Endicott Arm
The ice-blue face of Dawes Glacier lay cradled in a basin of smooth, carved rock that towered over the M.V. Sea Lion. The steep, polished surfaces looked like giant water slides that dropped into the depths of the fjord, and our little ship seemed somewhat insignificant next to the immensity of our surroundings. Zodiacs plied the turquoise water laden with silt scoured from the bedrock by rock-studded ice. Fortunately, hot chocolate and layer after layer of clothing fortified us against the chill sweeping down from the Stikine Icefield far above. Sounds like gunshots announced the repeated calving of huge seracs, giant pinnacles of ice that broke free at the terminus.
Our passage did not go unnoticed. Big-eyed harbor seals curiously peered at our strange rubber boats before sinking with barely a ripple beneath the surface. Floating ice provided perches for distant seals that lifted their silvery heads for better looks. The ice also offered a safe resting place for arctic terns, one of the world’s most amazing migrants. These graceful, long-winged seabirds may see more daylight than almost any living creature, as they travel annually from northern breeding grounds in Alaska and the arctic to Antarctic waters. Black oystercatchers probed the shoreline, and a hummingbird checked out one Zodiac, perhaps with the hope that the bright lifejackets might be a bouquet of orange flowers.
In late afternoon the ship turned to retrace the path that the glacier once followed for almost 30 miles, winding its way to Holkam Bay. Waterfalls tumbled or trickled over sculpted walls of this pristine wilderness, carrying sediment and melted snow and ice into the sea. The time for departure was drawing near, and soon both we and the arctic terns would take flight and head south.
The ice-blue face of Dawes Glacier lay cradled in a basin of smooth, carved rock that towered over the M.V. Sea Lion. The steep, polished surfaces looked like giant water slides that dropped into the depths of the fjord, and our little ship seemed somewhat insignificant next to the immensity of our surroundings. Zodiacs plied the turquoise water laden with silt scoured from the bedrock by rock-studded ice. Fortunately, hot chocolate and layer after layer of clothing fortified us against the chill sweeping down from the Stikine Icefield far above. Sounds like gunshots announced the repeated calving of huge seracs, giant pinnacles of ice that broke free at the terminus.
Our passage did not go unnoticed. Big-eyed harbor seals curiously peered at our strange rubber boats before sinking with barely a ripple beneath the surface. Floating ice provided perches for distant seals that lifted their silvery heads for better looks. The ice also offered a safe resting place for arctic terns, one of the world’s most amazing migrants. These graceful, long-winged seabirds may see more daylight than almost any living creature, as they travel annually from northern breeding grounds in Alaska and the arctic to Antarctic waters. Black oystercatchers probed the shoreline, and a hummingbird checked out one Zodiac, perhaps with the hope that the bright lifejackets might be a bouquet of orange flowers.
In late afternoon the ship turned to retrace the path that the glacier once followed for almost 30 miles, winding its way to Holkam Bay. Waterfalls tumbled or trickled over sculpted walls of this pristine wilderness, carrying sediment and melted snow and ice into the sea. The time for departure was drawing near, and soon both we and the arctic terns would take flight and head south.
