The Glacier

It was one of those panicked instants in time when my mind seems to split into two personalities and the logical personality is scolding the emotional personality. Striding onto the ice was actually an impulsive decision made by both parts of my mind. The emotional part was excited about exploring the first glacier I’d ever gotten this close too and was eager to walk on it. The logical part of my mind simply relied too much on visible data. The ice looked rough and dirty so it shouldn’t be slippery. But the rash eagerness came from the emotions of my heart. Without that eagerness my logical mind might have moved on to think that it is ice and the slope is steep; maybe I should test it before putting all my weight on it. After hiking 4 miles over rugged Alaskan mountain landscape the transition from steeply sloping gravel running down to my left, to rough, dirty ice at the same slope didn’t seem like a big change. I realized my error too late as my foot flew down that slope with almost no resistance, and for an instant I fell weightlessly toward the earth.

By the time my ears recorded the “THUD!” my mind was already working ahead, anticipating the force of gravity pulling my 175 pound, 5 foot, 9.5 inch body (with about 10 pounds of cloths, water, food and gear in my day pack) violently against the rock-hard surface. My mind didn’t dwell much on being body slammed against the glacial ice because it was immediately focused on the fact that I was sliding. With a sound similar to wood sliding forcefully over course sandpaper, rising in pitch with my speed, I rapidly accelerated down the mountainside in a little icy channel kind of like a bobsled run, only I had no sled and no way of steering.

Immediately my logical mind stopped scolding my emotional side as they united in a near panicked emergency response mode. I was accelerating down a steep grade with no visible stopping point. I didn’t know if this slide would end in falling over a cliff, dropping into some endless glacial crevice, or maybe even joining an ice water stream and tumbling down a waterfall! The only thing I could think to do was to start rolling toward the edge of the ice, hoping that the loose gravel would slow my slide. I flailed my arms and legs desperately turning my body into a lumpy cylinder rolling sideways across the steep slope. It seemed like a long time, but was probably only a second or two when I hit the gravel face down. Spreading my arms and legs out and digging in with my hands and feet quickly stole my kinetic energy and reduced my momentum. Thank God for friction! My high school physics teacher would be proud that I considered the physics involved in my near death experience. I had always been fascinated with physics, the science of how the physical universe works. Within 3 years I would be working on a master’s degree in physics to become an air force physicist specializing in lasers. But right now I was an astronautical engineer specializing in orbital dynamics and I was spread-eagle, face down on the side of an Alaskan mountain breathing nervously.

As I rose to my feet I felt very fortunate to have escaped my near fatal blunder with no injuries. I gazed down the slope and considered exploring to see where I would have ended up if I’d kept sliding, but it was a long way down and didn’t look very safe. Instead I climbed back up to the trail where I’d stepped onto the glacier. The trail was just visible at this point because no vegetation had grown along the receding edge of the glacier. The rock face was loosely covered with sand and gravel from the melting ice.

I’d hiked in on a little used trail, but it was still easily visible because plant life is so delicate in this harsh environment. On this gray overcast, but calm day in early August the path cut a narrow ribbon of brown rock and sand across a pale green valley of mixed grass, weeds, tundra plants, and some scrub bushes. There were no trees to speak of. I guessed that this trail was only exposed for a couple months each year since the dark rocky mountains only a few hundred feet above me were still streaked with snow. The higher I gazed the more snow I saw as those jagged gray rocks stabbed themselves more than a thousand feet into the sky over my head.

This image filled my view to the east as I stood now at the edge of my glacier that had been the goal of my hike all morning. Turning west, the contrast was striking. Starting just inches from my feet lay this enormous mass of tortured ice, ranging from blue-gray to white in color, streaked with dark gray rock and dirt that the glacier had scraped from the rocky mountainside over thousands of years. The ice formed sharp peaks, cracks, and crevasses everywhere. There were trickling streams and puddles of melt water in each icy ravine.

Determined not to be defeated by one near-fatal mistake I carefully made my way up the gravely slope looking for a more level surface where I might actually climb onto the glacier without falling. Within 20 minutes I found a spot where a large crevasse in the glacier narrowed to a small horizontal trench that I could step onto easily. A small stream of water trickled out of the channel, soaking into the gravel at my feet. This time I stepped carefully onto the ice, testing my traction. Since the ice was relatively level I could sand on it without falling. The stream of water was only half an inch deep so I could walk without soaking my boots. Occasionally I had to detour up the side of the trough to avoid a puddle, struggling to stay on my feet as the incline of the ice increased. A few times I had to use my hands on the ice crawling like a bear to keep from sliding down into the puddles of water.

It was slow going, but after about 30 minutes I found a spot in the ravine that widened into a shallow bowl with a small gray puddle of water in the middle. There were a few ledges around the edge of the bowl with an ice cliff rising almost straight up on the north side. Beyond the ledge on the south side of the bowl the ice rose more gradually, but still too steep to climb and high enough to block my view of the anything but the gray sky overhead. It was misting so I pulled my orange rain poncho from my backpack and decided to eat my lunch here.

