Change

The first time I saw the glacier from across the lake, the snow covered seracs stretched a quarter mile from the moraine by the peninsula over to the mountain and waterfalls on the east. It was winter, and I spent the season exploring, climbing over, traversing across, and anxiously staring up in awe at in the brilliant blue caves. Then spring came, the snow melted, and ice chunks thunderously crashed into the water creating icebergs. I no longer chanced crossing the expanse of the lake and I took to walking the silty beaches.

Spring transitioned to summer and I found myself admiring from afar, wandering nearby trails, breaking through the trees where I could to catch glimpses of the white cirques and crevasses sparking in the sun, contrasted against the bright green of the forest and patches of fireweed stealing the valley. Autumn arrived and the excitement wore off as I became accustomed to living so close to a glacier. I visited less and less, and the years passed by while the glacier slowly disappeared.

I awoke one winter weekend and, having dreamt in cerulean of the caves, had an impulse to return to the glacier. I knew the lake had not frozen solid as often this winter as it used to, so instead of making the trek across it I ventured deep in the woods to a once favored vantage point, a place I had eaten many pbj’s that first summer whenever I wanted to share lunch with the glacier. My enthusiasm grew as I wandered through the spruce trees and down the hill. But as the forest opened, it wasn’t the same as I remembered from the first winter. The glacier was barren; blue ice was visible in places where my memory saw snow covering it. It had retreated farther than I imagined. I could see new rocks and boulders that were buried underneath the glacier not so long ago. It was then that I realized the glacier would no longer be visible from my treasured spots up high on the mountain side, found standing in the silt on the west side, or along the peninsula that I spent so long finding.

I returned home and sat at my desk by the window in solitude, staring out into the rain. Something that seemed so distant and inconceivable was tangible and real. I’d read that some glaciers used to retreat at 150 feet per year; now they’re at 10 to 15 feet per day. What once took hundreds of years is happening in a few years. For my glacier, it was expected to soon pull out of the lake. I’d known this all along, but I thought it would take more time before the changes would be so noticeable. I felt a sense of urgency, hopelessness, even grief. The glacier had been my first friend here, a place to escape, to play, to simply be; she took care of me, and now it was time to take care of her.