What many of my photos can’t show you is the scale of the environment around us. Everyone knows Alaska is big, but they often don’t realize how big until they have an opportunity to visit. The raft in this photo is about one-quarter of a mile away (402 meters); as you can see, we are dwarfed by our surroundings. We waited around this morning before departing camp, “Maybe the weather will clear?” Nope, it’s overcast and lying down low.

As has been routine during this journey, we need drinking water, and what better place to collect it than from a mountain stream crashing into the Alsek? We pull up, drive-through-like, and while holding onto some tree limbs, our boatman leans out, dipping a 5-gallon canister into the fastest-moving water until it’s full. We let go and drift away, and then the next boatman takes our place, filling his can and so on until we have enough water for the day. I wish I could share with you how amazing it is to drink fresh water that is untreated, -stored, -piped, -filtered, or otherwise touched by mankind. It is cold, fresh, and even a bit daring. How many of us don’t know what freshwater is, aside from it flowing out of a tap in our home? And so when we have this golden opportunity to get our first taste of “free-range” water, there is a moment of apprehension in which we playback the fear-mongering news about how all of our natural water sources are now polluted, are becoming rarer, carry microbes that can make us sick, but here we are taking water from mountain streams every day and living to tell the story. Next time I’m in Alaska, taking a drink from a fast-moving cascade of falling water will be my first indulgence.

Here we are, just seven days away from the 4th of July, with all the ambiance of winter surrounding us. This is deceiving as everything can change around the corner, and it often does. I consider myself lucky to have had this view. Should every day have been sunny, I would have left the Alsek with no idea what the area might look like during the months travelers cannot venture into this area of Alaska. Instead, I will have had a glimpse of those long winters that begin in late September and run through late May – with the added benefit of daylight!

Sure, there is the wondering of what lies hidden above the shroud, intrigue even, but this leaves us with a mystery that only the imagination can fill in. For me, maybe there’s a Yeti just out of sight, probably not, but you can’t see above the clouds to verify it wasn’t there.

Out of winter and into springtime, or is it now summer? We pulled ashore on a narrow beach to share some lunch. Our landing serves two purposes though, the second being this is a great location for a short hike that would let the boatmen scout the entry into Alsek Lake.

I know this is nothing more than rock, but how often in our urban lives do we see signs of a wild nature that used to be the earth we live on? I leave this here as my reminder that the details found in nature are not always easily explained, nor do they obey any laws of conformity or symmetry. I wonder how many of my fellow travelers took the time to see these details. From my observations, close to none.

This is the most beautiful flower ever discovered on the Alsek River in Alaska. It was surrounded by strawberry plants that, later in the season attest to its beauty by growing what must surely be the sweetest berries in all Alaska. The paw prints of a mighty large grizzly let us know that this patch belongs to a particular bear who must be awaiting its maturation; we choose not to wait for him.

The riot of color that bursts forth after viewing so much monochromatic landscape has been known to cause lasting damage to the eyesight of those not prepared for such an abrupt reintroduction to the palette of hues and tints that can be found in Alaskan wildflowers, such as with this example of Indian Paintbrush. A welder’s mask would do those folks well here.

Over the hill and out of the blooming fields, we catch our first look at Alsek Lake. I would have shown you greater breadth, but maybe you don’t have the experience of seeing the immensity of nature in one fell sighting. So try these bits of bergs mirrored in the stillness of the lake, admire the blue ice cube in the background, and be dazzled by the reflection of the mountain tops that are just out of sight.

The majority of our group has taken off. The doors to Alsek Lake cannot be seen from this perspective; another lookout with a better overview is required, and that is where they left to. In order to enter the lake, there are three “doors” that can be used. The first door is also known as “The Channel of Death.” You can enter through Door Number 1, but it’s not the best choice. Once taken, there is no way out besides getting through the lake. You risk encountering big icebergs, and if they block the way, well, there is no portaging over them. The next choice is Door Number 2, better but not ideal. The door you want to use is Door Number 3, but, and you knew there was a but, Door Number 3 is a shallow channel. Not only might it be too shallow to run, but on a previous Alsek trip for our boatman Bruce, the first two doors could not be taken, and Door Number 3 was still frozen over – portage time.

