Editor's note: This is the eighth installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
If there is one memory, one catch phrase that will endure from our entire cross-continental motorcycle trip to Alaska, it is this: Imagine Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I all sitting down for a beer and food, after a long day on our motorcycles. We decide on the local brew, a Canadian version of Coors called "Kokanee." After a long, dusty day, man these go down good. We drink one or two, and Dave finally looks at the bottle. Right there, beneath the label, is Kokanee's proudly advertised marketing slogan, "Glacier Fresh."
"Glacier Fresh" may seem appropriate, even catchy, for a Canadian-brewed beer, but Dave frowned as he looked at the label. In a voice of clarity and reason he exclaimed, "That's a dumb slogan for a beer. Aren't glaciers like tens of thousands of years old?"
Well, our time in Anchorage was nearly up - but with one last thing to do. Anchorage was a natural halfway point on our journey - the perfect place to unwind and spend a few days. Likewise, my wife Ashley, her friend Peggy, my sister and brother-in-law had all planned a week-long vacation to coincide with ours. We decided to spend a full day together, cruising Prince William Sound on a guided tour of the glaciers.
A passenger train took us from Anchorage to Whittier, through some of the most beautiful scenery of the trip. Every view was postcard-perfect, in a way that sounds ridiculously redundant. Razor-sharp mountains perfectly framed crystal-clear lakes, all underscored by fields of emerald green grasses and colorful wildflowers, backlit by a perfectly cloudless sky (If I sound like a broken record here, don't worry - we would have plenty of nasty weather on our return trip).
Whittier, you should know, is a burgeoning port town of 182. It has the second-highest snowfall at sea level in the world (In 1989, the town received 40 Feet of snow). I would hate to know what town boasts the highest level of snowfall at sea level in the world - probably some dreadfully depressing place in Russia. At Whittier we boarded a cruise ship, bound for the glaciers of Prince William Sound.
Here is a fun fact, brought to you by the United States Park Ranger who willingly provided commentary throughout our cruise. Capt. James Cook sailed into Prince William Sound in 1778 (The name "James Cook" should ring a bell - he also discovered Australia). Cook originally named the inlet Sandwich Sound, after the Earl of Sandwich, who financed the expedition. Fortunately for the sake of aesthetics, his editors renamed the body in honor of Prince William.
Cruising out into the harbor, a chill cooled the July air. Here, the water gleamed a distinctive and eerily greenish hue, thanks to the minerals, depth, and position of the sun. Despite a summertime temperature of 40 degrees, the water was dotted by swarms of sea otters. Up ahead were the faces of glaciers.
As we neared the glaciers, chunks of ice banged against the steel hull of the ship. There were no signs of civilization here; in fact, the view was very similar to what Captain Cook would have seen in 1778. In typical fashion, Dave pointed to a rugged, pristine cliff top overlooking the ice field. "I think we should put a Walmart right there." A bald eagle soared past.
At the face of the glacier, the captain cut engines and drifted in silence. You could hear the force of the ice, popping and exploding beneath tons of pressure. As we waited, chunks of ice slid into the water. What we were looking at was a literal time machine. The ice calving into the water was upwards of 200 years old. Deeper yet, the core of the glacier was tens of thousands of years old. In at least one instance, scientists took a core sample of the ice. They drilled 300 yards into the glacier, and put the ice into a drink (for the record, that is exactly what I would do with a 10,000-year-old ice cube). So forceful were the trapped air bubbles, that it shattered the glass. I turned to Dave, "Sounds glacier fresh to me."
As if on cue, a chunk of ice the size of a school bus crashed into the water, sending waves in all direction and rocking our boat. The ranger pointed out that the berg weighed thousands of tons, an exceptionally good display. He also verified that global warming does, in fact, exist - these glaciers have been steadily receding for the past 15,000 years.
And with that, we turned back. I sadly reminisced that our time in Anchorage was over. We had a week to get back home, a week to put on more than 4,000 miles. Like I alluded to earlier, our ride from Alaska to Wisconsin would be rife with lousy weather, but I'll worry about that next week. I had ridden to Alaska with my Dad, brother Dave, and best friend Stewbert - nothing could take away from that.
After five days in Anchorage I loaded my gear back onto my Kawasaki KLR 650. It had been such a noble and reliable steed to this point, now it was time to take me home. I kissed my wife good-bye, and we retraced our hilarious steps back away from Anchorage. This time, 5th Avenue discreetly morphed into the Glenn Highway. One second we were at a stoplight waiting for pedestrians, the next we were cruising at 70 miles per hour.
As we sped away from Anchorage and into a cold, dreary, drizzle I wore a smile: I had watched a glacier calve. Now I can write the entire trip off as a farm expense.
