It’s midday at Sheridan Glacier, and I’m sweating. The sun reflects off the shimmering faces of nearby icebergs that drift through a turquoise lake of silty meltwater. Some chunks are the size of buildings, while others are more like rundown shacks with broken windows. It’s 71 degrees Fahrenheit.

 

Behind our guide and good friend, Anna Rath, my partner and I kayak out toward this city of bergs. At first, it’s eerily quiet, but a light chorus of cracking and dripping fills our ears as we paddle in closer, finding shade beneath a high wall of bright blue ice.

 

A small crevice catches my eye. I thrust my hand forward. It fits perfectly around the ice, not unlike the handle of a car door. I pull back gently and watch the ice shift and crack around my hand. Water drips up my arm toward my elbow, and my hair stands on end. I look up and notice a new larger crack has formed overhead. We paddle away. Quickly.

 

Around each corner is a new shape and color. The faces and features that surround us, carved by small streams and waterfalls that cascade into the lake below, hold a deep geologic history. Once confined, they are now revealed in shades of iridescent blue and white as they melt away due to a recent heat wave. In the past week, temperatures throughout southeast Alaska have surged to record-breaking highs. Yesterday, Anchorage, a half-hour plane-ride from our home base in nearby Cordova, experienced the hottest day in Alaskan history. It was the Fourth of July.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Known for a series of prominent concentric rings that mark its furthest position in the late Pleistocene, the active push and pull of Sheridan has left its mark on the surrounding Chugach mountains. The most recent advance, in 1968, saw Sheridan push up into the trees along its terminus. But now it is retreating, and as it retreats it leaves behind barren plains of lakes, ridges of deposited sediment and depressions covered by invading plants. Scientists call it “an excellent place to study the process of revegetation.”

 

After about 20 minutes meandering around the geological relics, Anna tells us it’s time to go. Minutes later, a large boom echoes from over a mile up the glacial valley. It sounds like dynamite. “Yeah, that happens all the time,” Anna says. Over the past few months as a glacier guide, she has watched massive sections of ice calve off from the head of Sheridan and fall into the lake below. Some bobbing bergs will even topple over like a capsizing boat. She’s grown used to it.

 

For the next hour, we watch from a nearby beach as the ice we circled gradually drifts further and further away. The largest chunks have spun nearly 180 degrees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raw and Untamed Landscape

 

Like much of the boundless landscape for which Alaska is known, Sheridan and the glaciers of the Prince William Sound hold a distinct reputation, and a history of grandeur. Though it is a valley glacier, and not formally in the Sound, it too has drawn many with a common goal to witness the raw and untamed landscape of the Last Frontier. Indeed, it is what brought us there too.

 

On July 25th, 1899, the famed and wealthy railroad tycoon Edward Harriman entered the Prince William Sound for what his doctor had prescribed him: a vacation. He took the advice and set sail to hunt the great Kodiak bears of the North. Rather than go alone, Harriman decided to round up a group of explorers for an expedition. Aboard were notable photographers like Edward S. Curtis, artists like Louis Agassiz Fuertes, naturalists like George Bird Grinnell, and John Muir. Several of the glaciers of the region were named after this group.

 

While the expedition’s primary goal was to be among the first to catalogue the region’s biodiversity, historians today argue over Harrimans true incentives. Some think he was considering developing Alaskan resources, like coal and copper. Others believe he was looking to build a railroad bridge through the icy waters of the Bering Strait, and from there, around the world.

 

Many more men with grand ideas would follow. Seven years after Harriman’s expedition, vast plots of copper and oil were found by prospectors near Cordova. The first spike of the Copper River and Northwestern Railway, or CR&NW, began a hunt for what would ignite the boom times of local economies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Funded by J.P. Morgan and the Guggenheim family, the railroad stretched nearly 200 miles over 129 bridges, crossing rivers, creeks and swamps from the mining town of Kennecott to Cordova. One bridge also threaded between two calving glaciers: Childs and Miles. Advancing at a relatively rapid rate of over 8 feet a day, the glaciers left construction workers in constant fear that their progress would be destroyed. Therefore, the bridge needed to withstand icebergs over 20 feet high flowing with the current of the Copper River as it spanned the riverbed’s loose sand and gravel. At its closest, the head of Miles Glacier came within just 1,500 feet of the bridge. In total, the bridge cost $1.5 million and was known as the “Million Dollar Bridge,” but many Alaskans called the CR&NW the “Can’t Run & Never Will Railroad.”

 

On March 29, 1911, a final copper spike nailed into of the CR&NW railroad marked its completion. The first shipment of $250,000 worth of copper ore rode into Cordova. There was much rejoicing.

 

Once an unassuming cannery town, Cordova, seemingly overnight, flourished with copper money. It became a bustling port with hotels, restaurants, saloons, brothels, shops, lumberyards, three churches and a school. Author Katherine Wilson wrote of the dramatic change, saying “the twenty-six saloons that graced the business street have given way to ladies’ specialty shops and fancy groceries.”

