BUCKET LIST ITEM #7 – HUBBARD GLACIER
Named after the first president of The National Geographic Society, Hubbard Glacier is worthy of the magazine. For a start, it’s remote. Very remote. And it’s massive. Very massive. The largest tidal glacier in North America. With more than 120km in length, 13km wide at the water edge, and 100 meters high, few things can rival the Hubbard experience. To get there, we had to forgo some of our prejudices and bid farewell to a decadent amount of cash. It was worth it, though. This is why…
The low-hanging cloud disappears as the small band of adventurers slips quietly towards the white-and-blue-ish wall in the distance. Although it’s sunny, I feel no warmth. Tiny rocks of ice dot the placid waters, lending this mid-July noon an almost surreal quality. Looking back, the once mammoth Radiance of the Seas is getting smaller by the minute, reduced to a distant dinghy far out in the Yakulat Bay. The glacier ahead, on the other hand, is colossal. Surrounded on three sides by white spires 3,000 meters tall, the scene is one for which the phrase “words will fail to describe” was made.
As we sail up the narrow Disenchantment Fiord (How do they come up with those names?!), we notice small chunks of ice breaking off the top and crashing into the water below. Only when we get closer do we realize that perspective is a tricky bastard. With 100 meters above sea level, these falling chunks are as small as a bus. Larger will follow later.
Unlike any other
I read once that visiting Hubbard Glacier is one of those Alaskans’ “musts”. Now that I’m finally nearing its base, I can understand why. It’s more than just impressive. Out of the truly gigantic natural wonders out there – Victoria Falls, the high Himalayas, Iguazu, Yosemite Valley, to name but a few – Hubbard is unique because it keeps on changing. Not only does it constantly break its edges off, losing about 4-5 meters every summer day, but it’s also moving ahead, like a slow, frozen river about 7-8 meters a day. Yes, that’s not a mistake. You see, Hubbard is one of the very few glaciers in today’s world that’s GROWING!
For most of us, global warming means shorter winters, less snow, and retreating icecaps. In some unfortunate places, like in our own Middle East neighborhood, global warming also means less precipitation. Not in the upper reaches of the Pacific Northwest, though. There, global warming translates into more clouds, which pour more water onto the high mountain ranges that line the Alaska Panhandle. This makes the region one of the wettest in the world. Nearby Ketchikan, Alaska (Alaska’s 3rd largest city, although with about 8,000 residents, that’s not saying much) registers close to 4,000mm a year! Eight times London’s!
Being so far up north, with mountain peaks rising to over 3,000 meters, these waters mostly fall as snow. Over time, with additional layers of snow pressing down, the bottom layer compacts into ice that flows into a glacier that moves faster than it melts. Voila! Global warming leads to advancing glaciers. Well, at least in southeastern Alaska. Now, geopolitical arguments aside, how did we get here in the first place?
Get a cruise
I know many swear by them, but my wife and I never fancied a cruise. The size, the congestion, and the feeling of being a tiny cog in a massive consumer tourism apparatus simply weren’t for us. That is, until we had no other choice. Short of flying your own seaplane or hiring one at extortionate rates, there is simply no other way of getting to this remote part of the planet. And remote it is. At 60°N, 139°W, the massive Hubbard Glacier has no access roads or trails.
As a matter of fact, the nearest road is in Canada, more than 150km away, and in another time zone. The nearest major city is almost 600km away, and that is if you consider Anchorage a “major city”, and not the remote dump that it is. Otherwise, you’ll have to venture all the way to Vancouver, and that’s 1,700km southeast in a straight line. It’s 10,000km, flying through the North Pole to get back home. Just in case you were wondering.
So we booked expensive cruise tickets for the kids and us, and flew all the way to Anchorage. From there, a four-hour scenic train ride took us to the tiny port of Seward, where our ship, a 290 m-long leviathan called Radiance of the Seas, awaited. Tucked between tall snowy mountains and deep blue sea, Seward feels every bit like the end of the world that it is. Very beautiful and very remote. The sort of remote that compels you to wonder who the hell chooses to call this place home?! I can only assume these would be folks who really like beautiful short summers and long dark winters, and… have no other choices.
Hubbard not good enough for you? Here are some other Bucket List items that's worth your attention * Bucket List Item #4 - Sturgis * Bucket List Item #5 - Balloons over Bagan * Bucket List Item #6 - Victoria Falls
Anchors away!
We do not linger to ask the locals; instead, we settle into our spacious cabins on deck 10 to unpack our cases. Then, donning a heavy coat, we step out into the upper deck to admire the stunning view as the ship lifts anchor and sails away into the open sea. Alaska is a big country, about the same size as Western Europe. Sailing from Seward to Hubbard takes almost a full day. We’re lucky to have sunny skies, somewhat of a rarity in these rain-heavy parts.
The massive cruise ship sails on silently, over the calm Pacific Ocean, as evening turns into night. Only the cold breeze and the constantly changing scenery give away the journey. Come 11pm, and with a late-night sun hovering just over the northern horizon, we venture again to the top deck. The views over the mountain range that make up the Alaska Panhandle are, simply put, out of this world.
