Howling winds are today’s alarm clock, and they are also our nemesis in getting our gear packed without it flying away. After employing the strategy of using trees as a windbreak and then moving over to help others, our camp is soon packed up, and we are ready to push the rafts back onto the water to start our day of moving a little further downriver in search of our next stops and ultimately camp.

Maybe I’ve repeated this one too many times already, but the idea that we are experiencing summer feels elusive. On the other hand, my imagination of the winter conditions says that if it were, in fact, that time of year, we’d be experiencing fiercer winds, temperatures dropping into the deep negatives, and would find most rocks and waterfalls covered in a thick blanket of snow and ice. Should I ever have the means, I could see coming through here some cold January day when light is as precious as warmth to snap a few photos of what this corner of the world looks like when no one else is present to witness it.

Throughout our journey southwest, we are presented with this abundance of glacial ice and snowpack; we are, after all, in the drainage of the largest non-polar ice fields on Earth.

Looking at this image not only am I once again struck by the size and scale of our environment but also our insignificance in comparison. I enjoy the opportunity to dwell on the details that allow me to consider the dirt-and-debris highway that rides atop these glaciers. Boulders that become erratics and moraines that are left in the glacier’s wake, granite that is pushed around, and surfaces scrubbed bare are the handy work of time, ice, water, and grinding weight that transforms ice into the blue hues we stand in awe of.

Our liquid highway today has been cutting through the Fairweather Mountain range and had us passing the enormous Novatak glacier, which, if I’m not mistaken, is that massive sheet of ice in the far background on the left. Like all other days, we needed to make a pit stop to collect firewood, though we hung around long enough to grab lunch at the same time.

Not only was this a stop for firewood and lunch but it was also the spot that would serve to take a hike from.

We were heading to get our first glimpse of Alsek Lake. Cresting a small hill on the fairly worn trail, a gaggle of geese on an iceberg became a skein as they departed, flying close to the lake’s surface.

We humans, on the other hand, are surface-bound but happy to be here. Our arrival at Alsek Lake, though, is a bittersweet moment as it signals that our last campsite of the journey is about to be had. Caroline’s beanie is a clear indicator of what is on our horizon: Yakutat Coastal Airlines is the company that will fly out to Dry Bay to ferry us back to our regular and ordinary lives as compared to these days of the extraordinary and exceptional.

A cluster of huddling mushrooms will never know my world, and I can only observe them in their natural environment for minutes before my attention is taken to the next observation. These photographic memories allow me a revisit and study them to finish contemplating just what it was back on this particular Saturday that intrigued me about these fungi, pulling my senses their way and, in a sense, asking me to immortalize them.

From a view on high, this chilly corner of the world is monochromatic, but on closer inspection, the full palette and vibrancy of the rainbow are scattered about for those observant enough and willing to invest their time to explore such sights.

Every other day when I’m in the world I call home, I repeatedly see the same roads, same kitchen, same office, and mostly the same faces, so when I find scenes such as these, I must capture them so I may gaze upon them repeatedly as well.

We lounge lakeside with some visitors indulging in short naps while I restlessly meander across the area, looking to fill my memories with as many mental snapshots as I’m able to hold. What I can’t bring back is how the impressions of bear paws create a sense of alert that one could stroll by at any minute. The feeling of the air and the sound of icebergs rolling over, echoing across the water before the ripple laps at the shore, letting us know that it wasn’t a mere ice cube that was tumbling, will also remain a distinct remembrance. In a sense, I’m like one of those frozen water molecules out there in front of me, locked in a moment, except I’m trying to understand what potential exists for me once I escape the clutch of the universe that has trapped me in my current existence.

I’ve never seen moss move, nor will I likely ever have that opportunity. That I never will is okay because it affords me that delight in seeing it sit quietly and serenely as I inspect it, touch it, smell it, and fall into wonder how it knew that by attaching itself to something of such a strong contrasting color it would allow it to be all the more beautiful.

I’m an equal opportunity connoisseur of things beautiful and hold rocks in high esteem.

Time for the two-legged animals to trace their way back to the rubber crafts that allow them to traverse water from above instead of within like normal water-going creatures.

Just because we must return to find new adventures and even more sights doesn’t mean we don’t have to walk by and not appreciate those things we missed when we first passed through.

Their colors sang to me and, like Sirens, lured me with their song and enchantments though fortunately, I escaped without having to encounter a kind of aesthetic shipwreck at the price of being drawn to them. Should you guess by now that I’m a romantic, your observation wouldn’t be wrong.

Don’t think for a minute that rocks do not also hold a special place in my heart. In my book, “Stay in The Magic,” I devote a healthy dose of love and appreciation for all things geological as we moved down the Colorado River through that stone temple known as the Grand Canyon. While the landscape here may be newer and worn differently, it is no less spectacular and serves as a powerful lesson about differences found between geological epochs and locations.

Does that look like a 10-story-high iceberg to you? It doesn’t to me either, but it’s at least that tall. Such are the tricks of scale played on the mind of the explorer in such exotic places.

It’s just amazing what boatmen do to make all of these experiences possible for those of us who have no other way of exploring this type of environment. While he’s finally out of silhouette and not laying on his back, hardly recognizable, this is Pauly, although under the hat, behind the sunglasses, and with his jacket covering his lower jaw, you’d hardly know it.

In Alaska, rocks know how to float.

We have arrived at our camp in front of the Alsek glacier and its lake. This will be our home for nearly 36 hours and if this were the extent of how we might spend a weekend just sitting lakeside with an occasional paddle out among the icebergs, we could be happy, ecstatic even.

While Caroline communes with the horizon, I pick up some of the details to ensure there are no gaps in our visual memories.

The skies above the Fairweather Range start to clear.

The rugged mountains and heavier coastal precipitation make for some stark snow and ice forms riding atop the range. Like waiting for the fireworks to begin on New Year’s or the American Fourth of July we are in anticipation of some particular clouds giving way to a rare sight: the top of Mount Fairweather, which is still shrouded to the right of this photo.

Starting to feel like it’s almost evening. To the right of the rafts lies the channel the Alsek is exiting on and the one we will take the day after tomorrow.

Dinner in the golden light of the Alaskan wilderness but Fairweather remains elusive.

So flowers must remain my constant visual companion as we wait for the big show. If you, too, had been here on this day, then maybe you also would be smiling with me as your memories danced with the color of mid-summer here at 59 degrees, 12 minutes, and 5 seconds north.

Moving towards the end of the day, the light remains spectacular.

And just as the surrounding landscape is turning darker, the clouds clear long enough to offer us this most beautiful view of Mount Fairweather. That beast is towering 15,325 feet above sea level and is one of the tallest coastal mountains on earth at only 12 miles east of the Pacific Ocean.

We close out the day around a campfire, warming our toes and enjoying the conversation of a day, a week, a life well spent. Tomorrow, the adventure continues.