Endicott Arm, Southeast Alaska
Today ice fell from the sky. No, the weather did not suddenly get horrendous; we did not have a sudden hailstorm. Quite the contrary. The sun once again shone for us. The past week’s wonderfully warm weather had taken its toll on the glaciers. Entering Endicott Arm, we could see that numerous icebergs had calved off the glacier recently. The seals were taking advantage of this windfall (or should I say icefall?) to stretch out on the floating sofas and luxuriate in the warm beams beating down. Many of the harbor seals were accompanied by small pups. A few of the pups were still wrinkled, evidence that they had been born within the past week and had not yet plumped to iron out the creases from being folded up within the womb. The seals’ eyes looked like deep black pools as they gazed balefully at us, miffed to have been roused from their sun-bathing by the sound of our motor.
We steamed on, headed for Dawes Glacier at the head of Endicott Arm. As we went, we passed laterally through hundreds of years of plant succession. Where the fjord began to deviate from Stephens Passage, trees lined the steep cliffs. As we moved further into the Arm, those trees became more sparse until finally we were flanked by the iron-red streaks and white lateral dikes, intrusions in bare rock. Ahead of us loomed the Dawes Glacier, sapphire blue ice topped by white frosting.
Cruising closer to the glacier in our Zodiacs, one glance back at the ship helped us gauge the size of the glacier: the ship now looked like a bobbing bathtub toy. The glacier still loomed large. Indeed, at three-quarters of a mile across and 250 fifty feet high, this blue gem is formidable, and the cold gusts of wind it generates were also impressive. One sumdum later, though, and our cold toes were forgotten. We soon realized that the Tlingit word for the sound of calving glaciers, which translates to “white thunder,” is extremely apt. Watching apparently small pieces of ice fall from the arch above a tide-line cave, we wished that the front of the cave would calve at once. The huge booming sounds that reached our ears a good five seconds later revealed that those were not just small pieces falling off the terminus of the glacier. Although the calving of the front of the cave seemed too much to wish for, something in Nature wanted to make sure that today, the last day of the trip, would be nothing less than spectacular, and nothing shy of the phenomenal displays we have seen on each of our previous days. Not only did the front of the cave calve down, but also the much larger section above the cave calved, the projecting finger of the face of the terminus fell, and the immense blue column of ice next to that crumbled as well. There were so many calving events with thundering claps and impressive splays of water followed by spreading impact waves that we soon lost count. Who cared how many had actually occurred; it was more than we had ever expected, and we were thrilled. We had thought there were a lot of icebergs and bergie bits choking the water when we arrived. However, that ice traffic was nothing compared with what existed when we were finished with our spectacular afternoon. If there is a rush hour for icebergs, we were caught in the midst of the worst of it. Somehow, for once, none of us minded sitting in the midst of rush hour.
Today ice fell from the sky. No, the weather did not suddenly get horrendous; we did not have a sudden hailstorm. Quite the contrary. The sun once again shone for us. The past week’s wonderfully warm weather had taken its toll on the glaciers. Entering Endicott Arm, we could see that numerous icebergs had calved off the glacier recently. The seals were taking advantage of this windfall (or should I say icefall?) to stretch out on the floating sofas and luxuriate in the warm beams beating down. Many of the harbor seals were accompanied by small pups. A few of the pups were still wrinkled, evidence that they had been born within the past week and had not yet plumped to iron out the creases from being folded up within the womb. The seals’ eyes looked like deep black pools as they gazed balefully at us, miffed to have been roused from their sun-bathing by the sound of our motor.
We steamed on, headed for Dawes Glacier at the head of Endicott Arm. As we went, we passed laterally through hundreds of years of plant succession. Where the fjord began to deviate from Stephens Passage, trees lined the steep cliffs. As we moved further into the Arm, those trees became more sparse until finally we were flanked by the iron-red streaks and white lateral dikes, intrusions in bare rock. Ahead of us loomed the Dawes Glacier, sapphire blue ice topped by white frosting.
Cruising closer to the glacier in our Zodiacs, one glance back at the ship helped us gauge the size of the glacier: the ship now looked like a bobbing bathtub toy. The glacier still loomed large. Indeed, at three-quarters of a mile across and 250 fifty feet high, this blue gem is formidable, and the cold gusts of wind it generates were also impressive. One sumdum later, though, and our cold toes were forgotten. We soon realized that the Tlingit word for the sound of calving glaciers, which translates to “white thunder,” is extremely apt. Watching apparently small pieces of ice fall from the arch above a tide-line cave, we wished that the front of the cave would calve at once. The huge booming sounds that reached our ears a good five seconds later revealed that those were not just small pieces falling off the terminus of the glacier. Although the calving of the front of the cave seemed too much to wish for, something in Nature wanted to make sure that today, the last day of the trip, would be nothing less than spectacular, and nothing shy of the phenomenal displays we have seen on each of our previous days. Not only did the front of the cave calve down, but also the much larger section above the cave calved, the projecting finger of the face of the terminus fell, and the immense blue column of ice next to that crumbled as well. There were so many calving events with thundering claps and impressive splays of water followed by spreading impact waves that we soon lost count. Who cared how many had actually occurred; it was more than we had ever expected, and we were thrilled. We had thought there were a lot of icebergs and bergie bits choking the water when we arrived. However, that ice traffic was nothing compared with what existed when we were finished with our spectacular afternoon. If there is a rush hour for icebergs, we were caught in the midst of the worst of it. Somehow, for once, none of us minded sitting in the midst of rush hour.
