The sheer wall of ice is 300 yards away. At 250 feet tall, it’s a hazy blue-white that mirrors the infinite midsummer sky overhead. Hundreds of travelers are gathered on the decks of a massive ship just to watch the face of Johns Hopkins Glacier.
Expectation is as crisp as the 50-degree-Fahrenheit air. Natural history interpreters explain that the ice just ahead fell as snow 200 years ago in the 15,000-foot heights of the Fairweather Range to the west. It flowed 12 miles downhill to reach saltwater. This means that Johns Hopkins is a tidewater glacier. It’s the object of intense anticipation for visitors to Glacier Bay National Park.
Each winter, 100 feet of snow piles up high in the Fairweathers above. No one explains why snowbound peaks would have such a name. Instead, everyone is awaiting a regular occurrence that’s one of the top things Alaska travelers most want to see, high on the wish list with bears and whales, moose and salmon.
“We'll be here about a half hour,” the narrator explains. “They tell us the glacier’s been pretty active lately, so don’t take your eyes off it.”
Active? What action can an inanimate river of ice take that draws 700,000 people per year to this famous place, one of Earth’s premier natural destinations?
But narration ceases and a hush descends. Sunlight glitters off the ice like sparks in a galactic movie battle. The scene is eerily still, save for gulls braying overhead.
Suddenly, a massive spire high on the ice wall breaks away, collapsing in shards like a dynamited cliff. Huge splashes erupt, waves rush forth, a thousand small icebergs toss like fishing bobbers, and, finally, a resounding boom reaches the ship.
The glacier has “calved”—birthed new icebergs from centuries-old snow.
A thousand people clap and cheer boisterously.
The glacier doesn’t listen.
Or does it?
Tlingit legend says it does, and while there are dozens of glaciers to see in Alaska—big ones, landlocked ones, ones you can hike to, remote ones that no one hikes to—plus hundreds more all over the world, Glacier Bay National Park is the most famous destination for glaciers by far, justly so.
Like so much of life, visiting Glacier Bay is simple but not easy.
A Journey of a Thousand Miles
First you have to get there. A boat or a plane is necessary—or both.The major gateway is Alaska’s state capital, Juneau, to which five flights per day from Seattle bring so-called independent (non-cruise) travelers from May to October. It’s about three hours each way. The legendary approach path into Juneau International Airport follows the narrow Gastineau Channel. Passengers going through it feel as though they could reach out and touch the adjacent mountains. Better idea: Watch for bears prospecting for blueberries.
From Juneau, there are afternoon Alaska Airlines flights to the tiny town of Gustavus, which is near the park, plus small-plane flights on regional commuter lines.
The good news is, if all you want to do is see the main attraction, your journey is simple. It requires just one boat once you reach the park headquarters at Bartlett Cove, 10 miles from Gustavus. Taxis and shuttles run between the airport and the park; you can even rent a car to drive that 10 miles, which also allows you to check out the charming small inns and bed-and-breakfasts in Gustavus, if you want to stay overnight (please do). There’s also a lodge at park headquarters (see below).
Most of those 700,000 annual Glacier Bay visitors—about the same number as Alaska’s total population—arrive on the massive cruise ships that ply these waters, whose operators will testily admonish you if you apply the insulting term “boat” to their vessels. The park limits visiting ships to two per day, but that can total more than 5,000 people on the industry’s modern behemoths. The major cruise lines sail out of Seattle; Vancouver, Canada; or Seward (Anchorage), Alaska, so the Glacier Bay National Park visit is just one day on what are generally seven- to 14-day itineraries.
More intimate experiences are offered by various small-ship lines that travel southeast Alaska, operating on boats that range from two dozen passengers to 90 or so. The best-known lines are UnCruise Adventures, based in Seattle, and Alaskan Dream Cruises, based in Sitka, Alaska (and owned by Alaska Natives). I’ve been on both; both provide superb experiences.
Not every ship, big or small, visits Glacier Bay. If it’s important, book carefully. Or just head for Juneau. No, you can’t drive to Alaska’s state capital, or to Gustavus, or the park, from “outside.”
Glacier Bay National Park FAQs
- When’s the best time? May and June reliably provide the best weather in southeast Alaska—rain showers, yes, but plenty of sunshine and mild temperatures as well. Peak visitor season continues through Labor Day, and the last cruise ships sail at the end of September.
- Can you stay at the park? Glacier Bay Lodge has 48 rooms, is perched just above the park headquarters’ small cove, and is quite comfortable, although nowhere near as grand as the famous national park lodges in the lower 48 contiguous states.
- Can you paddle up into the main bay yourself? Kayaks are available to rent at park headquarters, but face the facts: It’s more than 40 miles up the bay to the first shoreline glacier, and 60 miles to the last. Those are long paddles requiring deep expertise in tricky waters—get in trouble up there and your cellphone is just silly. Afternoon winds are common and temperamental. Amateurs need not apply.
- So how does an average traveler see the bay? Book a day trip on one of the three tour boats that depart each morning from park headquarters. The eight-hour trip is safe, comfortable, warm, and dry—and onboard interpreters provide all the geological, biological, and historical lowdown.
- Can you visit by day trip from Juneau? Alaskan Dream Cruises offers same-day journeys to the park from Juneau’s Auke Bay Marine Terminal, north of the airport, as do several other tour operators. A long day, but worth it.