No, this is not a self-portrait, though I would like to have sat next to the iceberg-filled lake and grown like moss on a log. We agreed to meet the rest of the group back at the beach we stopped for lunch. Time to go.

We are passing through Door Number 3 on calm, shallow water. We admire the landscape while Bruce finds the deeper channels.

This is how shallow the water is, mere inches deep. It’s possible that in a day or two, or maybe in the previous days, this channel may have been high and dry; today, luck is on our side.

Here’s Shaun having successfully exited Door Number 3, which’s right behind him. In the bucket and mounted on the back of the raft is some sorry-wet wood that will be used for our fire should we not find sufficient supplies once we land.

As you can see surrounding our tents, there was plenty of driftwood in this camp. Moments after shooting this photo we heard a loud rumble in the lake but could not make out what rolled over. What we could see was a large wave radiating out and toward us. I was ready to head for the hills when we saw that the low-lying area of the lake in front of us diverted the wave left and right. All of a sudden, it became clear why there was so much driftwood on this shore – when really big stuff rolls over, the wave must be so large that it washes over this shore and deposits its collection of firewood here for easy access to the campers who call this home. Great, now how am I supposed to sleep knowing a lake tsunami could wash in overnight?

Caution: Merge Ahead! Mist is seen in the distance rising off the waters of the Tatshenshini River; the combined rivers are about to get mighty big. The ‘Tat,” as it is popularly known, is about to be consumed by the Alsek. On any other day, we might have seen other rafters paddling over there as those who opt to travel the Tat end up joining the Alsek. Fortunately, there isn’t much traffic through here, so no need to worry about collisions with other rafters or rush hour creating long waits to continue the journey downriver. By the way, see all that snow? It is almost July!

Time to collect firewood, as our trip leader, who knows this river well, isn’t sure we’ll be successful further downstream. Our landing is an island; behind us is the Alsek, and in front of us is the Tat – this is the riverbed of the combined rivers. It’s a peculiar notion that maybe a few days ago, this area was fully submerged or that in a day or two, it will once again have the waters of the Tatshenshini/Alsek spilling over it, but today we will scour it for driftwood.

This is our trip leader, Shaun Cornish. Like most boatmen, the guy is a difficult read. One characteristic I have found in the small sampling of boatmen I’ve encountered is that they all seem to possess a sense of brooding. I’m most likely wrong about this, as they are probably just so different than those of us who call big cities home, that they fall into a category of people most of us are unfamiliar with. After all, who else among us in our daily adult lives has so much responsibility for nearly everything we do? These guides into the wilds hope to see us travel safely; they feed us, look after our waste, are usually up before us, and go to sleep well after we do. Their decisions and the chemistry of their personalities will dictate many factors of how we will adapt to our environment and those around us. The load they endure and the torment of their bodies to work for us, who are almost without care, is admirable but may also go unseen by those who are not in tune with the sacrifice these hearty characters offer. I doubt they see themselves as anything special; they are slaves to the beauty of a place that mystifies and inspires them to their core, and so take solace that there are those of us who pay for them to once again visit these lands that defy understanding.

We are now in Alaska! We are also apparently heading into a place known as – The End Glacier. It appears that this is the end of the trail because, from our perspective, there is nowhere to go up ahead. The suspense is growing,  just where does the river flow? What we do know right now is that it’s also really cold out here, so cold that up ahead where you can see a thin layer of mist rising off the water; well in fact, that mist is coming off an ice sheet. Suspense gives way to nervousness as we approach the ice sheet. It’s well over a foot thick, and initially, I can’t see a break in it. This could be serious at any step along this journey; if we find an insurmountable obstacle we can’t navigate around, that’s the end of the trip! We’ve heard the stories by now of crazy portages where passengers and crew can spend a day or two hauling gear over rough terrain just so they don’t have to quit their adventure before it’s really over. As you’ll see in the coming photos, we made our way past the ice sheet and found a way through, and without a portage over the ice or mountains. And which way does the river flow? Book yourself a journey into the amazing and find out on your own – you won’t be disappointed.

