I have stood before many glaciers.
But none like this. Columbia Glacier—once known as Fremantle—doesn’t just tower. It throbs. It breathes. It sings in silence and then roars like thunder when its cathedral spires crash into the sea. We sailed in slowly, our ship weaving through floating palaces of ice—blue, green, rose-tinted. Long before we saw it, we felt it. Like some vast, unseen life-force calling us forward. And when it finally came into view… A four-mile wall of gleaming ice. Three hundred feet high.
Alive with color—opal, sapphire, lavender, fire. The sun didn’t set that night—it lingered, like a lover reluctant to leave beauty behind. Midnight came, and still the glacier shimmered. We longed to stay. I still long to return—to watch the shifting hues of Northern Light ripple across its face while the hours thunder down in crashing columns of ice. Even the woman who ruined every view on the voyage by chirping, "Oh, George, that mountain looks good enough to eat!"—even she fell silent. That alone was a miracle. Alaska holds many marvels—Port Nell Juan, Passage Canal, Port Wells—but nothing rivals Columbia. Since the destruction of Muir Glacier, it stands alone. It is the crown of ice. And about that Alaskan climate?
Let’s settle the myth: it’s better than Montana. Better than the Dakotas. I've spent golden days sailing its coastlines, basking in sun, sea breeze, and the perfume of snow and wildflowers. No, it’s not the cold—it’s the silence that frightens. The loneliness of winter. The hush of frozen rivers, empty white valleys, dark homes, and darker nights. It is not for the timid heart. But for those who love this land, truly love it—there is no pity.
Only awe. And longing.