I woke up late this morning (if that were possible, as we don’t know what time it is). Due to tomorrow’s portage over Turnback Canyon and the Tweedsmuir Glacier, we won’t be in a hurry to get anything done today. It’s colder in camp compared to the previous days, and as we emerge from our cozy sleeping bags, we see why: the clouds are low on this overcast morning. Breakfast was pancakes and sausage, and seeing how I no longer get to indulge in pancakes, this was the day to break that rule, so I have FIVE of them!

The boatmen, after packing more of our gear, were off to catch a nap. Caroline and some of the guys are playing Oh Hell while I’m hanging out with First Light Frank, who’s drying his boots by the fire while I take notes about the trip.

The weather quickly changes from cold and overcast to relatively hot, with splashes of sun starting to fall on camp. I can’t tell you where the morning went, but somehow, it’s already lunch, and the boatmen have turned on the grill to make us hot sandwiches. For a moment, I thought I was still full from the pancakes, but then I bit into a sandwich, and sure enough, I was hungry. With the addition of lettuce, tomato, and avocado, along with some melted cheese and potato soup, I’m reminded how much the diversity of food lends luxury to these river trips.

At home, I’m president and founder of my virtual reality company, but out here, I’m a guy on a river trip. I collect wood, water, and experience. I shit in a can and piss in the open. I get to choose who and if I want to talk with anyone. I do not have to explain anything, take a call, or be accountable to anyone other than the small group that is experiencing the same freedom and burden. If I need help, there are 13 other people who all seem equally enthusiastic to lend a hand.

There are wealthy people, people doing well, and people on social security and pensions. None of that matters because we are all sharing this moment in the here and now. There are no distinctions of place in society or the economy other than the boatmen who own skills requisite to our safety that give them a responsibility none of the rest of us can assume. So, in some ways, the boatmen are the executives, and we are their hired staff, except that we are paying them to be here to keep us away from the routines of our normal lives.

Mid-day we went out on somewhat clearing skies for a hike towards Turnback Canyon in front of the Tweedsmuir Glacier. Five years ago, we took this same trail, and at the same place, my vertigo and fear of exposure stopped me from traveling forward. So once again, we’ll hang out and have some time to intimately explore the details found next to a pond that is slowly emptying into the Alsek River. First up was a massive grizzly print reassuring us that we wouldn’t necessarily be alone.

Also, five years ago, we stood just about right here and watched a spectacular calving of the glacier. From the appearance of the ice now, it’s obvious that the glacier has stopped moving and is shrinking as the dust and dirt that commonly travel with the flowing ice have been accumulating to form soil over the ice, and what ice is exposed is stained black.

Caroline found a caterpillar, the noxious and deadly Caterpillicus deathtropia species that, with a brushstroke of a single hair, can paralyze a person, while when bitten, you will certainly be dead in minutes. My fearless wife removed its poison sacks and defanged it so we could cuddle with this soft, furry-looking caterpillar that probably doesn’t have any of the attributes I described above, but you never know.

The tree in death will remain here long after we leave and was here before we ever laid eyes on it. Five years ago, it was sitting in the same place, and if you click here, you’ll be taken to Day 9 of our previous visit to the Alsek River; scroll down to the 4th image, and there it is. This old fragment of the tree that once stood somewhere else and reached for the sky played home to birds and insects for a time until the day came when it was uprooted for one reason or another. It was ultimately transported to this small pond next to the Alsek in front of the Tweedsmuir glacier and remains on view as a reminder of its life. What artifacts do we leave behind for others to remember us? I’d wager no one would randomly wander by our final resting place and contemplate where we’d come from and what our purpose was. Maybe if I leave enough words and breadcrumbs about the existence of John and Caroline Wise, some random passerby will stop on these pages and wonder, who were these people?

The world in close focus is full of immense details that can easily be overlooked when trying to see the bigger picture, while the bigger picture wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for those things simultaneously unseen.

We were half expecting a giant grizzly to step around this corner at nearly any moment. Instead, all we had was the creeping beauty that kept oozing out of the landscape or reflecting in the water.

The slow, constant flow of water feeds the moss, the moss turns to slime, and out of the muck arises life.

No, seriously, think about it: you have light, water, minerals, and a few other things I’m forgetting to mention, which are the very building blocks of life.

Another erratic with a stowaway erratic riding on top of it.

On the trail back to camp.

This was another trip where the only people I saw get down and commune with flowers, fungi, and furry caterpillars were Caroline and me. To think that the details found in a single flower cannot illicit the attention of those who may just as well inadvertently step on its beauty remains astounding to me. I could imagine some tiny bug on one of these petals looking at us and shaking its head in astonishment that we are so occupied seeing the flower that we don’t take time to see the bacterial life abounding on the hairs before our very eyes.

Because the world needs the color of lavender.

Back at camp, it was time for some personal hygiene for a few of our fellow campers, and the rushing water of the Alsek held great appeal for some afternoon bathing. Caroline and I were part of those “some.” To wash those parts that are most typically snug and warm and so infrequently seen by the sun with water so cold it is close to becoming ice if it weren’t for its momentum is a bracing jolt of cold reality. The fortitude to step into the cold rushing liquid is admirable, and now, away from the water and the assisting hand Caroline and I were able to offer one another, it seems like there is more strength on display by going solo and briskly stepping into the water and not murmuring a sound compared to me barking in a falsetto voice for Caroline to stay nearby in case I needed a hand.

The kitchen was coming alive as some sun found its way through the clouds and, with it kicked up a slight breeze that was big enough to clear the camp of mosquitos. By dinnertime, most everyone had shed a couple of layers and finally ended up in the Alsek for a rinse.

Pre-dinner drinks started with Caroline opening the 10-year-old bottle of Laphroaig Scotch we brought from Haines. During the trip, she’d imbibe on Port Chilkoot Distillery’s 50 Fathoms Gin, Jameson, Bushmills, Fireball, and Dale’s Pale Ale. To say that my wife becomes a river lush may not be too much of an exaggeration, though, to be honest, she “usually” doesn’t get started until dinner time. After cheese and crackers, cashews, and pickled asparagus, we dined on spaghetti with sausage mushroom tomato sauce, garlic bread, and a spice cake with cream cheese frosting for dessert. Our second dessert was this spectacular blast of sun sliding to the right.