Falling Ice - A Season in Prince William Sound Alaska

Of Falling Ice

 

"No, it's just seasonal." I was responding to a common question in regards to my being a Forest Ranger aboard glacier tour boats for the summer.  I can see the quizzical look in her eyes and can already anticipate the next question.  "So, what do you do in the winter time?" she asks with sincere curiosity.  I'm sure she can see the smile start to curl at the ends of my mouth as I get ready for the punch line.  "I starve." I respond with a certain level of animation in my voice.  Her eyebrows raise.  She's an elderly woman from Kentucky.  Before she could answer I add "...But if you give me your address, I may need to crash at your place."  She smiles.  She got the joke.  After I explain that the Forest Service, or the Park Service as far as I know, doesn't give us a year round cycle of employment--that each job needs to be applied for.  Although I'm sure many seasonal rangers have secured winter gigs due to long acquired trust of their supervisors, for me it was my first season, and still a relatively unknown ranger.  In other words, feast or famine.  The woman offers me a room any time I want, as well as a free pass to Mammoth Caves National Park near her home.  I smile and give her my gratitude for the offer with the promise it may be considered.

I spent a season in Alaska, in addition to living in Anchorage, Ketchikan and Juneau.  I've been as far north as Barrow and seen the Arctic Ocean.  I've been as far south as the southern end of Revillagagedo Island where Ketchikan lies.  I've seen Tok, Homer, Seward, Kenai, Fairbanks, Soldotna, Sterling, Hope, and Trapper Creek, just to name a few.  But my season out of Whittier and the exploration of much of Prince William Sound as a seasonal Forest Ranger will likely be my most memorable. On these boats I may be guiding 50 to over 340 visitors on any given day, cruising a typical round trip of 140 nautical miles into Prince William Sound and seeing such historical places as College Fjord, Harriman Fjord and journeying through history as well as the notable signs of a land that shows effects of climate change like no other.  But nobody wants to talk about it.  So, I smile and press on.

The terrain is fascinating.  It's more like magical.  Every day I preach that this is a journey that we are on.  A historical journey.  A natural journey.  But really it's a personal journey.  I invite them early on in the cruise to open themselves up to that journey and enable the possibility of change.  For most, that change happens.  Only a remote few are too concentrated on playing cards and visiting the bar on board to notice that I'm even talking, or that there's a world they're missing. 

The weather is rainy today, so my narrative is limited to the low cloud ceiling and the windows are fogging up on the boat.  We head out of Whittier, and I pull out my introduction as a Forest Ranger and this journey we are embarking upon.  The waters are choppy today.  The mountains are shrouded in cloud.  We pass Poe Glacier to the left of us.  They can barely see the foot of the glacier as I explain it was named after Edgar Allen Poe by the U.S. Geodetic Survey in the early 1900s.  About 10 minutes later, we pass Tebenkof Glacier.  It was named for the last Russian governor of then Russian controlled Alaska Mikhail Tebenkof.   It's the largest valley glacier in Prince William Sound at 8 miles long and about a mile wide, but I don't mention it. They can't see it.  For now, the clouds will bury the glacier in unknown mystery.

A few days later, the rains have cleared and the visitors are rewarded with an amazingly sunny day with views beyond amazing.  They're profound where words cannot describe.  I emerge from my Forest Service bunkhouse, coffee in hand, and go for a walk in Portage Valley before my day's work.  I notice everything in this quiet valley.  Peaceful.  Alluring.  The fireweed is now in full bloom with a vibrant purple hue contrasting against the deep and gray greens of spruce, hemlock and cottonwood--images of plant succession in this valley.  Moose and black bear frequent around me and I consider my own ineptitude in such a holy place. 

Later I board the boat with a new introduction.  "Wow!  What a beautiful and sunny day!" I begin.  "This morning I donned my Forest Service Uniform, tied my Forest Service hiking boots, poured my Forest Service coffee in my stylish Forest Service mug--stirring it with a twig (for added humor)."  I look around.  My audience is intrigued.  Their minds are entertained with "where is he going with this?"  I continue. "And I do what any respectable ranger would do on a day like this.  I go for a walk."  They could see me pacing back and forth along the front of the boat like a standup comedian.  "The birds are chirping.  The sky is vibrant blue against the snowcapped mountains."   You could hear a pin drop between sentences.  All eyes are on me and I know my stage is set.  This was my day.   "And on days like this, my mind begins to wonder.  Those types of thoughts that keep one up late at night..."  My audience is still intrigued and I cannot wait to lead them to the punch line.  "Today's thought:  Where do rangers go to get away from it all?"  Laughter ensures.  Some of it is polite.  But most of it is in appreciating the profound thought that makes up rangers in Alaska.  Where do rangers go to get away from it all in a place a beautiful as this? 