Not a good day for socialists
Following a good night’s sleep, we wake into a not-so-sunny morning. A low-lying blanket of thick clouds obscures anything higher than a couple of hundred meters. I remind myself that the sun is rare here, peaking in between the clouds once every ten-or-so days. At least it isn’t raining, not yet, anyway. Disappointed, but not surprised, we all head to the elevator and press “Deck 2”. This lower deck contains the ship’s onboarding facilities as well as a row of less expensive cabins. If you ever wanted to visit Hubbard on a budget, clap your hands, ‘cause Deck 2 was made for you. The rest of you can just rattle your jewelry as you look down on the poor hobos from your upstairs residences. It’s incredible how cruise ships double as both a means of transportation and a microcosm of capitalism and class hierarchy. Up yours, Karl Marx!
Onto Hubbard
Experiencing Hubbard Glacier comes in two different flavors: you can stay on the mother ship and view it from afar, or, if you happen to be of the adventurous kind, you can book a closer tour operated through smaller local boats. We, with about a hundred like-minded souls chose the closer encounter. Onboarding the boats is done at sea and operated with impressive efficiency. Two small vessels arrive ahead of time and anchor to the side of the Radiance. The whole process takes no more than ten minutes. We wave goodbye to the other 1,900 passengers and 1,000 crew members as our vessel sails away into the narrow Disenchantment Fiord.
Just to be clear, coming all the way to Hubbard and staying on the ship is, in my humble view, a mistake (like, duh). Why 95% of the cruise passengers collectively choose to make this mistake? That one is beyond me. The first sign of us making the right choice comes about 5 minutes later, when, upon entering the fjord, we discover that the low-lying clouds did not reach inland beyond the outer bay. Full, bright blue skies greet us as we enter. I previously wrote that words would fail to describe the scenery, but please indulge me while I try my best.
Disorientingly large
Starting from the left, the northern side of the narrow Disenchantment Bay is cut short by a string of vertical rocks jutting straight from the water edge to about 1,200 meters high. Behind them and out of view, the St. Elias Mountains continue to snake upwards, reaching all the way up to Mt. Logan, 6km high. Logan is the second-tallest mountain in North America. Watching him, however, will not happen today. Tucked in the deep valley between these rocks and the Mt. Cook range, Turner Glacier snakes its way down to the water. 35km long, Turner is also expanding rapidly. It would have easily made the top of anyone’s wish list had it not ended right next to Hubbard. Next to it, the all-white 4,200-meter-high peak of Mt. Cook bristles in impressive isolation. Continuing clockwise, we come up to the main reason we’re here, Hubbard.
With a hundred-meter-high cliff, the mammoth glacier stretches for 13km in a fan shape. Framed from behind by the 3,000m top of Mt. Seattle and the 2,300m Mt. Jette, we can only see the first 8km. The additional 5 are hidden behind Point Gibson. Gibson marks the end of a wedge-shaped land protrusion that defines Disenchantment Bay’s southern side and ends just before the Glacier. The narrow (and treacherous) gap between Gibson Point and Hubbard leads to Russel Fiord and is off limits. The Glacier continues for another 5km past that point, and its advance is expected to meet with Gibson and completely block Russel, turning it from a Fiord into a Lake. Stay tuned.
Action! Action, again!
With such a rapid advance (and melt), over such a wide front, anything can happen and frequently does. A loud “Crack!” signifies another part of Hubbard succumbing to heat and gravity. We set our phones and cameras as quickly as we can to capture, if not the break itself, then at least the photogenic splash it makes when it hits the waters below. The local onboard guide says that this kind of drop normally happens once a tour, and that we’re lucky to witness it, when another chunk of ice gives way on the other side of the boat. Then another, and another.
To this day, I have no idea whether the numerous ice cracks we recorded that day were signs of divine intervention, the result of a rare, bright, sunny summer day, or the fact that our “local” guide was in fact a seasonal worker from Ft Lauderdale, Florida. Regardless, I’m now stuck with hundreds of glacier cracking photos; I have no heart to delete them.
Your Martiny is getting warm, Sir
It’s easy to lose perspective, surrounded exclusively by super-sized objects. Luckily, we have another sister boat on the tour. You get dizzy just by looking at it and realize how big everything around you really is. That includes the cave in front of us. Carved right at the water’s edge and with a ceiling that I can only assume is about 10 stories high, it sports its very own ice-melt waterfall. A never-ending gush of greyish, muddy waters from the glacier’s bottom. Our guide says this is extremely rare and a sign of a major breakoff. I’ve seen a few of these on Instagram, and they’re mighty impressive. The other aficionados on the craft have probably seen similar videos, so they all collectively decide to wait and see what happens, in vain.
So, with multiple med-sized crashes, but without a major glacial collapse, it’s time to get back. We all take turns holding a solid piece of ice that one of the crew members fished out of the water. It looks exactly like your ordinary fridge ice cube, only bigger, heavier, and much colder to hold. We wave goodbye to a colony of Sea Lions dozing on a tiny island in the middle of the Fiord. They look spectacular against the snowy topography. We honor them with a few additional photos before heading out to our cruise ship in Yakutat Bay.
We have a dinner booking at Deck 6th Grill House, and we are terribly late for our first Martini.
