I woke up in a damp tent. Turned out that the lowland Caroline and I had originally set up on was not a great location, as the area must have had a low water table, which couldn’t be seen at a casual glance. By morning, the field had some obvious pooling going on. Lucky for us, we noticed some mushy spots where small amounts of water were collecting and decided to move our tent to higher ground before we went to sleep. After breakfast and packing up camp it was time to get back on the river as we had a good amount of river miles to cover today. First up, we had to finish the series of s-curve rapids; here we are, near the end of them.

Welcome to the Tatsheshini-Alsek Provincial Park in British Columbia, Canada – we have arrived. We were two hours downriver from last night’s camp before we pulled over to take a break, have lunch, and go on a short hike. Not much to see here besides the breathtaking view, snow-spotted mountains, spectacular colors of early summer, and the wild Alsek River slicing through it.

And back onto the river. Somewhere here on our journey down the Alsek, we learn that some of the turbulence of the river comes from the heavy load of silt that it carries downstream. What happens is that as the silt settles on the river bottom, it builds up temporary berms until the force of the flowing water collapses the underwater hillsides, and water crashes down into where the silt had been. We, of course, will never see this action, as the water is so turbid and full of sediments that as our rafts glide down the river, their rubber bottoms amplify the sandpaper-like sounds of a trillion grains of former mountains that scratch at our boats.

Every view is magnificent, every angle worthy of a photo. Deciding which images to share with you is more difficult than choosing the words to describe where we were and what we did.

This is the first hanging glacier that we’ve seen on this river trip; it is one of the faces of Mt. Blackadar. From Wikipedia: A hanging glacier originates high on the wall of a glacial valley and descends only part of the way to the surface of the main glacier and abruptly stops, typically at a cliff.

I am looking back upriver at Mt. Blackadar, named in honor of Dr. Walt Blackadar. Back in 1971, this adventurous doctor became the first known person to have run a kayak through Turnback Canyon, which is what we will be approaching shortly. We’ll stop well before that canyon, as it is not possible for rafts to successfully navigate the four miles of river that squeeze between the Tweedsmuir Glacier and a lot of rock. We would most certainly die if we were to try. Even in a kayak, one must be familiar with extremely cold water, be an expert in rollover recovery, and, as the doctor was, be prepared to die in your kayak. To read more about Dr. Blackadar’s Alsek run, check out “Fast & Cold: A Guide To Alaska Whitewater” by Andrew Embick.

We are about 65 river miles from where we began; this is home for the next two days. Seems like a great place to take a pause and enjoy the scenery. Behind the tent is Tweedsmuir Glacier, and to the left of it is the beginning of Turnback Canyon – no, this is not the end of our trek down the Alsek.

Caroline is helping Martha Stewart prepare dinner – no, it’s still not that Martha Stewart! Don’t let the daylight fool you, it is nearly 7:00 p.m. when I snapped this photo. Dinner got a late start, as making camp has been a more laborious bit of work today. Not only did we have to set up the kitchen and pitch our tents, but the rafts were pulled out of the river and dragged ashore.

We need to empty the rafts of all of their contents and then deflate the rafts, we are getting ready for a helicopter portage that will take place the day after tomorrow. After we break all of this equipment down, we’ll stack it up on netting that has a connection for a cable and hook that hangs from the bottom of the helicopter for picking up our gear and moving it 8 miles downriver.  Until then, we’ll chill out and admire the Tweedsmuir Glacier.

Our view of the Tweedsmuir Glacier is a pretty nice place here in British Columbia! Thanks, Canada, for the good times.

We must be approaching salmon country, as this juvenile bald eagle is the hint that good fishing is just around the corner. In Turnback Canyon, the Alsek can flow up to 25 miles per hour, too fast for salmon to swim through, so eagles have little reason to go much further upstream of here. Like this majestic bird, we have little to do but look around our surroundings.

From high in the sky to down here resting on a bloom, my gaze shifts from the mighty eagle to the fragile Northern Blue Butterfly, aka Lycaeides idas. On the day I was inspecting this guy, I had no idea what kind of butterfly I was looking at, nor did I know that between 75-80 species of butterflies live in the Alaska area. Want to know more about Alaskan butterflies before you visit? Try the pages of Mary Hopson’s TurtlePuddle.

