"Watch me!" I yelled across to Hauke at the belay. I checked my crampons were secure on the basalt ledge, and swung my axe around the rocky corner. It cut through soft snow, and came out, momentarily pushing me off balance. I righted myself, and swung again; this time I felt the axe bite. I tentatively put my weight onto the axe handle, and edged my leg around the corner until I felt my crampon hit solid ice. A couple of moves later I was off the ledge, and into the broad couloir. Adrenaline surged; I felt fit and strong, climbing at my peak. I was the very first person to venture into this couloir; my head buzzed with the thought.

I looked out at the huge arctic landscape of ice and mountains. I could just about make out our tent, a tiny yellow dot on the ice. It seemed a long way off. We had left it at 10 that morning, our first day in Greenland, to attempt our first climb in the arctic. Between us we had a done a handful of climbs in Britain, a single alpine season each, and had a bit of Scottish winter climbing under our belts. And now we were attempting a first ascent on the edge of the Greenland icecap, 300 miles from the nearest human being. Mad? Perhaps.

Our intention that day had been to get up on to the ridge of the imposing cirque behind our camp and make a traverse of three striking peaks. We reckoned it would be an easy climb. We packed light and planned to be back by midnight. But several hours after I had swung off the basalt ledge, we were still in the couloir. We had been climbing for 13 hours. In the diachrome landscape of snow and rock it is very hard to estimate distance. What we had imagined would be a simple climb was rapidly turning into an epic, and we hadn't even reached the ridge.

"Runner in!" Hauke yelled down to the belay. I fed the rope through my belay plate, struggling to keep my eyes open. This was harder than anything I had done before, longer than any climb I had done in the Alps; I felt seriously out of my depth. I longed to shut my eyes, lean back on my ice screws and pretend I was back at home, doing something sensible. I turned to Chris, squeezed next to me on a small stance chopped out of the ice. "I'm fading, I need something to eat." Chris rummaged in the top of his rucksack, and pulled out a snickers bar, the last of our food. He broke the bar in two, and fed me chunks of chocolate as I paid out the rope.

Hauke made for a side-ridge that we hoped would lead to the first peak. The ice was steep, maybe 65 degrees, and every placement was a struggle. We couldn't tell whether the ridge would be a dangerously corniced knife-edge, or an easy path to the summit. Chris and I watched with anxiety as Hauke reached a steeper section, and then swung his leg over the ridge. He let out a whoop of relief. "It's good," he shouted down, "a huge motorway!"

At 4am we stood on the summit, watching the sun peek over the horizon. It was our first arctic conquest. It had been harder than anything we had ever done, but it opened out eyes. Anything was possible now.

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Write approximately 500 words about your first outdoor lead and supply an image of you climbing (not necessarily your first lead) and submit to: http://www.ukclimbing.com/articles/send.html

The competition will be judged by us here at DMM and the winner announced on Monday 24th December and will win a complete DMM rack worth £500.

But more than that, everyone who submits an essay will receive a spot prize.

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