If there is one memory, one catch phrase that will endure from our entire cross-continental motorcycle trip to Alaska, it is this: Imagine Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I all sitting down for a beer and food, after a long day on our motorcycles. We decide on the local brew, a Canadian version of Coors called "Kokanee." After a long, dusty day, man these go down good. We drink one or two, and Dave finally looks at the bottle. Right there, beneath the label, is Kokanee's proudly advertised marketing slogan, "Glacier Fresh."
"Glacier Fresh" may seem appropriate, even catchy, for a Canadian-brewed beer, but Dave frowned as he looked at the label. In a voice of clarity and reason he exclaimed, "That's a dumb slogan for a beer. Aren't glaciers like tens of thousands of years old?"
Well, our time in Anchorage was nearly up - but with one last thing to do. Anchorage was a natural halfway point on our journey - the perfect place to unwind and spend a few days. Likewise, my wife Ashley, her friend Peggy, my sister and brother-in-law had all planned a week-long vacation to coincide with ours. We decided to spend a full day together, cruising Prince William Sound on a guided tour of the glaciers.
A passenger train took us from Anchorage to Whittier, through some of the most beautiful scenery of the trip. Every view was postcard-perfect, in a way that sounds ridiculously redundant. Razor-sharp mountains perfectly framed crystal-clear lakes, all underscored by fields of emerald green grasses and colorful wildflowers, backlit by a perfectly cloudless sky (If I sound like a broken record here, don't worry - we would have plenty of nasty weather on our return trip).
Whittier, you should know, is a burgeoning port town of 182. It has the second-highest snowfall at sea level in the world (In 1989, the town received 40 Feet of snow). I would hate to know what town boasts the highest level of snowfall at sea level in the world - probably some dreadfully depressing place in Russia. At Whittier we boarded a cruise ship, bound for the glaciers of Prince William Sound.
Here is a fun fact, brought to you by the United States Park Ranger who willingly provided commentary throughout our cruise. Capt. James Cook sailed into Prince William Sound in 1778 (The name "James Cook" should ring a bell - he also discovered Australia). Cook originally named the inlet Sandwich Sound, after the Earl of Sandwich, who financed the expedition. Fortunately for the sake of aesthetics, his editors renamed the body in honor of Prince William.
Cruising out into the harbor, a chill cooled the July air. Here, the water gleamed a distinctive and eerily greenish hue, thanks to the minerals, depth, and position of the sun. Despite a summertime temperature of 40 degrees, the water was dotted by swarms of sea otters. Up ahead were the faces of glaciers.
As we neared the glaciers, chunks of ice banged against the steel hull of the ship. There were no signs of civilization here; in fact, the view was very similar to what Captain Cook would have seen in 1778. In typical fashion, Dave pointed to a rugged, pristine cliff top overlooking the ice field. "I think we should put a Walmart right there." A bald eagle soared past.
At the face of the glacier, the captain cut engines and drifted in silence. You could hear the force of the ice, popping and exploding beneath tons of pressure. As we waited, chunks of ice slid into the water. What we were looking at was a literal time machine. The ice calving into the water was upwards of 200 years old. Deeper yet, the core of the glacier was tens of thousands of years old. In at least one instance, scientists took a core sample of the ice. They drilled 300 yards into the glacier, and put the ice into a drink (for the record, that is exactly what I would do with a 10,000-year-old ice cube). So forceful were the trapped air bubbles, that it shattered the glass. I turned to Dave, "Sounds glacier fresh to me."
As if on cue, a chunk of ice the size of a school bus crashed into the water, sending waves in all direction and rocking our boat. The ranger pointed out that the berg weighed thousands of tons, an exceptionally good display. He also verified that global warming does, in fact, exist - these glaciers have been steadily receding for the past 15,000 years.
And with that, we turned back. I sadly reminisced that our time in Anchorage was over. We had a week to get back home, a week to put on more than 4,000 miles. Like I alluded to earlier, our ride from Alaska to Wisconsin would be rife with lousy weather, but I'll worry about that next week. I had ridden to Alaska with my Dad, brother Dave, and best friend Stewbert - nothing could take away from that.
After five days in Anchorage I loaded my gear back onto my Kawasaki KLR 650. It had been such a noble and reliable steed to this point, now it was time to take me home. I kissed my wife good-bye, and we retraced our hilarious steps back away from Anchorage. This time, 5th Avenue discreetly morphed into the Glenn Highway. One second we were at a stoplight waiting for pedestrians, the next we were cruising at 70 miles per hour.
As we sped away from Anchorage and into a cold, dreary, drizzle I wore a smile: I had watched a glacier calve. Now I can write the entire trip off as a farm expense.