Dinner is finished; nothing left to do but watch the river flow and hope for the glacier to calve off a new iceberg. If all of this sounds oh-so normal, forget it. Caroline and I are in a constant state of astonishment. None of this feels normal. There is nearly no way to give a sense of place while one is on this river. No single moment feels like any other. Not a single part of the scenery looks familiar, nor does it become so. Every minute is a new series of images and sensations that vie for a place in our memories. It is as though one were watching a 17-hour-a-day surrealist art film that continually puts on display an ever-changing motif. Just as the splashing flow of water never repeats an exact pattern, so does the rest of the environment that surrounds it. Long live bewilderment.

So it’s not a rainbow, but who cares? We’ve already had plenty of those. Now it’s time for a sun dog and a perfect end to another perfect day on the river.

The layover is over; time to leave Lowell Lake. As we paddle westward, it is a strange thought that our departure is hinging on finding a way through the ice. If the passage is closed, we either wait, or we portage. Lucky for us, we are able to find a thread to follow and are soon moving right along. It is a bittersweet moment. I was just getting a faint sense of Lowell Glacier, and now this might be the last I ever see of it. Disneyland, the White House, Yellowstone, those all feel easy to visit. They are relatively close and can be visited nearly on a whim. The Alsek is not traveled to and on as a spontaneous decision to just get up and go. Here we are in the third week of June, river season barely started, and in less than 90 days, winter will be greeting the stragglers who venture onto the river late in the year – way out in September.

We don’t get far before the guides decide it’s already time for a hike. Our landing spot is on the west side of the lake; the idea is to hike to an overview of Lowell Glacier so we will have the opportunity to “See it all!” Familiarization with one location often tricks me into thinking that the rest of what’s to come will be quite similar to where I’ve already been – wrong. We exit our rafts on what at other times must be lake bottom. I imagine that the pools we are seeing are one of two things: either they are depressions that hold lake water from waves that spilled into them, or second, maybe icebergs were stranded here as the lake level went down, and this is its meltwater.

We don’t have to walk far before the perspective change is so dramatic that I’m not sure we are still in the same relative location. Pay particular attention to the steep gravel hillside on the left of this photo; that is where we are heading. I’m confounded in places such as this; my thoughts are asking, “What’s wrong with this location?” I understand there may be something of special interest just over the hill, but when do I get the time to fully absorb this place? That giant mountain on the right is Goatherd Mountain, which the majority of our group hiked yesterday, with a few of the hikers making it nearly to the peak.

Funny thing about perspective: if I were a cell of bacteria, this yellow bloom might represent the majority of the universe I would ever know. As a human, I look out and try to comprehend my scale in comparison to what is extraordinarily large, such as glaciers, mountains, rivers, and the distance to a horizon. But that is often as far as we choose to perceive ourselves. What happens when we try to find scale when looking out into the universe? Do we somehow still believe that our star-speckled evening canopy is mere miles above us? Could we think it is just out of our reach, and so it’s not too threatening? And what of this tiny bloom? Is it too small and insignificant to demand our attention? How did the others walk by as though it didn’t exist and yet were so enamored by the largeness they were taming? Maybe that’s it; we believe the tiny has already been conquered and that taking control of the immense gives us a sense of power. So what of the thing that cannot be seen by the naked eye, the microbe, the mutation in our DNA or cell, or radiation that we do not control? A word of advice: When in the big, don’t forget to stop a moment and enjoy the small; it too can be immense.

What one doesn’t see in this photo is the tiny strip of trail between me and those hikers that has my vertigo saying, “No way, buddy, you’ve gone as far as you will today.” Caroline decides that she’ll trek back with me to keep me company while Bruce hands off a can of bear spray so I don’t have to try taking out a charging bear armed only with my camera. With Caroline acting as bait, we amble back to the rafts. The going was slow. The only problem with that was during the slowest progress forward, we would also be the quietest until we realized that a bear could be on the other of nearly anything around us. Time to sing. Somehow, Caroline must think Irish folk songs would keep the bears away; I’m thinking, “Well, maybe. There is that story about Ireland and snakes; come to think about it, have I ever heard about bear attacks in Ireland?” This could work. Seven Drunken Nights is the tune, and it goes like this:

As I went home on Monday night, as drunk as drunk could be
I saw a horse outside the door where my old horse should be
Well, I called me wife, and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me
Who owns that horse outside the door where my old horse should be?

