Pacific NW

Expeditions

Unaware of the colossal events that were to unfold before us later in the day, we rose at 0400 hours and set out from the cove, bound for the glaciers 21 miles away at the head of Tracy Arm. A bitter cold wind blasted down from the valley for the first few hours, but the scenery was out of this world. Despite the cold we felt compelled to stand up above the dodger and crane our necks skyward so we could gaze at the peaks high above. Everywhere, massive domes and solid granite slab rock ascended nearly vertical from the waterline to heights averaging 6,000 feet. Even 10 feet from shore, the depth sounder displayed a blank screen, too deep to take a reading. Further up this marine canyon, the water turned a deep emerald green color (due to glacial silt), snow-level dropped to sea-level, and we started seeing icebergs. The icebergs in Tracy Arm are spawned from the two enormous tidewater glaciers at its head, “Sawyer” and “South Sawyer” glaciers. It was a wonderful 21 mile trip as we snaked our way through the canyon, weaving around icebergs that grew more numerous as we approached the glaciers. We first attempted an approach to South Sawyer glacier, but to no avail. We were met by a vast sheet of ice that stretched out some 3 miles from the face of the glacier. The edge of the sheet was quite thin, and Silent Partner did her best to break through. For a mile or so we plowed through the sheet, our wake a 9 foot wide trail of open water and chips of ice that sounded like glass breaking as we passed through it. Eventually the ice thickened and we had to reduce speed. We then reached a point where the bow was unable to part the ice, and the boat slowly rose up on the sheet and came to a gentle stop. We had reached the end of the road, a mere 2 miles from the face of the glacier. The icebergs coming out of the arm, however, held the promise of an open route to the Sawyer glacier. We turned around and hacked another channel out of the ice field. The approach to Sawyer glacier is a narrow slot, choked with pack ice, with boulders that cascade into the water from the unstable moraine fields high above. Using the poles that Lee had cut yesterday, Lee and Christoph were able to push the smaller chunks of ice–brash ice and growlers, away from the boat. The ice field became quite thick, and we proceeded at .5 to 1 knot of boat speed for the last mile until we were, at last, near the face of the glacier. To attempt a description of what it was like to be next to a tidewater glacier would be impossible. A verticle wall of blue ice, 250+ feet tall, commanded the entire view. We were dwarfed by its immensity. Occasionally, car and house-size chunks of ice would crack off the face, creating roaring and booming noises that resounded throughout the ampitheater of ice, echoing off the canyon walls, and sending out plumes of spray and large waves. Sometimes the glacier would send forth deep rumblings from within, as it pushed its way to the sea. It sounded like some giant gears being set into motion, and created quite a bit of seismic activity. We spent the whole afternoon drifting in the ice pack and enjoying the sounds and constant barrage of the falling ice. The weather was cooperating fully- sunny and not a hint of wind. Suddenly, a few large chunks of ice let go near the top of a monolithic ice column, followed by larger and larger chunks. The noise increased to a deafening roar as torrents of house-sized chunks fell from the column, sending forth such a spray I still cannot believe. I remember looking up and seeing a huge grey cloud of ice missiles and dust, which almost blocked the view of the glacier itself, save for the very top. Then, slowly, the top of the column shifted to the right and began swinging out like a giagantic pendulum. The entire column was coming down. For a second or so, I stood frozen and in awe of the forces that were being set into motion. We were in a relatively safe position, but I still needed to take immediate action to ensure our safety. None of us remember exactly what it sounded like when the column came down. I think we were all yelling, trying to hear each other above the deafening roar. As I put the boat into gear I saw the first shock wave erupt out from the cloud of ice. It was a wall of water and icebergs 15 feet or taller. Silent Partner was smartly positioned behind a thick field of ice, which dampened all the breaking effects of the shock waves, but I still had to prepare for the surge. I made my message clear–“Get inside the boat NOW!” I yelled. I took the first swell head on, as the boat was elevated 20 feet, then turned her around and proceeded full-out down my pre-planned “emergency exit” route. The first wave of ice, a tumbling 10 foot wall, pressed outward from the impact zone at about 50 knots of speed. We rode the next series of shock swells clear out of the bay, where we remained for half an hour until things settled down and the new ice packs and currents established their new patterns. We could find no words to communicate the events that had just taken place. After a few gasping laughs and congratulating each other, we just described and re-described the collapse to each other, over and over again for the rest of the day. But the day wasn’t over yet! A few hours later, the familiar ice chunks again began to rain down, this time from an ice cave on the far right-hand side of the glacier. As we watched in disbelief, the entire cave and right-hand side disintegrated into the thousand- foot deep waters below. “We’re safe here, we’re safe!” I screamed to Lee and Christoph. I wanted them to enjoy to its fullest this equally-enormous collapse. We were further from the fall-out area, but still were effected by the surge. I put the boat into gear and said “She’s coming down, gentlemen, it’s time to leave”. Silent Partner proudly and victoriously rode the shock waves out of the canyon, as it filled in and was completely choked with new icebergs. “It’s time to go home, boys”. On our way out, we stopped by a waterfall that had grabbed our attention. Earlier, we saw many boulders falling near its base. Hundreds of large rocks were being shot out into the water. They sounded like rapid-fire gunshot as the boulders belly-flopped from 1,000 feet above. It was a perfect end to our day. We motored back in triumph to our anchorage at the head of the bay, having proudly witnessed first-hand mother nature at her most intense state. At anchor, Lee prepared a delicious carrot soup, and we sat up late around the wood stove, recounting the events of the day.