Canwell Glacier January 2017

I passed a large gathering of female moose (at least a dozen) on the drive to the mountains.

I skinned up Miller Creek in the Alaska Range to visit Canwell Glacier earlier this week. Often, the snow will have a firm crust or else snowmachiners will have left a hard packed trail I can follow, making the three miles between the Richardson Highway and the glacier a total breeze—but I had no such luck this time. My skis sank deep into the snow with every slide, and my legs, still a little sore from hiking to Black Rapids Glacier a few days prior, tried their best to convince me to turn around. But the temperature was a balmy 20 °F and I was determined to enjoy the warm weather.

After 15 or 20 minutes I reached the big mound on the north side of the creek where I usually stop to shed a layer and adjust my pack. It’s one of few notable landmarks along the creek and lies about a third of the way from the highway to the glacier. About the same distance ahead I neared the ridge separating Fels Glacier from Canwell Glacier where the creek bed bends to the right, opening into a wide, windswept plain of overflow ice with Canwell Glacier coming into view less than a mile away. I kept the skis on as I crossed the remaining distance to the glacier, though I could have easily walked it. There are only a few sections of exposed glacier ice visible as you approach the glacier in winter—the rest is buried under snow and rock. I steered toward the left side of the glacier where a big wall of blue ice had been the year before. As I approached, I spotted a new tunnel in the center of the terminus of the glacier which I planned to visit second.

I was only a couple hundred feet from the glacier when I felt my ski pole sink into a patch of slushy ice. Water flows out of the terminus of the glacier in all seasons, and it tends to keep some spots near the glacier unfrozen throughout the winter, which I have a checkered past trying to avoid. (That’s what waterproof boots are for!) The ice to my right looked like it was frozen solid, so I sidestepped to it and started shuffling forward, only for my skis to suddenly become glued to the ice. Apparently, I had failed to keep my skins out of the slush, and the water they absorbed immediately froze when they encountered solid ice. I stepped out of my bindings and peeled the skis off the ice, then chipped away the ice on the bottom with a ski pole. I put my skis back on and tried to stay on snow the rest of the way. 

A crumbling wall of blue glacier ice at the terminus of Canwell Glacier.

The wall of ice at the left edge of the glacier is crumbling apart now and there were several large ice boulders lying scattered beneath it. On one side there was a small cave but it didn't look interesting enough for me to risk sticking my head under the questionable ice around the front. If you visit, be careful where you stand!

After taking a few pictures of the ice wall, I headed toward the tunnel. I passed through one of two openings in the front separated by an icicle curtain and emerged through the far side, taking off my skis and retrieving my camera equipment from my pack. I scampered back into the tunnel with my camera on the tripod, taking care not to slip on the floor made of smooth ice. 

A tunnel beneath the ice of Canwell Glacier.

The details in the ice of the tunnel were mesmerizing. I found it fascinating to focus on a rock inside the ice while shifting my viewing angle, watching as the irregular ice surface distorted the image and sometimes caused the rock to appear in two or three places at once due to refraction. Glacier ice outside of a cave or tunnel just doesn't look quite the same. 

Detail on the wall of the ice tunnel.

After photographing to my heart's content, I ate a roast beef sandwich, drank some water, then packed up my camera gear and started heading up the glacier toward a massive funnel-shaped depression I spied earlier. As I crested the edge of the funnel I saw a cave opening down and to my right. I maneuvered to the cave entrance, planted my skis in the snow, then plunge-stepped inside, scrambling over some collapsed ice to a flat spot. There was a hole in the ceiling, and a narrow tunnel extended in two directions beneath the cave walls where a stream flows in the summer. I didn't think the cave was worth photographing but when I saw my footsteps leading out of the entrance I had to fish my camera out of my pack for one quick shot before I left.

View from a small cave inside Canwell Glacier after sunset.

At this point, the sun had already set (though twilight would last for another hour or so), and I started skiing back to the highway. About halfway there, I noticed my shadow in front of me. I glanced backward to see a nearly full moon peeking over the mountains behind me. It cast a perceptibly warm glow on the snow, mixing with the faint bit of twilight remaining in the southwestern sky. I skied the rest of the way without bothering to break out my headlamp.