Ah, you’re drunk,
you’re drunk, you silly old fool,
still, you can not see
That’s a lovely sow that me mother sent to me
Well, it’s many a day I’ve traveled a hundred miles or more
But a saddle on a sow sure I never saw before

With Caroline singing bear defense songs, I was free to turn my back on danger and focus on the easily unseen details. Granite with green lichen is a sight we don’t see every day. Well, some readers might, but I’ll bet they don’t see it with a giant freaking glacier on their side with the chance of being eaten at any moment by a fearsome grizzly bear that is probably stalking them right now. The other hikers are out of view, the rafts cannot be seen from where we are, and neither can the conspiring bears that lay in wait. Crank up the sixth verse, wife, and get on to singing about those two hands on her breasts that Saturday night when old, what’s his name, was drunk as drunk could be.

This beautifully colored red and orange rock grabbed our attention because it looked as though it had been struck by lightning. There, I heard it again. A noise in the underbrush has piqued our curiosity. What is that? A bear cub? No, it’s a full-grown moose about to stomp on us! Just kidding. I said, “Underbrush,” it was a bird. A very aggressive one at that. Each time we’d try to peer through the leaves, this invisible bird would flutter about, making a lot of noise, but never an appearance. Maybe it had chicks and was defending the nest; we quickly moved away to leave the bird to its parenting chores.

In the beauty of this glaciated land, even death and decay take on aesthetic qualities worth noting. Back on Day 4, we passed a moose skull that was an art piece in its own right. Today, it is the remnants of these flowers that tug at my curiosity and sense of attraction. The stems are nearly monochrome, with only hints of the golden yellow that for a very short time came into existence giving us a hint of what this scene may have looked like just a week ago.

Five cascades are on view in this photo. The mighty Alsek River is running up at the base of those mountains. The scene is enormous, but it is hardly a very wide panorama; it is but a fraction of what we were looking at as we turned from side to side and looked behind. Caroline and I are near the end of our hike back to the rafts. From here, we turned left and descended back to the lake bed for a quarter-mile walk to the lake’s edge, where the rafts were tied down. The third picture down from today’s blog entry is what’s behind us. Between the two photos, you are seeing about 60% of the view. To see it all would surely bring you to your knees, as it did us.

Goodbye, Naludi, you’ve been terrific. With Lowell Glacier quickly fading behind us, it is now time to turn our attention to what lies ahead. The only problem is there’s really no way to know what is further downstream. Wild animals, weather, an iceberg, or an earthquake could change everything. Maybe the lay of the river has been altered, and a new unrunnable rapid formed over the winter? We’ve already heard about the difficulties entering Alsek Lake towards the end of the journey; it is not unheard of to find ice blocking the entry points, forcing passengers and crew to lug boats and gear overland to complete the trip to the Pacific Ocean. Right now, though, none of that matters. This beautiful day suggests to me that this adventure will be nothing less than perfect.

I posted it because it’s pretty.

Little stones, big rocks, giant boulders, hills, cliff-sides, escarpments, and towering mountains that reach for the heavens are being broken down to pebbles, grains of sand, and finally silt. The components that make up much of the earth’s land surface are in a near-constant state of flux here in this corner of North America. Nothing is safe here from being ground down, tilted, shifted, thrust forward, or upward – the Earth is actively at work here. So I may be repeating myself here, but I am so taken by this idea that hundreds of millions of people might see the same movie next year, but I will be the only person on earth to have ever touched or seen this rock in person. Well, that just leaves me in astonishment as to just how big our world is, while our existence within our urban zones is so tiny.

