The first time Caroline and I woke during the night, it was somewhere in the hazy hours of late, but the stars were visible through the dusky light of the northern summer night. The hope when peeling out of a cozy sleeping bag is not to spot a bear in camp. Instead, it is the wish to catch a glimpse of the northern lights; this wouldn’t be one of those occasions.
The next time we woke, our Scottish travel companion Willie was in the kitchen tending to the fire, about to put on some coffee. We weren’t done yet with this waking business and rolled over once more to enjoy the silence of the wilderness playing in the background while breakfast of French toast and sausage was being prepared for our culinary enjoyment.
Meanwhile, on BergTV, the waltz of the ice was turning into a vortex dance that appeared to be nature’s attempt to trap our rafts. Little does the universe seem to know that we are on a layover day, which will keep us right here at Camp Lowell, and so rafts are of no use to us. Though I shouldn’t speak too soon, as they are our pantry and ultimately our means of escape.
Watching ice melt in ice-cold water is the glacial region’s version of watching paint dry; then again, paint doesn’t reflect a vast landscape and beautiful sky as it rearranges itself in a constantly shifting display of its ability to float effortlessly in its space. The wind picks up, driving the ice over to a couple of nearby coves. The side effect of the wind is that it acts as a kind of mosquito repellent, making the cold wind coming off an icy lake a double-edged sword. With our heads now free of the pesky high-pitched engines of mosquito terror, we can return to BergTV. Some of the group have departed for a hike up Goat Herd Mountain.
The rest of us are sitting lakeside, watching ice dynamics as we await the next big berg event. Caroline is multi-tasking as she continues to knit a pair of socks she’s been making me; the goal is for them to be finished while we are still out here on the Alsek River.
The inflatable cruise ships are already free of their ice prison, ready for our departure tomorrow. The show doesn’t fail to entertain us as the noise of shifting ice and rolling unseen bergs captures our attention. In the background, a performance of hydraulic acrobatics is at work; we can only crane to see hints of bergs finding their balance again once they’ve pirouetted and bowed a curtsy to another passing berg. Even as the sun beats down relentlessly, trying to influence the geometry and placement of the dancing ice, we struggle to witness signs that something big is about to happen. This paint dries imperceptibly and slowly.
The hikers return early as high water levels stopped them on their way to encounter a mountain and the extraordinary views it offers. Just then, the action on BergTV picks up with a larger berg breaking up, sending a chunk over to another group to disrupt their tranquility in the glittering sun. Calm returns, but we will remain vigilant, awaiting the next bout of high-intensity adventure that is playing out in the lake before us. Vigilance was short-lived as, maybe due to today’s ever-present sun, naps were in the cards for nearly everyone or were contagious. Whatever the reason, Mr. Sandman visited us and took us away. Caroline somehow escaped our moment of shuteye and, upon my waking for what must have been the fourth time today, advised me that I had missed nothing, as the lake, too, appears to have napped.
Speedy little ants scurry about in the sand, and I wonder what their lives are like during the long winters. A fly has been sitting on my leg for more than five consecutive minutes; I think it’s looking at me like we’re looking at the icebergs. I tried to photograph a spider, but they move too fast, faster than the ants, and nearly as small.
While I was napping and just hanging out, contemplating life this afternoon, I was skirting around thoughts of how little and how much technology is present out here. At first, you don’t notice the absence of the online world because of how many cameras, Kindles, watches, and the sort are all around. Then it hits you that none of them are online, and four days into this journey, you’ve not heard a phone, gotten an email, or given a squat about what’s going on with social media. On the other hand, there are constant references to Google as though the entirety of information is within it. I suppose it’s easier to use it as a point of reference than to remember the article about an Arctic tern from a doctor attached to the University of Michigan back in 1987, and so we just point it out as having come from Google. Even without the online universe, it is ever-present. The notes I journal are intended to be married to my hundreds of digital images and posted to my blog upon my return. I jot down reminders of things to look for, like, “What is the name for the smell of wet earth?” – Google reminds me it is Petrichor after I get home. In this sense, our technology is now as integrated into our daily lives as much as we are dependent on clothing to deal with the various elements we encounter through our planet’s weather.