 

It wouldn’t last. By 1935, with the Great Depression in full swing and lower quantities of high-quality ore being shipped into town, the price of copper rapidly declined. The mines closed soon thereafter. Later, during World War II, the CR&NW railroad would be used to transport 1,000 U.S. Army soldiers stationed at a nearby airstrip for the 42nd Engineer Regiment to Cordova. “We went to bed one night in a peaceful little town,” writes Myra McDonald, a longtime resident, “and the next morning it was full of jeeps and uniforms.”

 

After the Good Friday earthquake of 1964 destroyed most bridges in the regions, any hope in turning the railway into a public use highway was entirely abandoned. As for the “Million Dollar Bridge,” the earthquake left it damaged. One of its bridge spans slipped off, and it would never be used again. A plaque on the bridge says, “It was considered one of the great engineering feats of all time,”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, others were travelling to the Prince William Sound with a different purpose. Because they were so accessible, the glaciers of the Prince William Sound became some of the earliest glaciers to be documented and studied in depth. Much of what is now known about glaciers todays is owed to the early glaciologists who spent years documenting the region.

 

Among the first to arrive were Ralph Tarr and Lawrence Martin. Their work described the probable course of glacial events that created the Prince William Sound. Icefields that formed high in the surrounding Chugach and Kenai mountains flowed through valleys and tributaries down to two streams, which, over a millennium, united multiple glaciers and stemmed off into different streams that carved out the valleys below. Although it is unknown how far offshore these glaciers flowed, striation marks - ridges, furrows and lines in rocks - suggest one narrow sheet of ice briefly extended nearly 90 miles off the coast to Middleton Island.

 

 In 1925, a geology student named William O. Field came to Cordova to see these glaciers with his own eyes. He had observed photographs of a particular glacier, John Hopkins Glacier, from 1912. But when he arrived and compared the photograph to the real thing, he was stunned. It had already retreated about 7 miles. After reading more in books from glaciologists like Tarr and Martin’s book, Field saw an opportunity to continue their work.

 

Over his illustrious 68-year career, Field would come to be known as “the father of glaciology in North America.” His maps, books, field notes and thousands of photos would become a link to the past and would lay the very framework for how the world would come to understand glacial dynamics.

 

 In 1987, Mark Meier and Austin Post would build off Field’s work to develop their theory of calving glaciers. As global temperatures rise and glaciers worldwide recede more rapidly than ever predicted, this theory has become one of the most important in modern climate science. Field’s work photographing Alaskan glaciers is therefore not only a link to the past, but it has become an integral branch into understanding what might be the future for these geological relics.

 

 

It’s midday at Sheridan Glacier, and I’m sweating. The sun reflects off the shimmering faces of nearby icebergs that drift through a turquoise lake of silty meltwater. Some chunks are the size of buildings, while others are more like rundown shacks with broken windows. It’s 71 degrees Fahrenheit.

 

Behind our guide and good friend, Anna Rath, my partner and I kayak out toward this city of bergs. At first, it’s eerily quiet, but a light chorus of cracking and dripping fills our ears as we paddle in closer, finding shade beneath a high wall of bright blue ice.

 

A small crevice catches my eye. I thrust my hand forward. It fits perfectly around the ice, not unlike the handle of a car door. I pull back gently and watch the ice shift and crack around my hand. Water drips up my arm toward my elbow, and my hair stands on end. I look up and notice a new larger crack has formed overhead. We paddle away. Quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Around each corner is a new shape and color. The faces and features that surround us, carved by small streams and waterfalls that cascade into the lake below, hold a deep geologic history. Once confined, they are now revealed in shades of iridescent blue and white as they melt away due to a recent heat wave. In the past week, temperatures throughout southeast Alaska have surged to record-breaking highs. Yesterday, Anchorage, a half-hour plane-ride from our home base in nearby Cordova, experienced the hottest day in Alaskan history. It was the Fourth of July.

 

Known for a series of prominent concentric rings that mark its furthest position in the late Pleistocene, the active push and pull of Sheridan has left its mark on the surrounding Chugach mountains. The most recent advance, in 1968, saw Sheridan push up into the trees along its terminus. But now it is retreating, and as it retreats it leaves behind barren plains of lakes, ridges of deposited sediment and depressions covered by invading plants. Scientists call it “an excellent place to study the process of revegetation.”

 

After about 20 minutes meandering around the geological relics, Anna tells us it’s time to go. Minutes later, a large boom echoes from over a mile up the glacial valley. It sounds like dynamite. “Yeah, that happens all the time,” Anna says. Over the past few months as a glacier guide, she has watched massive sections of ice calve off from the head of Sheridan and fall into the lake below. Some bobbing bergs will even topple over like a capsizing boat. She’s grown used to it.

 

For the next hour, we watch from a nearby beach as the ice we circled gradually drifts further and further away. The largest chunks have spun nearly 180 degrees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raw and Untamed Landscape

 

Like much of the boundless landscape for which Alaska is known, Sheridan and the glaciers of the Prince William Sound hold a distinct reputation, and a history of grandeur. Though it is a valley glacier, and not formally in the Sound, it too has drawn many with a common goal to witness the raw and untamed landscape of the Last Frontier. Indeed, it is what brought us there too.