After arriving at Sam & Bill’s to make camp, the first order of business is for us to unload the rafts. Then, it’s time to pitch our tents. With our sleeping arrangements in order, Caroline and I took a walk along a nearby stream. We didn’t go far due to the bear tracks that suggested one might be near. This landscape defies words to describe the spectacular sights we are experiencing. The best we can do while in these moments of awe is to pretend this is all just the most normal thing we could possibly be doing right now. But it is the furthest thing from normal. By the way, our tent is set up in a drainage; if it rains, I hope it’s not a flash flood that forces us to move into the river. What I liked most about our tent location this evening was the view right here from our front door.

What an exciting night, not a great one for sleep, but the sounds of icebergs rolling and the glacier calving was an experience that I hope to never forget. I’d tell you that we woke at the break of dawn, but it was never night; this is such a strange phenomenon. When we finally do shake ourselves from our tent, we see that we are apparently the first to emerge. Our first point of business is to head to the lake to see what changed overnight. On the right of the nunatak was this iceberg now showing part of its blue underbelly. The wave created when this giant started to roll must have pushed the other bergs out of the way because we have a beautiful view of this berg that was obscured last night. I wait, I sit, and I try to remain patient, hoping that it will continue its rollover. It didn’t budge.

Coffee was ready before the majority of the camp was awake. This is a time of day on river trips that I truly appreciate: while my senses are again focused and aware, the voices of the others remain silenced. The driftwood that had been collected yesterday continues to snap and crackle as the fireworks turn it to ash. I sip my coffee, look, and listen as details are found and bookmarked. Soon, others are stirring. I may never understand those travelers who wake with an explosion of energy that is best released through the gregarious noise of announcing they have arrived. Maybe it’s a biological holdover from our distant primate ancestors who reveled with loud celebratory screeching at the Sun that it indeed had returned to reanimate us with a new day. Surely, my ancestors were from a branch of life that did not draw attention that they were ready to sacrifice themselves as a meal to the next predator.

Today is known as a “layover” day, meaning we are staying put. Well not really staying in one place the entire day, but we are staying in the same camp for two nights. The reason for our layover is that our boatmen have a special adventure mapped out for us: we are to hike Goatherd Mountain. Only the “we” will be minus “me,” though I won’t be alone because fellow passenger John Hoffman has decided to stay back too. The hiking group gets started around lunchtime, the weather had been questionable up until that time. Caroline takes one of our cameras with her; a good thing we brought two DSLRs. Quiet once again overtakes the lakeside.

With the others gone, it was time to sit peacefully at the lake. For hours I watched the play of clouds hug and release mountain tops. In the distance, the roar of thunderous calving would elicit my standing attention to try and find precisely what was occurring; nothing could be seen. I walked the shore looking for a better vantage point for the next performance of ice ballet, but that spot was never found. As the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, the lake’s surface becomes a mirror, while the moments of silence are the mirror that reflects my inner voice. How does one question the enormity of what, in comparison, is actually a very small space, this lake and glacier of infinite detail that for the majority of time goes unobserved? How many fantastic scenes of beauty are never witnessed by the curious minds of those with the ability to recall and tell of the serenity that can be found in that which overwhelms our senses? I become smaller as I recognize the immensity of time and how nature does not care if it is the center of attention. How petty are we humans when compared to the generous magnanimity of our Earth?

Meanwhile, Caroline is high up the slope of Goatherd Mountain; that’s me on the shore far to the left! This overview represents approximately 8 miles from side to side and 40 miles of depth to the most distant peaks of Mt. Kennedy. From up here, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched that a massive wave could throw rafts up a hill; heck, it almost looks flat down there. Upon getting back home, it would be this view that we placed upon our desktops to bring us back to the Yukon and our Alaska adventure every day in the months that followed. Do not wonder if I am or was disappointed in not seeing this view. We humans cannot do it all, not even when right at the place to “do” something. While those who took the hike have this memory embedded in their imaginations, they did not see what I saw. How do we rank what is more valuable to our experiences than something else? How is amazing more amazing than amazing?

Orange lichen, because orange is way more exotic than plain old green, and this place is nothing if not exotic. Wikipedia calls this ‘common orange lichen,’ the contributor to that entry obviously does not live in a desert. The trail up and down Goatherd is not for those out for a stroll in the park; it is hard work. The payoff for your efforts are sights like these, though I suppose this might only appeal to those who are not only interested in the big picture.