My profound love for this woman cannot be adequately shared through the many examples of all that she does for me. More often, it feels like almost everything is for me and little for herself; she is truly selfless. It feels as though she has asked me dozens of times today if she can get me something, do something for me, or give me a friendly nudge to put on some sunblock. She offers another smile, another hug, and yet another exclamation of her love for me. I’ll look over at her, knitting my socks, holding a needle pursed between her lips with her short hair blowing around her chin, and think about how much I’ve loved her for nearly 30 years.
I can hardly believe that she loves being out here in the dirt, wind, cold, occasional stink, mosquitoes, sunburn, the threat of bears, and peeing behind some small rock for a bit of privacy, but here she is, full of enthusiasm with enough left over to help me. With the occasional return of my sciatica, moving heavy stuff can set off excruciating pain for me, but there she is, helping me move my gear. She’ll take our clothes to the lake and wash them in the icy water and afterward, we help each other wash ourselves. This can be a small chore when washing with cold water while wind and mosquitoes trying to get in on the action, and so having someone nearby to lend a hand is one of life’s little luxuries out here in the wilds.
The first big laugh of the trip is about to be had. Willie and Keith went fishing for a chunk of iceberg for tonight’s drinks. With only one small berg near shore, they grabbed a couple of pieces of driftwood, small trees really, and tried to grapple the ice to shore. That ice was about 8 feet out, and they were as close to the water’s edge as could be, and still they could just barely hit the most desirable piece of a glacier that would exist today. Willie finally made contact and was able to bring that giant ice cube within less than six feet of shore, but then it hit gravel and was going to travel no more. What to do? Keith showed those of us watching this hunting excursion how to take a leadership position; he stripped down until he stood there naked from the waist down and marched right into that 34-degree water to secure the berg for hauling it back to dry land. Later, when watching our fellow travelers chop off chunks of berg for their libations, I can only laugh at the image of tonight’s ice being courtesy of a nearly naked man with the dangly bits aflutter harvesting bergs for a right proper inebriation ceremony around the campfire.
Notes from the Unit: Perched thirty feet above the camp sits the toilet, also known as the Unit. The view is spectacular, offering a full panorama of the Lowell Glacier and a great view of Mount Kennedy when conditions are right. Flies have found our little hideaway, but of course, they would, for while the view is nothing less than amazing to us, the occasional waft of the 18 pounds of other people’s shit blending with mine creates an aroma that must be as sweet to flies as the view is to us.
After my main order of business is done comes the cleanup. It is about right now that I have my first pang of anxiety as I dip my hand below and pray that my knuckles don’t come into contact with the poop mountain developing below me. Even getting the toilet paper together to begin this operation is a trick here in the wind because the paper wants to fold and twist like a flag, proudly announcing that this is my perch. Satisfied I’ve done the best I can, it’s time to light a fire to the paper evidence that I’ve been here. Next to the Unit is a paint can where we deposit the soiled TP. From there we grab the fire starter and do our best to burn away the trash. As for my own discarded fecal waste, gravity will merge it into an unsightly stew of shit, all multi-colored and of varied textures, a testament to how much fiber and alcohol consumption is in each of our diets.
Tonight’s dinner is being prepared in wind gusts of 25 to 30 knots. It’s so strong that Pauly has rocks on the pot lids, and Jill is holding down the serving table. While great for keeping the flying pests at bay, it wreaks havoc on trying to get through your meal while it’s still hot. Besides blowing sand, we dined on Caesar salad, al dente pasta with smoked salmon in a cream sauce, and toasted garlic bread.
With a Dutch oven-baked cake with frosting and sprinkles, we celebrated the birthdays of Sarge and First Light Frank. These two inseparable guys are some of the greatest people anyone could ever hope to have joined on a river trip; this is our third trip with them. Love them both.
An obligatory nightcap to a setting sun brings closure to another day on this river adventure.