Sometime soon, I'll return to Canwell Glacier to check on an amazing cave I've visited a few times since 2014. It changes as it melts throughout every summer and it's been getting harder to access over time, but I expect to find it alive and well.

For tips on photographing ice caves, read my post How to Photograph An Ice Cave.
Interested in visiting or photographing an ice cave? I offer guided winter tours. More information.

Donnelly Dome Aurora Shoot

A band of aurora hangs over the Alaska Range.  The bright object is Jupiter.

The bright moon was shining in a crystal-clear sky, the aurora was out, and I didn’t have to wake up for work the next day: it was finally time for a Donnelly Dome night climb.

I packed up my gear and started driving down the Richardson Highway. About halfway to the dome I did a double-take when I saw my car’s thermometer reading: -22 °F! What?!! It was above zero when I left town... 

I planned for a subzero climb but I wasn’t expecting -22 °F. At that temperature, I couldn’t be confident my car would start if I left it sitting all night. Luckily, temperature inversion was on my side and my thermometer read -11 °F at the base of the dome, warm enough that I knew my car would start later. I parked and started walking up the relatively flat portion of the trail with my headlamp on. A minute or two later, I saw some movement up ahead—two moose scurrying away from the trail in the moonlight. A third moose simply stood and watched me as I passed by. The aurora was dancing brightly across the sky, and as tempting as it was to chase after the elusive ‘moose under the aurora’ shot I’ve imagined for a while, I decided to keep moving.

The snow covering the lower part of the dome wasn’t very deep in most spots. I found it easy to climb by stepping in moose tracks (and probably some caribou), and after a few minutes I felt nice and toasty despite my minimal attire and the subzero cold. I made it to the ridge and proceeded from there with my headlamp turned off—the moon was that bright. The ridge was a cakewalk compared to climbing in the snow, and I paused only to gaze at the aurora periodically, anxiously noting that it was growing weaker.

During the final stretch to the summit, I began to feel a slight chill despite my exertion. A very gentle breeze was blowing, and the temperature definitely felt colder than -11 F. When I finally reached the summit, I dropped my backpack and donned my heavy parka and mittens, and that was the last time I felt cold. I brought my goggles along in case it was windy but I ended up not needing them. I set my camera on the tripod and started waiting for the aurora to reawaken.

With the aurora still in a lull, I headed down the southern slope of the dome looking for a rocky spot where I knew the edge dropped off steeply. I noticed some footprints along the way from some other hardy soul who made the climb up from the highway in the last few days. I found the spot I was looking for and the aurora started to brighten like clockwork. I snapped several shots, then walked back to the summit. I experimented with several camera angles while the aurora waxed and waned, but the aurora kept stalling just short of what was needed to match the moon in the night sky. I took a break and drank the hot chocolate I packed and sat down to check aurora activity on my phone.

When I glanced up after a couple minutes I was startled to see a bright green ribbon twisting violently in the sky above the lights of Fort Greely in the distance. I ran back to my tripod and instantly started shooting, not knowing whether the display would last for a few seconds, a few minutes, or a few hours. The aurora began sprawling across the sky, stretching over the mountains of the Alaska Range to the south and swirling over Fort Greely to the north. I spent the next half-hour maneuvering my tripod on top of the dome as the aurora shifted around the sky.

The aurora comes alive over the lights of Fort Greely and Delta Junction.

The display slowly dimmed until only a faint glow remained. I packed up my camera and started heading down the ridge, turning around to catch one last surreal glimpse of the snowy summit glowing under the moonlight with faint green patches of aurora shimmering in the sky overhead. Mount Hayes and Mount Moffit loomed like motionless sentinels in the distance.

I picked up my tracks in the snow and followed them quickly back to my car. The temperature had warmed up at the bottom to -5 °F, but it was still hovering near -20 °F on the Richardson Highway until I drove past Fort Greely, where the wind was blowing heavily and the temperature was above zero. The feeling that I had just been on the moon quickly expired as I drove by several early risers on their way to work.  

For tips on creating aurora images like these, read my free Aurora Photography Guide.
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