Mmmm, Candy Mountain. I licked it and can attest to the fact that it is indeed taffy, stone-flavored taffy! Seriously though, this was part of Caroline’s hike on Goatherd, so to be truthful, I didn’t taste it, but she did and insists that it is just like candy. Oh, how I wish to be the all-knowing geologist with a scope of knowledge that could tell you (and myself) how these formations have come to be, but I cannot. If anyone reading this can offer up some insight, I would gladly plagiarize your comment in order for me to appear more knowledgeable than I am right now.

After my wife finished eating Candy Mountain, she got busy wearing down Candy Slope. By this time, I was starving back in camp. It was already after 6:00 pm when Caroline snapped this picture of what she was leaving for other sweet-tooths who might visit this sugar-laden sight for the eyes. My hunger was probably amplified due to my shivering. You may know that shivering burns a lot of calories, and I had good reason to be so cold. With Mr. Hoffman well out of sight and no one else around, I stripped down to the bare essentials, that being what hair I have on my body, and bathed in Lowell Lake. No, I did not go for full immersion; sadly, I could only stand in the lake for moments, just long enough to pour a few gallons of ice water over myself. Yowza, that was cold, but it was also exhilarating. Now fully adrenalized, I was ready to start washing up. Being the environmentally aware folks that we are and that we had a good amount of Dr. Bronner’s left from our rafting trip down the Colorado River, I got to lather up with spearmint soap. Now likely looking like a cross between Santa Claus and a polar bear with severe hair loss, it was time to rinse off. Back into the water with my bucket. Ooh, that water’s cold. Oh no, I still have bubbly suds in my hair, suds that a second bucket doesn’t fully clear away. My head is starting to shrink. This is like an ice cream headache I’ve never known; the entire skull is crushed in pain. A third dousing and I have to pause; I’m out of breath and squealing while small chunks of iceberg float by. Reduced in appearance to a sex-neutral, fat Ken doll, I go for the fourth and final rinsing. I am now squeaky clean and thrilled that at least this once, I will have had the luxury of bathing in a lake of giant ice cubes on a spectacularly sunny day while standing naked in the Yukon. I hope I didn’t just admit to breaking any Canadian decency laws.

One view is not like the other, nor is any view like another. Perspective changes, even small incremental shifts, have the ability to bring into focus scenes that leave us in astonishment that a head turn should deliver so much new to see. What is hard to see are the animals. Signs of them are everywhere, we see bear, wolf, and moose tracks, just nothing to attach them to. Good thing the sights are able to make up for it. Excuse me while I ooh and aah at the scenery while watching for bear.

It’s after 7:00 p.m. when the first wave of hikers re-enter camp; it will be another hour before the rest of our group comes home. While the fire is ready to start cooking the burgers and dogs we’ll be having tonight, we’ll have to wait on the others. Meanwhile, we are getting guests from a nearby group of campers who are on the same journey as we are. They arrived earlier in the day, see photo above, and are setting up camp just up the road. This is a favorite stop for travelers on the Alsek River as it is the first glacier encountered, and groups are well situated to take the hike up Goatherd Mountain.

With time to spare, I got right to work on Caroline, telling her how invigorating my bath was; she was hooked and soon followed my steps. Armed with a bucket, soap, and a towel, she’s just as eager as I was to throw off the clothes and take the plunge. Between my hysterical laughter and her yips of reaction to the cold, I manage to help slowly rinse away the soap. I admit that I languished in a slow-motion pour, allowing every drop of water to roll down her back as she believed there was still more soap to rinse off. Don’t go thinking I was mean about this, it is our normal.  If you asked her, she would tell you, too, that she wouldn’t trade it for anything. The piece of ice in the photo? I had to break that out of Caroline’s hair.

