Water is lapping my toes. Just a few minutes ago I was up to my ankles in Portage Lake. I felt an ache, then numbness. Not far from my feet float large, blue-hued chunks of glacial ice. Occasional groans distract from the lapping water – icebergs are rocking in the gentle swell, rubbing shoulders. Then there is another noise – grinding. The wind is driving the chunks along lake’s gravelly floor. Periodically a small block breaks from an iceberg to float down the Portage River toward the ocean.
Driving rain comes from periodic squalls propelled by fierce winds. Rain has become a part of my existence. Days of rain followed by glorious hours of sunlight. My tolerance for rain is ebbing. I cloak myself in waterproof layers and venture out for walks; my wide-brimmed hat which came along to ward off the sun’s burning rays has become indispensable. Instead of a parka’s hood wrapped tightly around my head allowing raindrops to bounce from my nose, the wide brim acts as a miniature umbrella. Incorrect removal of the hat can be a shocking experience. Failing to be attentive the small pond trapped behind the brim’s lip rushes along my spine.
After a day in the rain I need a way to dry the protective outer layer. I’ve brought it into the tent, but my tent is small and wet Gore-Tex inside defeats the purpose of an otherwise effective rain fly. One evening I gambled leaving the water resistance layer hanging in a tree. About midnight the rain returned. I’ve tucked the wet outer layer inside my car. The upholstery absorbed vast amounts of water leaving both my seat and clothing damp.
It is time to move on. I’ve been looking at weather forecasts. Daytime highs in the teens – centigrade – with partly cloudy skies forecast in the Yukon.
From my vantage, now sheltered inside my car from the driving rain I watch icebergs race down the lake. A large chunk of Portage Glacier is being driven towards me by the incessant breeze, but a smaller, kayak sized iceberg is now moving rapidly this direction. Closer, an iceberg I’ve been admiring just a few feet from shore just answered a question. It was so close, close enough I had been contemplating my willingness to wade out and sit on it. It silently rolled showing it had been sitting in twelve feet of water.
Hearing the ice rubbing has piqued the memory of a past sunny day. Instead of my toes, numbed by being too close to a floating glacial remnant I had taken my boots and socks off allowing my toes to soar free above Harding Icefield. This hike was the single most memorable hike of the trip. All other walks have been measured against the Harding Icefield hike.
The Harding Icefield Overlook Trail starts at 400 feet elevation. After the first quarter mile it branches from the accessible trail to Exit Glacier and starts climbing. Initially it follows a manicured trailed rising gently through an alder thicket. I was thinking bear.
This is just the warm up for the strenuous workout ahead. Leaving the lowland the trail entered a bonanza of salmon berries. Fortunately I could reach higher than many other hikers. I was jarred back to my senses – seed laced bear scat plopped in the trail’s centre.
A switchback to the precipice’s edge allowed a view into the deep blue crevasse. Nearing Marmot Meadows I again could hardly contain myself. Below were fissures large enough to engulf a home. As I watched, movement caught my eye. A speck, the size of an ant, was stepping off the ice on the far side. A bear had just crossed the glacier. Looking closer, more specks appeared – people carefully feeling their way through the crevasse field. I continued on.
A man, breathless, stumbled towards me. I just saw a bear – a bear on the trail. I think he was more excited from having seen a bear in the wild then actually frightened. By the time I arrived the bear was well in to the shrubs. The trail continued up gaining more than 1,000 feet per mile.
Marmot Meadows. I had finally arrived above the shrubs. The trail continued up, straight up through a rocky slope then started a gentle grade traversing a flower covered slope. I stood there mesmerized by the glacier. I kept asking myself, “Can this get any better?” I wanted to stop, find a lofty perch, and take it all in. I resisted. With each step the view became more breathtaking. I doubted this could continue. Strolling through the meadow I had to keep reminding myself not to linger too long with a flower, with a sedge, watching a goat, or staring towards the glacier itself. Nearing the glacier vegetation became more sparse, then nothing – just rock; scraped, gouged, polished rock cleaned of any loose substrate. Low spots were still filled by winter snow deposits.
Cresting a rise the vista transformed. No more polished rock and scree. A vast, a endless field of ice, stopping only at the horizon – a horizon mimicking wind sculpted dunes. Rocky islands, battlemonts above the ice, occasionally interrupted the endless view. A small icefield, yet still larger than some states. A point below captivated my attention. I scrambled to it. I sat there eating my sandwich on sourdough bread, plums, my last grapefruit and peppermint patties. It was warm. I removed a few layers. From this perch I admired the view before me. I followed the lines of the crevasses, pondered the landscape below. A stream, a waterfall flowed through the ice. Circular indentations – a donut – where the ice was melting around a rocky knob.
A crevasse is a glaciers stretch mark. The immense weight of the glacier causes it to move. The ice is being forced between narrow rocky canyons, over uneven terrain. Glacier movement is almost imperceptible, just inches, or maybe feet per day. Each time the glacier lunges forward, squeezes through a neck, drops over a ledge a crevasse changes – a little wider, a little narrower, a little longer or shorter. The healthy glacier is constantly changing and reshaping itself and the ground around it.
Then something I was not expecting. A deep groan. A muted crack. Then silence returned. I felt the sound beneath me. I heard it all around me. Then it was silent.
A few minutes later it happened again. Again it only lasted a few seconds. . I struggled to locate the source.
Silence – a long period of silence.
A louder sound, a sound I felt in the ground. It was closer. Taking time to watch the changing light as the sun set I realized I was experiencing the power of the glacier below me. Each twist, each lunge forward resulted in sounds, feelings I was unfamiliar with.
