Covediver's Underwater World

Tuesday, July 24, LeConte Glacier

No diving today as we motor toward the LeConte glacier, actually right up to the face of it or at least as close in as the field of calved ice will allow. Fog-shrouded rain pelts the deck as we “cross the bar;” the shoal created by the terminal moraine of the glacier, that is, the submerged rock mound that marks the furthest seaward extend of glacier before it began its inexorable retreat to its present position. Think of a glacier as a bulldozer blade pushing rock in front of it. When the dozer stops and backs up, a pile of rock and other geological debris remains—the terminal moraine. I have seen many such terrestrial moraines in the eastern Sierra Mountains and in other locations, but I can only imagine what the submerged moraine looks like.


This summer seems to be my time for glaciers, a landform synonymous with Alaska. An attempt to get to Exit Glacier near Seward in Spring with a friend was turned back because the trail was closed, I assume because of avalanche danger; a hike up the Matanuksa glacier and a jet boat trip up to the glaciers that feed 20-mile Creek near Portage with my 12 year-old-nephew J.T. were successful. A glacier is best enjoyed in the company of a child with a infectious energy, curiosity, and sense of wonder. I am three for four in getting to glaciers; hopefully this will be four for five.


Immediately after crossing the bar, we begin to encounter bergs; few and far between at first, but then increasing in size and density the farther up the fjord we move toward the face of the glacier. The fjord is a wide drowned glacial valley carved out by the river of ice long ago, have the characteristic U-shape cross section (river-formed valleys such as the Grand Canyon have a characteristic V-shape cross section). The basalt granite walls are laced with very prominent seams of quartz. I wonder if the matrix of those rocks traps gold within. A huge white spot, like that on a black lab-Aussie shepherd mix’s chest, stands out on the rock.

My attention turns to the ever increasing ice. My companions on the bow look for figures formed in the bergs, much like the forms we looked for in the clouds as children laying in the grass on a bright summer’s day. I spot an ice form that with a little imagination is transformed into a sea horse. Others are like modern art; so abstract as to defy transformation into anything recognizable regardless of how much imagination is applied.

The ship bumps and bangs its way through the pack ice. I imagine the skipper’s grimace with each metallic “thump” and “thud” as the thickening ice bounces off the hull. The ice field is not a solid mass. It is more like slush, like crushed ice in a glass of water. We spot a number of small dark objects atop the slush pack in the distance. Closer inspection reveals these are hauled out harbor seals. The skipper speculates that they find this a place of refuge, safe from predation by orca. We also encounter growlers of the most clear blue ice I have ever seen. The color is truly breathtaking.


Closing in on the face of the glacier, the fog and mist shrouded sides of the fiord become precipitous bare gray rock cliffs, as if the granite has been coated by the dull glacial till that has the consistency of quicksand and has yet to be rinsed off. This till is the reason that Alaskans remove our shoes before entering someone’s home. While it may be the dust of ages, it makes for a very dirty carpet and very dusty floor. Yet, this combination of boat, bare rock, glacier-in-the-mist, and slushpack provides the dramatic backdrop for some great portraits.

The slushpack is too thick and resists the boat’s efforts to power through to the face of the glacier. The fog and mist begin to abate. Although the weather is rainy, at the ice-sea interface glaciers have a way of making their own weather that may be quite different from that just a stone’s throw away. We fall just short of our objective, but close enough to witness the glacier calve. Heralded by a fall of ice and a thunder-like clap, building-sized chunks of ice break away from the glaciers face, finishing with the sounds of an ice wall avalanche splashing into the water accompanied by the cacophonous cries of gulls startled by the sound. We answer with a resounding “yes” the skipper’s query from the bridge asking we have the patience to stand off the face of the glacier in anticipation of further calving. As if on cue, the glacier calves again within a minute.


Throughout the day, people move from the comfort of the galley to the bow, to the upper decks, back to the galley and on to the bow, their passage correlating with the ship’s orientation to the glacier or as we encounter one remarkable berg or another on the port or starboard side. Bergs trigger the interjections of inevitable “Titanic” analogies into the conversations and I am half-tempted to climb up on the bow and announce I am “king of the world.” The boat seems to heal to port to starboard as photographers scurry about to get the best angle for the photo op of the moment. They must be quick as the movement of boat relative to the ice makes the most advantageous position a fleeting one. More than once, a passenger not engaged in this pursuit of the ideal shot remarks that they are like paparazzi vying for the best shot of the celebrity of the month. At one point, the seals hold the photographers interest, then it is the face of the glacier.

The boat moves slowly through the slushpack, powered by nothing more than the force of the current. The water-ice mixture has a distinct sound as the hull moves through it, albeit one that defies description by words. Yet, this sound would be perfect for the Sound Clips segment on National Public Radio’s “All Things Considered” that “collects the sounds that fascinate our listeners.”

Upon exiting the slushpack and reaching an area that offers open water between bergs, we undertake a “shore” excursion of sorts. The skipper invites us to don our drysuits and swim, kayak, or play among the bergs for the next two hours. We drop into the water and clamber onto the ice floes, hauling out like so many of the harbor seals a short distance behind us. Sliding onto a small piece of ice, I discover it is inherently unstable and the slightest shift of my sizeable weight could cause it to dip and perhaps even upend and flip. The area of broken ice is like the fountain of youth as we cavort among the bergs having as much fun with the complete lack of inhibition of children at a swimming hole on a hot day. This swimming hole is loaded with ice, cold as sherbet, and is hundreds of feet deep. Some of the crew and a couple of the passengers go for a dip in the ice water wearing nothing but swim suits or less, all to the hoots of encouragement from us bobbing warm and cozy in the cocoon of our drysuits or from the comfort of the ship’s deck.



I approach a berg to join Shane and Ginny intent on getting a better vantage point from which to watch the water show put on by the swimmers. As I begin to haul out, Shane cautions me not to flip the berg as he has no hood. As I sit on the berg, I cannot but help think of the emotionally evocative painting “End of the Hunt” by Fred Machetanz which shows a Native Alaskan hunter sitting on a piece of broken ice resigned to his fate. We don’t know what chain of events has stranded him on the ice, we only know the result is inevitable and fatally final.

I shout to some of the folks on the boat’s stern, asking if they would please grab my digital camera off the table and shoot a couple of pictures of us on the bergs from the vantage point of the deck. Lynn sneaks onto our little berg and holds up two fingers behind my head in the Nautilus Explorer equivalent of the devil’s horns in the third grade class photo—a move I did not discover until downloading the images later that evening.


I guess in Alaska the Fountain of Youth is spelled L-e C-o-n-t-e. Like all fountains of youth, it is best spent in the company of fine companions.

# posted by covediver @ 10:15 PM