With nothing else to do, we meander up and down the shore. Both of us ensured each other that our day was nothing less than spectacular. Caroline tells me I’m lucky I didn’t go on the hike as my vertigo would have likely gotten the best of me; I tell her how lucky I was to have the day to watch the comings and goings of ice as it drifts across the lake. I also remember telling her of a particular attention-grabbing lake event that happened a few hours earlier when something large and unseen turned over. While I couldn’t manage a glimpse of precisely what it was, its effect was unmissable. Following the rollover, a large wave kicked up radiating from the iceberg’s location and sent a short foot and half-wall of water toward a nearby cove. The wave mostly dissipated before reaching me, but maybe even more interesting was the fluctuation of the lake level. Slowly, the lake level went down and then sloshed back up. Back down and then up again; this happened a good half a dozen times before leveling off again. I tried to imagine how big the iceberg had to be that could affect that much water displacement, especially considering that I couldn’t see it with all of the other icebergs that were blocking the view. Obviously, it wasn’t the biggest of the big; I can only wonder what that would have looked like.

In all our lives, neither Caroline nor I could remember our shadows having shadows. No need to correct me; I understand that one set of shadows are those made directly by the sun and the others from the sun reflected off the water. Enough of science; I’m going to stay in self-delusion and choose to see this as a special glacial phenomenon that only occurs on select days when the sun is in a particular spot in the sky, and enough ice melt has occurred. Double shadows all the way!

It took the other group of hikers longer than expected to return from their hike to the Arctic, not that it much mattered; sights like this satiated my appetite. As 10:00 pm approached we were finally sitting down for a bite to eat. After a cloudy start to the day, the long afternoon sun and the almost clear sky have been dreamy. We, too, have floated on the surface of perfection just as this ice has, the only difference being you can be sure we are not as beautiful as this amber ice jewel.

It’s not long before midnight when I snap my last photo. With countless days of adventure still ahead of us, it’s hard to let go of this one. The layover will be finished in the morning. We’ll pack up, and if ice doesn’t block our way, we’ll leave the lake for a new destination further downstream. I can’t help but wonder if I have really seen anything that was here.

We rise early in a place that doesn’t really have a night, and the new day may as well be a continuation of the one that preceded it. Without the fall of darkness, the sounds of the day do not take pause and so this day must be another part of the same day. The waterfall behind camp continued to roar as we attempted to sleep, the river in front of us maintained its chatter with the rustling tree leaves that danced to the winds and is still doing so now. There is no telling where we are truly going, how long it will take to get to any particular point, or if anyone should really care about anything more than the idea that here we are, and that is that. Time must have been persuaded to vacate the area. Only the second day on the river, and already I am losing track of how long this adventure has been unfolding, as though that mattered or had a bearing on what will occur as we pull our sleepy heads from the clouds and exit our tent for another glimpse of this beauty that extends beyond words.

All we have to do as humans is put ourselves into the path of life, where nature has the responsibility of crafting an earth that sustains, feeds, and entertains us while accepting our abuse. Out here, armed with paddles, rubber rafts, and cameras, we are no match for the strength of spectacle that is employed by the life that surrounds us. We are consumed by the immensity and are hostage to its whims, or we can be guests of its graciousness if we choose to see our humble place within it. This method and location of travel is rare; only a few brave individuals dare venture into these parts; maybe this is a testament to the dearth of character among people who are worthy enough to be allowed passage on such hallowed earth. But here I am, forced to take stock of what has put me here. How have I earned the right to make myself present in this cascade of the profound? Do others recognize their obligation to tremble in respect before the grandeur through which they travel?

Permanent death comes but once, but tiny deaths chip away at lives guided by routine. These types of adventures are opportunities to get off the treadmill, to go out and find that which has not been seen, at least by our own eyes. Most things that demand our senses to be focused on experiencing the unknown are part of an adventure. One mustn’t place themselves in harm’s way to know what the horizon looks like from a new perspective; we can also look up, look over, and look all around us right where we are. Open our minds to the idea that what we don’t know doesn’t make us stupid; it only suggests that we haven’t given something a try. Tolerance, love, empathy, and inspiring others are not weaknesses, they are the tools one requires to work on making ourselves better people. Some day, our walk on the trail of life will end, just as it did for this moose. Will the memory of our existence leave behind a beautiful treasure that speaks of what our lives may have been like? Or will the ashes of our memories be scattered like silt into the river that empties into the sea?