 

On July 25th, 1899, the famed and wealthy railroad tycoon Edward Harriman entered the Prince William Sound for what his doctor had prescribed him: a vacation. He took the advice and set sail to hunt the great Kodiak bears of the North. Rather than go alone, Harriman decided to round up a group of explorers for an expedition. Aboard were notable photographers like Edward S. Curtis, artists like Louis Agassiz Fuertes, naturalists like George Bird Grinnell, and John Muir. Several of the glaciers of the region were named after this group.

 

While the expedition’s primary goal was to be among the first to catalogue the region’s biodiversity, historians today argue over Harrimans true incentives. Some think he was considering developing Alaskan resources, like coal and copper. Others believe he was looking to build a railroad bridge through the icy waters of the Bering Strait, and from there, around the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Many more men with grand ideas would follow. Seven years after Harriman’s expedition, vast plots of copper and oil were found by prospectors near Cordova. The first spike of the Copper River and Northwestern Railway, or CR&NW, began a hunt for what would ignite the boom times of local economies.

 

Funded by J.P. Morgan and the Guggenheim family, the railroad stretched nearly 200 miles over 129 bridges, crossing rivers, creeks and swamps from the mining town of Kennecott to Cordova. One bridge also threaded between two calving glaciers: Childs and Miles. Advancing at a relatively rapid rate of over 8 feet a day, the glaciers left construction workers in constant fear that their progress would be destroyed. Therefore, the bridge needed to withstand icebergs over 20 feet high flowing with the current of the Copper River as it spanned the riverbed’s loose sand and gravel. At its closest, the head of Miles Glacier came within just 1,500 feet of the bridge. In total, the bridge cost $1.5 million and was known as the “Million Dollar Bridge,” but many Alaskans called the CR&NW the “Can’t Run & Never Will Railroad.”

 

On March 29, 1911, a final copper spike nailed into of the CR&NW railroad marked its completion. The first shipment of $250,000 worth of copper ore rode into Cordova. There was much rejoicing.

 

Once an unassuming cannery town, Cordova, seemingly overnight, flourished with copper money. It became a bustling port with hotels, restaurants, saloons, brothels, shops, lumberyards, three churches and a school. Author Katherine Wilson wrote of the dramatic change, saying “the twenty-six saloons that graced the business street have given way to ladies’ specialty shops and fancy groceries.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wouldn’t last. By 1935, with the Great Depression in full swing and lower quantities of high-quality ore being shipped into town, the price of copper rapidly declined. The mines closed soon thereafter. Later, during World War II, the CR&NW railroad would be used to transport 1,000 U.S. Army soldiers stationed at a nearby airstrip for the 42nd Engineer Regiment to Cordova. “We went to bed one night in a peaceful little town,” writes Myra McDonald, a longtime resident, “and the next morning it was full of jeeps and uniforms.”

 

After the Good Friday earthquake of 1964 destroyed most bridges in the regions, any hope in turning the railway into a public use highway was entirely abandoned. As for the “Million Dollar Bridge,” the earthquake left it damaged. One of its bridge spans slipped off, and it would never be used again. A plaque on the bridge says, “It was considered one of the great engineering feats of all time,”

 

Meanwhile, others were travelling to the Prince William Sound with a different purpose. Because they were so accessible, the glaciers of the Prince William Sound became some of the earliest glaciers to be documented and studied in depth. Much of what is now known about glaciers todays is owed to the early glaciologists who spent years documenting the region.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Among the first to arrive were Ralph Tarr and Lawrence Martin. Their work described the probable course of glacial events that created the Prince William Sound. Icefields that formed high in the surrounding Chugach and Kenai mountains flowed through valleys and tributaries down to two streams, which, over a millennium, united multiple glaciers and stemmed off into different streams that carved out the valleys below. Although it is unknown how far offshore these glaciers flowed, striation marks - ridges, furrows and lines in rocks - suggest one narrow sheet of ice briefly extended nearly 90 miles off the coast to Middleton Island.

 

 In 1925, a geology student named William O. Field came to Cordova to see these glaciers with his own eyes. He had observed photographs of a particular glacier, John Hopkins Glacier, from 1912. But when he arrived and compared the photograph to the real thing, he was stunned. It had already retreated about 7 miles. After reading more in books from glaciologists like Tarr and Martin’s book, Field saw an opportunity to continue their work.

 

Over his illustrious 68-year career, Field would come to be known as “the father of glaciology in North America.” His maps, books, field notes and thousands of photos would become a link to the past and would lay the very framework for how the world would come to understand glacial dynamics.

 

 In 1987, Mark Meier and Austin Post would build off Field’s work to develop their theory of calving glaciers. As global temperatures rise and glaciers worldwide recede more rapidly than ever predicted, this theory has become one of the most important in modern climate science. Field’s work photographing Alaskan glaciers is therefore not only a link to the past, but it has become an integral branch into understanding what might be the future for these geological relics.