Glacier Bay, Alaska
“… our burning hearts were ready for any fate, feeling that whatever the future might have in store, the treasures we had gained this glorious morning would enrich our lives forever.”
So wrote the pioneer environmentalist, John Muir, in his “Travels in Alaska,” recording his emotions as he witnessed a sunset over the Fairweather Range in 1880. Muir had been brought in canoe by Tlingit seal-hunter guides to what was then the northern limit of the bay. Today, a century and a quarter later, the face of the Grand Pacific Glacier has marched back a further fifteen miles. The retreating ice revealed to us both the glorious scenery of this special place, as well as the dramatic sculpting of the mountains worked by the actions of those glaciers that had so intrigued Muir, the scientist.
We waited awhile off Jaw Point, marveling at the vista of the Johns Hopkins Glacier framed by the twin peaks, Orville and Wilber. Then came the only call that could have diverted our gaze: “A brown bear! No, two!” Close by on the verdant hillside, two adult grizzlies, one dark, the other a warm, golden ginger, quietly browsed upon the nutritious vegetation of early summer. Kevin, the National Parks Service Ranger with us for the day, suspected that it was a male awaiting the female to come into season. Both bears seemed to be in prime condition and undisturbed by the hushed assembly thronging the upper decks of the Sea Lion.
Already this morning we had learned to distinguish between black-legged kittiwakes, tufted puffins, common murres, pelagic cormorants, black oystercatchers and pigeon guillemots. We had feared for the safety of some mountain goats precariously perched high above a vertical rock wall. We had even been entertained by a bellowing chorus of Steller sea lions. How on earth could such a day be improved? With great difficulty, but it was! After watching in amazement at huge blocks of ice falling from the face as Margerie Glacier “calved,” we visited a nearby colony of nesting kittiwakes. As we picked out yet another new bird, this time a horned puffin, the kittiwakes on the cliff erupted in clamorous, wheeling cloud. A peregrine falcon dashed through the whirling mass of birds in several attempts to single out a victim – but, while we witnessed, without success.
We departed, pondering one more of John Muir’s thoughts he expressed so poetically: “As long as I live, I’ll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I’ll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I’ll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can.”
“… our burning hearts were ready for any fate, feeling that whatever the future might have in store, the treasures we had gained this glorious morning would enrich our lives forever.”
So wrote the pioneer environmentalist, John Muir, in his “Travels in Alaska,” recording his emotions as he witnessed a sunset over the Fairweather Range in 1880. Muir had been brought in canoe by Tlingit seal-hunter guides to what was then the northern limit of the bay. Today, a century and a quarter later, the face of the Grand Pacific Glacier has marched back a further fifteen miles. The retreating ice revealed to us both the glorious scenery of this special place, as well as the dramatic sculpting of the mountains worked by the actions of those glaciers that had so intrigued Muir, the scientist.
We waited awhile off Jaw Point, marveling at the vista of the Johns Hopkins Glacier framed by the twin peaks, Orville and Wilber. Then came the only call that could have diverted our gaze: “A brown bear! No, two!” Close by on the verdant hillside, two adult grizzlies, one dark, the other a warm, golden ginger, quietly browsed upon the nutritious vegetation of early summer. Kevin, the National Parks Service Ranger with us for the day, suspected that it was a male awaiting the female to come into season. Both bears seemed to be in prime condition and undisturbed by the hushed assembly thronging the upper decks of the Sea Lion.
Already this morning we had learned to distinguish between black-legged kittiwakes, tufted puffins, common murres, pelagic cormorants, black oystercatchers and pigeon guillemots. We had feared for the safety of some mountain goats precariously perched high above a vertical rock wall. We had even been entertained by a bellowing chorus of Steller sea lions. How on earth could such a day be improved? With great difficulty, but it was! After watching in amazement at huge blocks of ice falling from the face as Margerie Glacier “calved,” we visited a nearby colony of nesting kittiwakes. As we picked out yet another new bird, this time a horned puffin, the kittiwakes on the cliff erupted in clamorous, wheeling cloud. A peregrine falcon dashed through the whirling mass of birds in several attempts to single out a victim – but, while we witnessed, without success.
We departed, pondering one more of John Muir’s thoughts he expressed so poetically: “As long as I live, I’ll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I’ll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I’ll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can.”
