet bread amid the family photos of a simple but modern home. Greenlandic rap sounds from the tape player, courtesy of a teenage daughter who will soon go to Denmark for a year's study.

Most of the boys leave school as teenagers to hunt and fish, we're told by Janus Kleist, one of our expedition staff. Last winter he taught in a nearby village even smaller than this one. The boys, he says, see little value in school as they grow older. Yet as fishing schools dwindle and many kids move to cities, some settlements will close - and that lifetime of local knowledge about fishing and hunting will have limited use in an unfamiliar town.

For now, those skills equal endurance.

Down at the dock, the seal has been skinned, to be used for a child's winter jumpsuit or a jacket or the trim on the tall boots that are part of the national costume. Meat has been taken off for cooking. All that remains are the spine and a few entrails - a coveted raw snack for the children lingering nearby.

For those of us who buy our meat vacuum packed and our fish filleted, this earthiness is off-putting, even grotesque. Yet as we witness on a blustery day from the ease of our ship, even in summer the Arctic can be a sadistic mistress. Squeamishness is the luxury of a society that offers take-out.

Some days we spend at sea, chatting with fellow travelers and catching lectures by the ship's knowledgeable expedition staff. For hours we stand on deck, awestruck by the icebergs that drift around us. Towering sculptures pierce the slushy flats: blocky shelves, Frank Gehry-esque twists, Disneyesque castles the size of, well, Cinderella's castle. Some chunks stand as tall as 150 feet. It's mind-boggling to realize that roughly seven-eighths of the ice lies beneath the water. Andrew Marshall, one of the expedition staff, and I figure the math; the larger bergs must be about 10 million cubic meters.

They are miniatures compared to what we see just a few days later, at the icefjord at Illulissat.

If Greenland has a tourism mecca, it's Illulissat, home to a half-dozen souvenir shops and food options ranging from hot dogs to surprisingly yummy pizza to Chinese noodles. The reason isn't the fine historical museum or picturesque waterfront church or history of cod-fishing, diminished since the waters here cooled in the 1960s and the fish fled to Iceland.

The attraction is ice.