Glacier Bay National Park, Southeast Alaska
In 1794, when Captain George Vancouver passed what is now the entrance to Glacier Bay National Park, the doors were closed—the fjord was sealed off by glacial ice. And it was scarcely a bay.
Perhaps we can relate, for this morning as we cruised into this legendary scenic spectacle not too far from the foot of the towering Fairweather Range—with peaks over two miles high—the shades were drawn. We really didn’t know what we were missing because, quite simply, there was nothing there. We found ourselves within a veil of vapor, gray clouds and mist that softened everything from the green of the alders to the hard lines of the hilltops. If this morning was not about beholding vast landscapes and distant mountains, then it was about the more immediate wilderness, like a septet of Tufted Puffins bobbing off our bow as our ship glided past South Marble Island. It was about kittiwakes’ high calls bouncing off the granite cliffs, a dozen common murres perched wing to wing on a tiny ledge. It was about the deep growl of Northern Sea Lions, their wet bodies heaped together like a pile of lima beans.
South Marble Island, like the whole complex of fjords in Glacier Bay, is only recently released from the grip of ice. If Vancouver had only had some time to kill--another hundred years--he could have watched as this giant bay opened up—glaciers becoming water ways. He could have seen the slow succession of plants as they inched along the bare rock. He could have witnessed the first seabirds colonizing little islets like South Marble. He could have watched the arrival of mammals, having followed the river valleys to the new landscape. A few hundred years for the great reveal of Glacier Bay.
We only had a day, but we witnessed the great reveal. As we cruised in further, the clouds began to thin, faint patches of blue sky opened up, and suddenly Glacier Bay was larger, the mountainous expanse present, visible, looming. Just how big are these masses of rock? We needed some sort of comparative scale. Look there—a call from the bow—six mountain goats high on the hill. Six mountain goats like six granules of salt. We scan with our binoculars and the specks come to life. It’s hard to believe but wonderfully believable. Life finds a niche—be it safe in the steep cliff masonry of Gloomy Knob or nested on the cliffs of South Marble. So much habitat in Glacier Bay, so much possibility. We watched a river otter swimming along the shore before it scrambled over boulders and disappeared. A careless brown bear, muzzle down in the coastal vegetation, hushed the bow as we slowly nosed in for a closer look. As we passed through Russell Cut with a giant alluvial fan spread out to our starboard, a voice uncertain at first whispered, “wolf?” Where? Could it be?
We knew the landscape was broad, we knew the mountains were high, but we forgot for a moment about the grand scale of our surroundings. I don’t see a wolf. But yes, in fact, it is a wolf. The wolf is a freckle. We hone our eyes and stabilize our binoculars. “See that big black group of rocks . . . and to the left of that a piece of driftwood . . . look above the driftwood and you’ll see the wolf.” Indeed, there was a wolf trotting along, harassed by birds, raising its head up to howl. A wolf disappearing and appearing as it traversed the topography. A wolf like a needle in a haystack. This humbling, enormous haystack.
After lunch, the National Geographic Sea Lion arrived at its northernmost latitude. Here, the original culprit of Glacier Bay hides in disguise. The Grand Pacific Glacier lies low to the waterline covered in dirt and rock. You wouldn’t think it was a glacier at all. But in fact it was the glacier responsible for slowly carving out the central fjord in Glacier Bay. Despite Grand Pacific’s legacy, our eyes were drawn to the Marjorie Glacier. Her towering seracs and blue ice face appealed to our more traditional yearnings. And we wanted to see calving. So we waited. And waited. And we were not disappointed. Huge building-sized chunks of the upper face cracked off creating a massive splash and involuntary guttural cheers from our bow. Again and again we watched, hypnotized by the geologic thunderclap, ever reminding us that nature is unpredictable and magnificent, that it takes something giant to make something look small, and that you should never be surprised to be surprised.
In 1794, when Captain George Vancouver passed what is now the entrance to Glacier Bay National Park, the doors were closed—the fjord was sealed off by glacial ice. And it was scarcely a bay.
Perhaps we can relate, for this morning as we cruised into this legendary scenic spectacle not too far from the foot of the towering Fairweather Range—with peaks over two miles high—the shades were drawn. We really didn’t know what we were missing because, quite simply, there was nothing there. We found ourselves within a veil of vapor, gray clouds and mist that softened everything from the green of the alders to the hard lines of the hilltops. If this morning was not about beholding vast landscapes and distant mountains, then it was about the more immediate wilderness, like a septet of Tufted Puffins bobbing off our bow as our ship glided past South Marble Island. It was about kittiwakes’ high calls bouncing off the granite cliffs, a dozen common murres perched wing to wing on a tiny ledge. It was about the deep growl of Northern Sea Lions, their wet bodies heaped together like a pile of lima beans.
South Marble Island, like the whole complex of fjords in Glacier Bay, is only recently released from the grip of ice. If Vancouver had only had some time to kill--another hundred years--he could have watched as this giant bay opened up—glaciers becoming water ways. He could have seen the slow succession of plants as they inched along the bare rock. He could have witnessed the first seabirds colonizing little islets like South Marble. He could have watched the arrival of mammals, having followed the river valleys to the new landscape. A few hundred years for the great reveal of Glacier Bay.
We only had a day, but we witnessed the great reveal. As we cruised in further, the clouds began to thin, faint patches of blue sky opened up, and suddenly Glacier Bay was larger, the mountainous expanse present, visible, looming. Just how big are these masses of rock? We needed some sort of comparative scale. Look there—a call from the bow—six mountain goats high on the hill. Six mountain goats like six granules of salt. We scan with our binoculars and the specks come to life. It’s hard to believe but wonderfully believable. Life finds a niche—be it safe in the steep cliff masonry of Gloomy Knob or nested on the cliffs of South Marble. So much habitat in Glacier Bay, so much possibility. We watched a river otter swimming along the shore before it scrambled over boulders and disappeared. A careless brown bear, muzzle down in the coastal vegetation, hushed the bow as we slowly nosed in for a closer look. As we passed through Russell Cut with a giant alluvial fan spread out to our starboard, a voice uncertain at first whispered, “wolf?” Where? Could it be?
We knew the landscape was broad, we knew the mountains were high, but we forgot for a moment about the grand scale of our surroundings. I don’t see a wolf. But yes, in fact, it is a wolf. The wolf is a freckle. We hone our eyes and stabilize our binoculars. “See that big black group of rocks . . . and to the left of that a piece of driftwood . . . look above the driftwood and you’ll see the wolf.” Indeed, there was a wolf trotting along, harassed by birds, raising its head up to howl. A wolf disappearing and appearing as it traversed the topography. A wolf like a needle in a haystack. This humbling, enormous haystack.
After lunch, the National Geographic Sea Lion arrived at its northernmost latitude. Here, the original culprit of Glacier Bay hides in disguise. The Grand Pacific Glacier lies low to the waterline covered in dirt and rock. You wouldn’t think it was a glacier at all. But in fact it was the glacier responsible for slowly carving out the central fjord in Glacier Bay. Despite Grand Pacific’s legacy, our eyes were drawn to the Marjorie Glacier. Her towering seracs and blue ice face appealed to our more traditional yearnings. And we wanted to see calving. So we waited. And waited. And we were not disappointed. Huge building-sized chunks of the upper face cracked off creating a massive splash and involuntary guttural cheers from our bow. Again and again we watched, hypnotized by the geologic thunderclap, ever reminding us that nature is unpredictable and magnificent, that it takes something giant to make something look small, and that you should never be surprised to be surprised.