I always enjoy eating when I’m hiking. The exercise, the fresh air, the beautiful outdoors all work together to make every bite a more sensuous experience, even though my meals are usually quite simple. I think this lunch included some carrots, a turkey and cheese sandwich, an apple, and some trail mix or a granola bar.

As I finished eating I decided to take a picture of myself so I set my camera on the ledge where I’d been sitting for lunch, adjusted the aperture and shutter speed for the lighting conditions, focused on the ledge on the other side of the bowl, and pushed the shutter button. Jogging across the bowl I stepped right in the center of the little gray puddle at the bottom which appeared to be only a half inch deep. Suddenly I was falling again. When I caught myself with my hands my right leg was thigh-deep in the murky gray water and my foot had felt nothing solid. I yanked my leg out so quickly that the ice-water never penetrated my boot, but my pant leg was pretty soaked.

Not missing a beat I strode on over to the ledge where I’d focused my camera, sat down, and smiled just before the shutter tripped. As I returned to retrieve my camera I gazed at the little gray puddle of water, amazed that it could be so deep, and then it struck me. That wasn’t just a little puddle on the ice. It must be an opening to a crevasse in the glacier. It could have been 3 feet deep or 30 feet deep. If my left foot had slipped forward into the water I could have disappeared in that little 32 degree (F, 0 degrees C) puddle of water never to be seen again.

Feeling I had cheated death twice in half a day I figured I’d better head back before my luck changed. Suddenly I felt foolish for taking on such an adventure all alone. Years later while serving as a scoutmaster for Boy Scout Troop 105 in Lake Ann Michigan I would tell this story to emphasize the importance of the buddy system that we enforced so strictly on scout outings.

The only reason I was out here alone was because my hiking buddy, David Stischer, hadn’t arrived yet. Stisch (as we affectionately called him) graduated one year ahead of me at the Air Force Academy. He flew F-16 single seat fighter jets at Torrejon Air Force Base (AFB) in Madrid, Spain while I was stationed at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, Florida putting satellites in orbit. We had done a lot of hiking, climbing, and back-packing in Colorado and had decided to catch hops to Alaska to further our adventures.

Hops are when military personnel are allowed to fly free on USAF aircraft on a space available basis. I just went to the Patrick AFB flight terminal and caught the first flight going north or east. Whatever base I flew to I’d put my name on a list for the next empty seat going north or east until I found one going to Alaska.

Stisch and I had a mutual friend named Tim Rorick who flew C-130 cargo planes out of Elmendorf AFB in Anchorage Alaska. We had made arrangements to stay with Tim and his wife, Bonnye, while we prepared for our backpacking adventures. As it turned out, my last hop into Alaska was a C-130 bound for Elmendof AFB. I can’t remember now whether it originated at McChord AFB, Fairchild AFB, or Travis AFB, but that doesn’t really matter. As I waited to board the aircraft I thought to myself that a C-130 bound for Elmendorf could well be piloted by my friend Tim Rorick, USAFA Class of 1982! So, after we were airborne I asked the crew chief (an enlisted airman responsible for the cargo) if Lieutenant Rorick was on board. He smiled real big and said, “Yes! He’s our co-pilot. Do you know him?” So I explained that I was 2 years behind him at the USAF Academy and am on my way to visit him and stay at his house. So he asked my name and said he’d let the Lieutenant know I was on board. A few minutes later he returned and escorted me to the cockpit where Tim and I greeted each other warmly. Tim let me sit in the pilot’s seat and fly the plane for a few minutes.

I hadn’t seen Tim in over 3 years. Tim, Stisch, and I all attended a group in Colorado Springs called “His Bible Study” that met every Friday night at the home of a wonderful married couple named Phil and Mary Meinert for singing, bible study, and fellowship. We often met at different times to socialize. One of our favorite hangouts was the Trail Dust Steakhouse.

All this extraneous detail is making a short story long. The reason I was hiking alone is because Stisch wasn’t as lucky as I was in catching hops to Alaska. Since I was there a few days before Stisch I borrowed Tim’s car and drove out to this trail I’d found on a map that looked like an easy hike to a glacier. I’d never been on a glacier and wanted to climb on one.

As I hiked back down the trail I thought to myself about all the mistakes I’d made that day. Stepping carelessly onto the glacial ice wasn’t my first mistake. Heading out alone was reckless, but heading out without telling anyone else where I was going was just plain stupid. It would have been so easy for me to show Tim and Bonnye the trail on the map and the glacier that was my goal for the day. If I’d fallen and injured myself they’d have no idea where to look for me.

I smiled ironically and shuddered a little thinking that if I’d disappeared in that water filled crevasse on the glacier someone likely would have reported an abandoned car at the trail head after a few days. Then searchers would explore down the trail. Eventually someone would have probably discovered my backpack and camera set on timer. They would develop the film and find a host of beautiful Alaskan landscape photos including some awesome images of rugged glacier. The last photo would be a boring shot of a dirty ice ledge with a little puddle of gray water in the foreground, and they’d wonder, “Why did he take this picture with the timer, and where did he go?”

That wasn’t the end of my dangerous adventures, but after that I never did anything quite that dangerous alone.