Tebenkof is in full view now.  All 8 miles of it.  You can even see traces of the Blackstone-Spencer Ice Field that feeds it if you look close enough.  It's going to be a good day.  Later we head into College Fjord where we stop about halfway seeing the massive Harvard Glacier, the 2nd largest tidewater glacier in Prince William Sound in the distance.  It's an amazing 24 miles long, and only pales in comparison to the Columbia glacier, which is too far for this tour boat to get to.  Remnants of fallen ice float along the shores around us.  Stripes of medial morraine contrast the glacier in black and white.  The tour boat captain announces we aren't going to get any closer to Harvard today.  They normally don't.  Other glaciers are more "user friendly" he says.  In other words, they calve ice more often.  Still 11 miles out and all the ice in the water, I'm not convinced.  But I'm not the captain.  This glacier will have to wait.

We make our way to the Harriman Fjord and I intrigue the visitors with what it was like in 1899 when the opening of the fjord before us once greeted E.H. Harriman and John Muir with a 400 foot wall of ice, and how it blocked this hidden cove from Russian fur traders.  Only during the Harriman expedition did John Muir, known as the resident glaciologist from Yosemite National Park, recognized the terrain behind the wall of ice as a likely bay of water carved by glaciers and then filled with sea water.  A fjord.  My tourists are on their feet, crowding me, all attention on the forward windows of the boat as I describe this place in history in 1899.  I have again captured their full attention.  As we round what is now known as Doran Point, they can see it.  The bay opens up.  In the distance:  Surprise Glacier.  It's halfway up Harriman Fjord.  Other glaciers also dominate the scenery.  Cascade Glacier.  Serpentine.  Hanging glaciers grasp upon the upper peaks like glue.  But Surprise is a calving glacier, almost expected to give them a show.  The captain ventures toward it and everyone is captivated.

But Surprise Glacier is quiet today.  She sits there with her blue and white glacier wall.  There are harbor seals sunning themselves on recently calving ice bergs that engulf the bay around Surprise so thick that you could hear the catamaran rails scrape and bump against the brash ice as it makes it way to Surprise.  Through a monocular, I count the seals.  I stop short of 300.  The harbor seals stress a little at the approach of the boat.  They see us most days, but we don't see them normally in these numbers.  The closest ones leave their haven of ice and seek refuge back in the murky silt of glacier fed waters.  We spend time around the face of the glacier.  The tourists are hopeful, but everything is quiet. 

I wander around the deck shagging questions.  One common question is, "Is this global warming thing real?"  I explain that over 95% of climatologists agree that it is.  In Alaska, these glaciers are receding in just a few short years in what used to take them a hundred.  Permafrost is melting for the first time.  Alpine levels are rising.  The spruce bark beetle on the Kenai Peninsula is surviving two years instead of one.  All signs of a warming planet that has significantly changed since the onslaught of the industrial revolution.  Even the American President Barrack Obama would later come to Alaska to explore evidence of these changes.  Suddenly a rumble happens.  It breaks the din of conversation like a thunder in the night.  Looking toward the face of Surprise glacier, she releases yet another scattering of ice into the water in her own summer retreat.  She would regain some of here length during the winter months when snows and cold would allow her to advance.  But it's not enough.  The writing is on the wall.  Like Glacier National Park, she too may be one of many glaciers to become extinct.  I realized that I was witnessing a part of history.  For next summer, all may be different.

My last day of the summer approaches.  I suggest to the captain of the boat that we change our route and go see Harvard Glacier up close, in all of its spender.  The captain stares off into the distance for a moment in consideration.  Perhaps...  For now, it's just another day.  The fishing boats are in full course.  Very little sign of changing seasons is notable on this last day of August.  All is peaceful.  All is silent.  But my audience is intrigued with my ranger stories, and somewhere a violent head wind is pushing hard in Harriman Fjord.  Shortly after leaving Esther Passage, the public address comes across with the familiar tone of the captain announcing that we were changing our route due to the winds, and heading off to Harvard Glacier.  The eruption of cheers began with my own and I quickly grab my microphone to announce what a rare treat this was.  The visitors are truly blest.  Little did I know what lay before us.

As we approached Harvard Glacier, it's massive faced engulfed the scenery before us.  The boat turned this way and that to give each of the those still seated a chance for a full view.  I, along with many of the passengers went out on deck.  I held my phone, video camera and all, and waited.  No one wanted to ask me questions.  All eyes were on the 1000 foot wall of ice waiting in guarded expectation.  And then it happened.  A solid wall of ice directly in front of us calved in what was the most massive calving of the season.  The roar of the ice falling equaled that of total Armageddon.  The falling ice fell, cascading into the ocean in a series of release.  First the initial release, about the size of the empire state building, followed by both sides of it giving way.  It was followed by a sudden wave that rose from the water and eventually rocked our distant location.  I then realized that this journey wasn't meant to touch the souls of the visitors, but mine as well.