No photo, no words, no video can convey the feelings of passing under these towering snow-covered mountains that rise up almost right next to the river. The raft cruises along at about nine mph (15km). We might as well be on the Autobahn at these speeds or maybe there are drugs for dilating time to suspend one’s self in extended minutes that would appear to be hours or days where the imagination is allowed to linger in the splendor. This is the same problem I found in the Grand Canyon when presented with this kind of spectacle of beauty; the mind aches to consume every last vision of what it’s trying to grasp, but this is too much to take in with one viewing – oh, to be a boatman.

There it is, our next stop – Walker Glacier. Think about what you are seeing; those are full-height trees in front of the glacier. We are looking at a mountain of ice, and tonight, we camp in its shadow.

We landed, unpacked, set up camp, and immediately left for some serious bushwhacking. Through the muck and into the intertwined knot of brush, we cut a path, trying to find our way to the glacier made invisible by this thicket. It was all going well until on the other side of these trees when we came upon a steep embankment of gravel that my vertigo rebelled against. Neither the mind nor body wanted to overcome this bit of daredevil dance on the loose rocky earth. Again, I was foiled by the anxiety brought on by vertigo. I’d like to tell you how shitty it is to be stopped in my tracks and not being able to experience the next great part of this adventure, but I’m more at ease with the situation. You see, I look at it like this, “How much is enough?” Every moment of every day out here is nothing short of stupendous. I live in constant delight, and if this, that, or something else is allowed to be the defining moment of this journey, then I miss out on recognizing that everything up to this point was worthy of the greatest accolades one could offer. When the icing is already 1000 feet deep, what’s another inch?

Now, while I couldn’t get over my fears, that didn’t stop my wife! It took a lot of strength to turn my back on Caroline, knowing that she would be crossing this rock slide I couldn’t manage, but I did not want to deny her the excitement of what might be her only opportunity to walk on a glacier, and she was happy she did. This photo was taken as the rest of the group was crossing over the lateral moraine before connecting with the glacier. A moraine is a deposit of dirt and rocks that the glacier pushes forward or to the side as it extends.

Once out on the glacier, Caroline said it was like walking on air. While difficult to see in the photos, looking down, you could see through the ice. Shaun warned the group not to jump around, no horseplay, do not step on snowy patches, and stay together. Yes, that’s a stream running over the glacier.

In some places, you can take peeks deep into the heart of the ice: crevasses filled with ice melt. Impossible to gauge is how deep these channels are; one thing that is easy to surmise: falling into the freezing cold water and trying to crawl out on the ice would be tricky business. My knees buckle at the idea of standing on the edge of these intriguing blue slices on Walker Glacier.

This is how moraines are made; what earth and rocks that haven’t fallen to the side of the glacier will likely be taken all the way to the river? This giant golden boulder may have landed on the glacier thousands of years ago; next year, it might not be found again, or maybe it will remain where we left it; the glacier will determine its fate.

Look closely around the small patch of moss that is not soil; those small rocks and the hint of dirt are sitting on top of glacial ice; it’s just enough for life to take hold.

This is the reason you don’t stand on the snow; you never know what it might be hiding. There is no bottom down there, none that can be seen anyway. How deep does it go? Are the depths filled with a pool for freezing water? Maybe a river is flowing down there? Lucky us, no one on our trip slipped to find out. Caroline filled a bottle from one of the glacial streams with water so I could have my own Walker Glacier encounter. We dined on fajitas and talked late into the night. This was also my coming of age regarding the burning of the football. I finally got it right! In River Speak, the football is the brown paper bag of used toilet paper that sits next to the toilet. Toilet paper creates bulk, and we have very limited space; not only that, but it also creates weight, and at the end of the trip, everything will be flown out – everything. Except what can be burned. And so, at the end of the day, when all of the passengers have gone to sleep, the last boatman awake collects the brown paper bag. Picking it up wearing rubber gloves, the gloves are peeled off and wrapped around the bag full of TP  – until it almost resembles a football. Now with no one else around to smell the burning shit and latex, the football is punted, passed, or tossed into the fire. But this is also where I still need some work on my river skills: while I can roll the ball around to cook away the ugly concoction, I have not yet mastered the Fire Donut. Shaun has attempted to teach me the art of creating the ring of embers, which, in boatman theory, arranges the remnants of our campfire into a perfect form that almost guarantees that by morning, only ash will remain. We aim for efficiency to travel wisely, to travel lightly, and to learn the sage lessons these people of the river can offer us night owls.