At the bottom right of this image is a hint of the “Braids” we will thread during this river adventure. Depending on the volume of river flow, the water that is rushing to the ocean will determine how much of the river bed is exposed. It is up to the experience of the boatman to find a channel that will allow our passage without running aground. One does not want to exit the raft in the river to help shift it forward; this water is cold, seriously life-threatening cold. Your effort to dislodge the raft may only see it getting stuck again a few feet forward, so it is prudent to know where the best channel is for safe passage. But, the deepest part of the river is not always the most desirable. What happens when a great opportunity arises that would give us access to an overlook where we can see sights such as what we are looking at in this photo? We then take a side channel, a braid, and keep our fingers crossed. Once committed to the narrow route, there is no turning around. In the distance at the foot of the snow-covered mountain, we are seeing hints of Lowell Glacier. For the indigenous people of this area, it is known as Naludi.

Don’t get lost in the expansive vistas, though; there is much to be seen in the cracks and crevices, too. What is it that entertains my sense of awe to look at a scene that no other human may have ever taken the time to stop and look at? Why must I typically go to a museum to look at patterns that are outside my routine when nature is painted with a vibrant pallet of colors gleaned from the visually stunning world of random chance? Maybe for those who are more desirous of the familiar, these are just some rocks and stuff. To me, this is the work laid down by the hand of nature only found in the passage of time.

And now the cracks. Look close, do you see the face? It is the most recognizable object one might see on this rock, but if you look even closer, you might find other motifs hidden in the lines and worn surface. This river valley was once part of a passage that the native people of the coast and those further inland used in order to trade. Hidden throughout this landscape may be the signposts left carved upon the earth by their ancestors, but with less than 200 of us a year traveling this corridor, the chance of finding those artifacts may take many more decades if we should ever be so lucky to find them at all. I cannot say this is a rock art panel with any certainty, but to my untrained eye, I see many things that nag at my curiosity as to what I’m really seeing.

We were only on the river a short time before we were exiting our rafts again. This stop will offer us an overlook with a birds-eye view of Naludi (Lowell Glacier). Even with people in the photo for comparison, it is not really possible to comprehend that the base of the mountain on the other side of the glacier is over three miles (5km) away. I sit here in silence for a time, trying to see it all, feeling that I am only seeing the surface of the atom, leaving so much more that will have to remain unknown and unseen. Should I ever return, I will be sure to roll around in the brush like a dog scratching its back; maybe then I will gain greater awareness that I’ve really been here. Looking back at these images, I stand in respect of those who have gone here and can hardly believe I was, in fact, one of those lucky people.

Welcome to the path you dare not cross. From our vantage on the hill and with my best zoom lens, this is as close as I could get to the glacier. This is a place of near-certain death. A frozen bulldozer of ice careens forward as it carves mountains into fine sand. It has no concern for those who might venture upon its jagged surface, and while one may get so far in their effort to cross its convulsive trail, there is no guarantee of being able to continue on your way or to be successful in finding a way back. Not to say there are no clues of those who have tried, as on occasion, bodies are found of indigenous people that were lost in the ice. For centuries prior to our arrival, they lived upon these icy lands and traveled its dangerous routes. The large rock formation is known as a “Nunatak.” Somehow, these rocks have withstood the abrasive forces of the glacier and forced the ice river to detour around its commanding presence.

Lowell Lake. Here, size matters. These icebergs are proverbial wolves in sheep’s clothing. The first thought in my head upon seeing icebergs was, wow, I want to see these up close. That is until you hear one rolling over, thunder explodes from the lake, and strangely enough, you will likely have difficulties even seeing where it happened. How, with such a great view, can you have a problem seeing it? Some of these icebergs are over ten stories tall, that’s how.