As we approached the sleepy village of Whittier and the end of our journey, I couldn't help but think about the special experiences I'd encountered.  I grabbed my microphone and began summarizing the journey we'd been on.  Glaciers.  History.  Humpbacks.  Dall's porpoise, harbor seals and sea otters.  5000 blacklegged kittiwakes engulf the rookery outside of Whittier.  Somewhere distant bald eagles, black bears, brown bears, and sea lions spend their days hiding from the constant onslaught of modern visitors.  I think about my opening, about where rangers go to get away from it all.  I open up with a speech that includes this incredible journey we'll all experienced.  As for where rangers go?  I paraphrase notable nature author Edward Abbey who, in the first chapter of his book Desert Solitaire, says that where we get away from it all is what lies special within each and every one of us.  It could be Yosemite National Park, the high country of Colorado, or the very special experiences of Prince William Sound Alaska.  For we will never see this place, or our lives in quite the same way again.  Everyone is touched.  I receive an applause by visitors I'll never likely see again.  And I too am touched, nor will I ever forget them.

Returning to Alaska

Returning to Alaska.  In many ways it was bittersweet.  The first thing I noticed was the lack of snow on the mountains.  I saw it from the window of the airplane.  It had been a long time since I saw my home city of Anchorage.  It's been a long time since I was able to witness the snow capped mountains of the Chugach. 

My boss picked me up at the airport and drove me the hour long Seward Highway.  Although the snow levels were much depleted in this early May, there was still that amazing contrast of white against the greywacke rock of the Chugach mountains.  Familiar territory.  Winding roads.  Silt filled rivers.  I had come home again.

I was there to start a new adventure.  Forest Ranger.  Who'd have thought?  At the end of our drive, we ended up at Portage Glacier where I was dropped off at the Forest Service bunkhouse:  my home for the summer.  Out there, there are no convenient stores.  There are no shopping centers. There wasn't even cellular service.  My only communication was the lone bunkhouse phone and a slow wireless internet connection.  And in the early season, even the lodge was closed.  The bunkhouse was nice though, with 13 bedrooms, two living areas, a double kitchen and dining area. 

The remoteness of the area told me that I was given a glimpse of what life could be back there.  Before I lived in the city of Anchorage.  Now I was given the chance to witness Alaskan life alone, with only my fellow rangers for company.  The days were mostly raining, with an occasional wind that would tear through the soul.  But I went for a lot of walks, thought of bear and moose, and looked up at the glaciers and snow capped peaks in wonder.  I was back in Alaska, and my adventure was only beginning.

 

Circle of Bears

A circle of bears.  We go round and round with wondering what to do about predators in our world.  In the lower 48, most of the grizzlies have been hunted to near extinction with only pockets in Montana and Wyoming.  And now Alaska is pushing to remove bears.  In the past two springs, they've opened up very liberal practices, including killing of all bears within a 540 square mile area in western Alaska. 

I wanted to document it.  I wanted to see what works.  Does this practice really show that we humans are stewards to the wildlife around us?  Or are we making the same mistakes they'd made a hundred years ago?  What biological approach could possibly support such a move?

To make a promotional video, I had to shoot bears.  Not with a rifle, but with a camera.  Being in Oregon, bears are somewhat scarce.  Especially the Alaska types.  However, I was able to find two Alaskan bears within a half hour of home.  Who would have thought this could be possible?  But Wildlife Images is a rehabilitation center that take in orphaned or wounded animals.  They took in two Alaskan bear cubs with the idea of getting them ready for the wild, then setting them free. 

That was 20 years ago.

Kodi, the male, and Yak, the female, have lived around humans for so long, I really didn't feel fear as I stood within 8 feet of these majestic creatures--only a fence post and two electric wires that separated us.  I ran the cameras.  Personnel got them to move around, to pose, to maybe even smile.  They went round and round--a circle of bears within a circular environment.  They alone were the symbol of what was lost in America.  They alone are what's left.  And they alone could symbolize where Alaska may one day be.

Kodi went after a thrown piece of cantaloupe.  The wild stuff they usually find in the wilds of Alaska.  Yak stands on her hind legs and puts her paws together.  She eventually ends up with a rib bone and wanders off the gnaw on it.  Laying down in a grove of pines, she looks back at us with a look one might find if we were to actually see a wild bear.  Distain.  But why?  After all, food comes at relatively the same time every day be a group of volunteers.  And today was special.  Some goof with a camera was allowed in her pen to do some video and photography.  I was that goof, and I was having the time of my life.  Still, when I look back at her expression, I wonder if it was distain for lack of freedom.  If she were in the wild, she would be leading her own life among the glaciers and mountains of Alaska rather that succumbing to the heat and occasional smoke fires of southern Oregon. 

Still, if we could save one bear, then maybe we could save a hundred.  Then a thousand.  And perhaps our world would be a little richer as we wander out into bear country feeling that fear--that wildness that makes the backcountry unique. 

And perhaps then, and only then, would this circle of understanding be left to the natural lifecycle of seasons that have allowed man and bear to endure for thousands of years.