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Icy gridlock
Photo by Tim Lydon |
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"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," I thought nervously as I wedged my paddle between two ottoman-sized icebergs. They were translucent-blue and
among the smallest bergs jammed against my kayak -- the largest was toward the bow and was more sofa-sized, to complete the living-room set.
Ice and fiberglass scraped together as I drove my paddle between the bergs and rocked my boat from side to side, loosening the ice at my bow. Ahead,
dense ice concealed the water for a half-mile, and behind me, more ice had engulfed an opening I'd used only 10 minutes earlier. But that wasn't my
main concern; I'd pushed through dense ice before.
The big deal was the 200-foot-tall glacier about a quarter mile to my right -- an uneven wall of blue and white ice about a mile long. For about
a minute, ice had been falling from both sides of one of its giant pillars, smacking the water with reports like gunfire. The pillar, weighing
thousands of tons, leaned precariously over the water.
"It's not so dense about a hundred yards to your left, if you can get there," radioed my co-worker Malinda Lueck. She was a half-mile away at the
edge of a cliff 350 feet above the water. I could barely see her small figure against a fjord wall that rose thousands of feet into soggy clouds.
Just then, I heard a sharp crack. Turning quickly toward the glacier, I saw the skyscraper-sized pillar topple into the sea, sending an explosion
of water and ice 150 feet into the air. The roar was terrifying as icebergs and 15-foot waves crashed against the granite shore bordering the glacier.
Seconds later, another top-to-bottom section collapsed, echoing like a bomb blast against the surrounding mountains.
I could only watch as the waves approached, giant wrinkles in icy water, and soon I was rising and falling eight feet, with bergs grinding
against my boat. The entire mile-long fjord was alive with rolling waves and the sound of crackling icebergs.
All in a Day's Work
I am a kayak ranger. More accurately, I am a U.S. Forest Service wilderness ranger who happens to travel by sea kayak. I work in the Tongass
National Forest, in one of southeast Alaska's most spectacular wilderness areas, where high mountains covered in ice and snow rise directly
from the sea, and three enormous glaciers flow to the ocean from the Canadian border. In southeast Alaska's intimate blending of land and
sea, I commonly encounter bears, mink, otter, humpbacks and orca while on the job.
But those are just perks of the workplace. The actual job is monitoring and protecting parts of the national forest that are designated
wilderness: lands managed to retain their pristine condition. Along with four other rangers, I work full-time for six months each year.
For most of the season, we patrol the wilderness by sea kayak for nine-day stints -- enough time to travel parts of the area's extensive
shoreline and contact widely dispersed visitors. After nine days, we spend one day at the office writing reports and maintaining gear,
then take four days off to recuperate before the next outing.
The Forest Service supports three kayak ranger crews in Alaska, with between two and six employees in each crew. They are the agency's
eyes and ears in Misty Fiords National Monument near Ketchikan, the Tracy Arm-Fords Terror Wilderness near Juneau, and the Nellie Juan-College
Fjord Wilderness Study Area in Prince William Sound.
But before you request an application, you should know that parts of southeast Alaska receive more than 200 inches of rain annually and
that the mean temperature in July is a hypothermia-inducing 56ûF. The ocean temperature is somewhere in the low 40s and much colder near
the glaciers. Then consider the steep and rocky shores -- difficult places to land a fully loaded sea kayak, particularly in pouring rain -- and
the nearly impenetrable rain forest that borders the sea. The conditions are inhospitable, to say the least.
"I prepare for the season by whacking myself on the forehead with a two-by-four for 30 minutes each morning," says Kevin Hood, a wild-haired
Californian of 33 with a boyish enthusiasm for the outdoors. "Then," he continued, "I take a freezing-cold shower with all my clothes on.
Still, I never feel prepared."
Kayak rangers tend to move from one project to another. Like most wilderness rangers, our crew is involved in a variety of projects that
help us manage and understand our area, provide education and assist with research.
For instance, Misty Fiords kayak rangers coordinate with botanists and biologists to survey flora and fauna and find rare species, creating
a snapshot of southeast Alaska's plant and wildlife communities. In Prince William Sound, kayak rangers have worked with the National Outdoor
Leadership School (NOLS) and Alaska Pacific University to better understand the impact visitors have on popular campsites, which will guide
management decisions.
So what was I doing stuck in the ice?
Prior to my run-in with the collapsing ice pillar, I had spent three days with two rangers camped a quarter-mile from a tidewater glacier
in Tracy Arm, where we gathered data on harbor seals for the state wildlife agency and the University of Alaska Southeast. The data,
including population counts and behavior trends, established baseline population estimates and may help explain the recent and sharp
decline of seals in parts of Alaska.
As I'd learned long ago, nothing is as simple as it sounds with this job. First, just arriving at "seal camp" was challenging. After kayaking
30 miles of narrow fjord -- usually two eight-hour days including breaking and setting camp each day -- we had to push through thick ice to a rocky
bluff a quarter-mile from the glacier. Between calvings, which sent big waves crashing against the bluff, we landed our boats and carried our
gear 40 feet up slippery crags to a lumpy ledge barely suitable for camping.
Making camp -- tying boats to boulders, setting tents, bear-proofing our food by hanging it from a cliff -- consumed several hours, then we had to
establish our research station, about 350 feet up the 5,000-foot mountain looming above camp.
In light rain, we carried dry bags full of tarps, binoculars, spotting scopes, tripods and data forms up a series of steep cliffs covered in
dense brush. At one point, we crossed an avalanche deposition from the past winter, strewn with the torn fur and mashed bones of an unlucky
goat that had perished in one of the slides.
At 350 feet, we reached an exposed ledge with a view straight down at the fjord, a mile-wide body of green ocean covered in icebergs ranging
in size from hockey pucks to houses. In spring, more than a thousand seals congregate on the bergs to give birth to their pups. From 350 feet,
they looked dark and sausage-shaped, but powerful binoculars provided close-up views without disturbing them.
In the following days, we settled into a routine: After breakfast on the bluffs by camp, we hiked to the research station by 8 A.M. and began
hours of seal counts and observations. Although a glacial wind blowing cold showers made huddling under a tarp uncomfortable, southeast Alaska's
dynamic nature provided endless entertainment -- the glacier released enormous calvings, occasional avalanches roared down nearby mountains and
bald eagles flew low sorties over the ice pack looking for afterbirth or stillborn seal pups. Between 10 A.M. and 2 P.M. each day, up to 20
tour and pleasure boats entered the icy bay for a view of the glacier.
Each afternoon, we hiked back to camp and cooked dinner close to the water. Steep cliffs prevented much hiking, so after dinner, we watched
the glacier, read or retreated to the tents if it rained.
Sleep was fitful at best. Darkness didn't arrive until after 11 P.M., the glacier calved loudly all night, and the arrival of light at 3:00
in the morning aroused a chorus of songbirds right outside the tents.
Although the setting was spectacular, I was glad to leave seal camp on the fourth day for tamer surroundings and possibly some better
sleep. Our other two rangers needed help removing an abandoned boat from a beach 30 miles away, so the next morning, I lowered my kayak
down the bluffs, quickly loaded my gear, then launched on the frigid water.
Fifteen minutes later, I was stuck in the ice.
