Le Conte Glacier, Petersburg
Like sentries at the gates of an alien world, the massive crystalline entities humble our passage into LaConte Bay. Glacial satellites foreshadowing their mother, so impenetrably thick they refuse an audience with her. What mighty children she spews forth, spitting danger and collision to those who would try. Respecting her wishes, the National Geographic Sea Bird keeps her distance, safely tucked away in a slack tide bay. We send satellites of our own to penetrate deeper into her nursery. Cruising next to her offspring allows for even greater awe and spectacle. How massive and yet short-lived her children, reflective of her size but reciprocal of her longevity. Their shade, nature’s most surreal blue, the color of high desert skies and full-blooded Swedish eyes, further amplified by thick cloud cover, soothingly sears itself into memory; somatic visions in color. We escape the collective physically unscarred, but minds exploded to new proportions.
“We’re in Petersburg for the Fourth! Do you want to be in the log rolling competition?”
“Absolutely! …What’s log rolling?”
So there we were, the assistant engineer, bosun, wellness specialist, and me, deckhand. All log-rolling greenhorns, yet eager to “get our feet wet.” Petersburg had already shown us bed races, a 2X6 stomp, and giant trikes, plus the experience of a muskeg bog and life in a small Alaskan fishing town. The only thing left to see was the defeat of the locals at their own game on their own turf. The rules are simple: stand on the log, run on the log, don’t fall into the drink. Last man standing wins.
I have to say, our early first-round victories gave us the confidence we needed being new to the sport. Truth be told, none of us really expected to actually stand on the log, let alone get any rolling going. As the second round began, the excitement built. We shared tips with new friends on the sidelines, we examined our first round errors and triumphs. The ships fog horn was blowing, the guests and crew were cheering, I had my strategy set: keep low, keep on the bark, small fast steps was the sure way to win. It’s amazing how quickly things fall apart when you are actually standing on a log in the middle of a harbor. Strategy soon gives way to instinct: ‘stay on the log’ becomes the mantra. My opponent made slight movements, nothing too sudden or major, so I went for the big spin, only to be countered immediately. Seeing me off balance, he took advantage and spun opposite, sending me off to the cold, salty loser’s corner.
As I warmed up on the sidelines, Abbott and Laura were both cheered on to the third round. They are our hope! Lindblad will win the day! The tension and excitement was palpable, the ship was watching, dinner was delayed! Newcomers to the game, swooping in and taking the crown! Alas, decidedly it was not so, as they both met their demise, albeit with truly valiant effort and deft skill. Petersburg retained its title, and we slunk away, tails tucked neatly between our legs. Next year, Petersburg, next year…
Like sentries at the gates of an alien world, the massive crystalline entities humble our passage into LaConte Bay. Glacial satellites foreshadowing their mother, so impenetrably thick they refuse an audience with her. What mighty children she spews forth, spitting danger and collision to those who would try. Respecting her wishes, the National Geographic Sea Bird keeps her distance, safely tucked away in a slack tide bay. We send satellites of our own to penetrate deeper into her nursery. Cruising next to her offspring allows for even greater awe and spectacle. How massive and yet short-lived her children, reflective of her size but reciprocal of her longevity. Their shade, nature’s most surreal blue, the color of high desert skies and full-blooded Swedish eyes, further amplified by thick cloud cover, soothingly sears itself into memory; somatic visions in color. We escape the collective physically unscarred, but minds exploded to new proportions.
“We’re in Petersburg for the Fourth! Do you want to be in the log rolling competition?”
“Absolutely! …What’s log rolling?”
So there we were, the assistant engineer, bosun, wellness specialist, and me, deckhand. All log-rolling greenhorns, yet eager to “get our feet wet.” Petersburg had already shown us bed races, a 2X6 stomp, and giant trikes, plus the experience of a muskeg bog and life in a small Alaskan fishing town. The only thing left to see was the defeat of the locals at their own game on their own turf. The rules are simple: stand on the log, run on the log, don’t fall into the drink. Last man standing wins.
I have to say, our early first-round victories gave us the confidence we needed being new to the sport. Truth be told, none of us really expected to actually stand on the log, let alone get any rolling going. As the second round began, the excitement built. We shared tips with new friends on the sidelines, we examined our first round errors and triumphs. The ships fog horn was blowing, the guests and crew were cheering, I had my strategy set: keep low, keep on the bark, small fast steps was the sure way to win. It’s amazing how quickly things fall apart when you are actually standing on a log in the middle of a harbor. Strategy soon gives way to instinct: ‘stay on the log’ becomes the mantra. My opponent made slight movements, nothing too sudden or major, so I went for the big spin, only to be countered immediately. Seeing me off balance, he took advantage and spun opposite, sending me off to the cold, salty loser’s corner.
As I warmed up on the sidelines, Abbott and Laura were both cheered on to the third round. They are our hope! Lindblad will win the day! The tension and excitement was palpable, the ship was watching, dinner was delayed! Newcomers to the game, swooping in and taking the crown! Alas, decidedly it was not so, as they both met their demise, albeit with truly valiant effort and deft skill. Petersburg retained its title, and we slunk away, tails tucked neatly between our legs. Next year, Petersburg, next year…