This is our wildlife sighting for the day. Wikipedia tells me the ptarmigan is of the grouse family and that here in North America, it is also known as the snow chicken. During the winter, the ptarmigan is white, some of that camouflage can still be seen. With summer in full swing, it is turning brownish to blend in with the low brush. It needs this cover to hide from its predator, the golden eagle. These birds are sedentary, which may make them some of our distant ancestors 🙂

The good fortune of a clearing sky is that we have this rare opportunity to see Mt. Kennedy in the distance some 40 miles (65km) away, which is also the location where Lowell Glacier gets its start. The mountain is named after President John F. Kennedy, but it was his brother, Robert Kennedy, who first summited the peak back in 1965.  Sitting up there at 14,000 feet (4,300 meters) is memorabilia from the President that Robert left in his brother’s memory. I took this photo as we were passing through a small rapid on our way to entering Lowell Lake.

We are at the lake and having our first encounters with icebergs. This deep blue, smoothly scalloped chunk of ice has recently rolled over. Under the lake’s surface, the flow of water sculpts bergs just as the weather above wears them down. It is this shrinking underwater part of an iceberg that creates an imbalance that ultimately contributes to the berg turning over. Due to this fragile relationship of which side is heavier at any given moment, there is great uncertainty as to when a shift in the wind or water current disturbs that fragile balance and over the iceberg goes. Inside of me is also a fragile balance of curiosity that wants to throw caution to that wind and make an approach to reach out and touch these glimmering objects of nature’s art.

The raft I was on was the first to weave its way through the ice gauntlet. This wasn’t easy and required some of us on board to help row, as the lack of current and strong winds made for a difficult passage. Care must be taken when passing ice; it isn’t easy to determine how much of it is submerged and out of view. The workout of dipping a paddle into the water and helping row is great for warming us in the wind. Between the time we passed through and the other two rafts finding their way, the ice shifted; it’s constantly doing so. This brought up an interesting potential situation: while we could easily enter the lake today, by the time we leave, it may not be so easy to do so. The exit could be blocked by an ice jam! Well, that could be interesting too because then we will learn how to portage three rafts, a bunch of gear, and a couple of hundred pounds of food.

This diamond of an iceberg is a floating jewel. I learned that it is clear because it is old ice, which is from the bottom of the glacier ice. The pressures it is exposed to is what has made it clear. It is in part, these information extras as to why we requested Bruce Keller to join us; this man is a font of knowledge. He explained how this clear ice forms and how the bottom of glaciers take on an almost malleable plastic nature when under such great pressure. Precisely, what was said is sadly lost in the myriad of details that were still and would continue to overwhelm me for the duration of the trip. What else is special about this mini-bergette is that just after taking this photo, Caroline and I plucked it from the frigid water to bring it ashore for cocktail hour. The boatmen had an ice pick on hand that was quickly within reach; you can guess we are not the first travelers to want to use Pleistocene-era ice in our refreshments. We chip into our catch to enjoy the oldest ice cubes we will likely ever use to chill our drinks.

Let the tears flow. From right here, our chosen campsite, while staying in front of Lowell Glacier, Caroline and I had our first encounter with an overwhelming emotional outbreak that drew the water from our eyes. Sure, we could have had a lakeside room with a view of the glacier, but it was this site that took my breath away. At this very moment, every element within this landscape converged to create the most perfect view that I felt I may ever camp before. A thousand-foot waterfall directly ahead, another taller one on our right out of view of this photo, snow-covered mountains, and the roar of a calving glacier on our left. Could it be any more perfect than this?

As it gets later in the day, Mt. Kennedy is still visible; the sun hovers low over the shoulder. The lake reflects golden tones, and the wind ripples its surface in silence. Icebergs travel at electron speeds in comparison to our full-stop halt before perching to absorb this view into our memories. Bruce tells us a story of how, on a previous journey down the Alsek at this very site some years before, the group heard a deafening roar; something big calved off the glacier. They had just pulled ashore and were getting ready to start unloading the rafts when they could see a large wave coming their way. The order was yelled to head up the hill to higher ground, in came the wave that thrust their still-full rafts 20 feet up the hillside depositing them right where we had set up our kitchen and more than a few of our tents. Now, it all makes sense why driftwood is scattered about the camp; this must be a rather common occurrence. Was this in any way frightening? Not a chance; by now, the sense of adventure is in full swing. I want to be ready for everything; it’s all just incredible. By the way, we had Thai food for dinner. Yep, life is something else away from the treadmill.