Hey Tribe,
There is a brief window of time where lovers of blue ice can
easily access the alluring Knik glacier via fat tire bike, foot, or small
ATV. In early spring/late winter the
snow melts or is blown away by the relentless Knik winds, yet the ice remains
to form bridges across otherwise oft treacherous streams and angry rivers; TheFather and I take advantage of this time to visit the glacier by driving out in our little “Turtle” side-by-side wheeler as a ‘farewell to winter’ journey.
We started out early in the day, so as to ensure ice covered
the infamous Jim Creek – known to suck large trucks into its silty, never
satisfied waters. Our Turtle inched its
way across the ice, overflowing water lapping at our feet, as we zig zagged our
path like a crazy game of connect the dots – going from one questionable patch
of ice to the next until we were safe on the silt bank once again.
Journeying to the Knik glacier is a bit like Pilgrim’s Progress,
with many trials and tribulations that travelers must overcome to earn their
rich reward. Once over the Swallower Of
Men’s Dreams (Jim Creek), travelers must bravely navigate the silt and gravel
riverbed so ribbed with ruts it could be mistaken for a giant’s washboard and the
travelers’ rattled and bounced brains become so addled that it is difficult to
recognize the turn to exit the riverbed.
Before the travelers’ bones have time to stop vibrating, our
Turtle met its match with the Swamp of Mud and Doom. This section, formerly known by old timers as
“The Inside Passage,” has become the spinning, mucking ground of weekend
warriors aiming for a quick way of coating their vehicles in mud so they appear
to have been doing some serious off-roading as they drive through the streets
of town. Or maybe they are poor
drivers. Tough little Turtle puttered
through the rotten egg swamp with minimal false turns and flinging of the foul
goop.
We encountered several moose in this area, browsing on the
willows and trying to enjoy the remains of their quiet week before the afore
mentioned swamp slingers clogged the area.
Fly was a good girl and did not bark at them, but did keep a wary eye.
After the Swamp of Mud and Doom, travelers are tested via
Waters of Unknown Depths. That brown
puddle in the trail – is it 6 inches deep, or 6 feet deep? Who knows?
The travelers know, generally once it is too late, when the feet and the
seat are wet; then the driver desperately fumbles the gears into reverse and
the passenger selfishly bails out the window in search of dry land. Fly was then deployed to act as emissary to
the murky waters: wading ahead of the Turtle to test the depths.
Another trial of riverbed rocks must be endured by the now
weary travelers, for a section that seems to last like that nightmare where you
are running, but getting nowhere: the glacier sits before the travelers, but no
matter the distance covered, it seems to move no closer. To add the ordeal, and
differentiate it from the first riverbed trial, fierce silt-filled wind berates
the travelers head-on, without abatement.
Just as the travelers begin to lose hope, a ridge is
summited (the terminal moraine) and the glacier spreads out in full icy glory,
to the immense relief of the rattled, wet, silt encrusted travelers. Ah, sweet relief! Sweet satisfaction!
To add to this year’s adventure, it was raining.
Fly was brave and ventured out onto the thin ice that still
blanketed the lake resting at the mighty glacier’s feet.
She sampled the ancient ice.
She posed.
She ignored my warnings that the water was, literally, icy
cold.
Finally, we, the travelers, decided we could tarry no longer
and retraced our path back through all the hazards, making better time than the
former because we learned from our mistakes.
When we arrived back at Jim Creek, true to its ‘Swallower of Men’s Dreams’
title, there on the far side of the bank wallowed a white truck – its face
firmly planted into the swirling waters, its tail up in the air like an
ostrich, and its woe begotten passengers standing helplessly behind it. The Turtle, looking small and meek compared
to the upended ostrich, confidently zig zagged its path across the softened ice
without hesitation. To add insult to
injury, we pulled up alongside the drowning truck and asked if they needed help
– no, they had someone coming was the sullen reply. So we lightly traipsed our way home and
counted ourselves lucky to have survived the limited window of opportunity,
annual glacier visit.