- Flightseeing? The Glacier Bay area is notorious for testy air, especially near the park’s towering mountains. Small planes depart on clear days from airports in Juneau, Gustavus, and Haines, Alaska; some are equipped with skis to land on the glaciers for a quick look-see. Do not indulge in a greasy breakfast beforehand.
- How famous is it, really? A globally popular plumbing fixture brand is called “Glacier Bay,” so you can, well, sit down on a tiny facsimile. Remember: Ice not available. It’s just one of many Alaska place names that have been heisted commercially, such as “Denali,” “Yukon,” and of course, “Alaska” itself.
- Are there whales? Humpbacks, orcas, grays, and more are multitudinous in southeast Alaska in summer. Unless you have your eyes closed all the time, it’s almost impossible not to see whales. Small boats are the best platforms. Don’t ask the skipper to get closer; in Alaska, they will refuse point-blank.
Some Say the World Will End in Fire, Some Say in Ice
The ice prognosis looks poor; almost all of Alaska’s glaciers are receding, according to U.S. Geological Survey satellite data. That includes most glaciers in Glacier Bay; there are seven tidewater glaciers left (that is, glaciers floating on the ocean), and the northernmost one in the main bay is retreating toward the nearby border with Canada.Away from the shoreline, the park contains 62 named glaciers that cover 1,571 square miles. At Mount Fairweather, the park’s highest point at 15,300 feet, the 100 feet of snow that falls in wet years makes this one of the snowiest places on earth. That—not winter cold by itself—is what creates glaciers. Farther north, in Arctic mountains, there are few glaciers because there is little snow. (Most of the Arctic is a desert.)
Glaciologists suggest that we think of very thick toothpaste to understand a glacier: The snow—myriad feet of it—compacts into ice under its own weight, and slowly extrudes the resulting ice downward. Shoreline glacial ice in Glacier Bay National Park can be up to 200 years old. To geologists, glacial ice is a fluid, not a solid.
It’s no good for brushing teeth, but tour guides in Alaska waters have a habit of snagging a small bit of glacial ice from passing bergy bits (a real term, see below) and whacking off chunks to chill drinks for guests, as if cooling is needed in a place where 65 degrees Fahrenheit is a wicked hot day.
Alaska has less than 1 percent of Earth’s ice, even with all those glaciers (an estimated 19,400 to 27,000). The rest of the planet’s ice is in Greenland (8 percent) and Antarctica (91 percent).
How Fast Was That Dog Running?
Glacier Bay is the ancestral homeland of the Huna Tlingit people, who occupied the lower end of the bay for centuries (“since time immemorial”) until an episode centuries ago, when a sudden glacial advance entombed their village in ice. The clan members barely had time to pack their belongings in canoes and paddle across Icy Strait to the north end of Chichagof Island to their current home, Hoonah, Alaska.
As the legend goes, the glacier took offense when a young girl got mad at it and called it names. The ice advanced “as fast as a dog can run,” which in the case of Alaskan sled dogs is about 25 miles per hour. Various versions of the legend abound; the point is that it’s best to respect nature, and look out if you don’t.
Hoonah residents have their own economic development corporation (as do all Alaska Natives). They used theirs to develop an abandoned salmon cannery near their village into a cruise ship attraction called Icy Strait Point, home of the world’s biggest zip line. They call it a ZipRider; it’s 5,495 feet long and drops 1,330 feet.
There is also a fine seafood cafe, a fascinating exhibit about the historic canning industry, and a clan house-style theater in which Huna performers offer traditional presentations, such as the Tlingit version of “Romeo and Juliet.” Juneau visitors can hop into a small plane for day trips to Icy Strait Point. Yes, it’s a purpose-built tourist attraction, but a worthy one, supporting an entire Native town. And as one of its founders said: “We transformed a decrepit abandoned cannery into a major visitor facility. Now that’s recycling.” Yes, it is.
After years of separation from their original homeland, the Huna people and the National Park Service collaborated to build a fabulous brand-new longhouse at Bartlett Cove. Featuring hand-carved cedar logs and intricately figured totems and wall panels, it’s a marvel of Northwest Coast art and tradition. Huna interpreters are on hand to offer their versions of the angry glacier tale.
Now for Some Real Adventure
The ship’s captain is explaining our situation, and when you’re sailing the far north in treacherous waters named for rivers of ice, it’s best to pay attention.“Here in Glacier Bay, we have a tradition that has proved very popular,” he says, then pauses dramatically. “With some of our guests.” He looks over at the first mate, who ostentatiously hauls a thermometer out of the water at the stern of the vessel. “Whatcha got?”
“Looks like 39 degrees,” the mate declares, gleefully. “Brrr! Maybe, um, 40.” Big smile.
Clad in baggy swim trunks, he’s standing on a nautical protuberance called the “swim deck,” so the announcement isn’t a big surprise, especially on a small-ship Alaska cruise devoted to outdoor experiential adventure.
The several dozen travelers have visited remote villages; traipsed through quiet, mossy rainforest; and measured brown bear footprints in the mud. Now we’re parked just offshore from one of the onshore ice flows that give this most famous Alaska inlet its name. The next-nearest cartographic feature is the aptly named “Icy Strait,” in case you’re wondering about the general ambience.
The mate looks expectantly at us shipbound adventurers and holds up a couple life vests and swim flipper sets.
Gulls cry as they wheel by the ship. Sea lions poke their blocky snouts above water to see what’s going on. Beneath us are 20 fathoms of North Pacific saltwater; that’s about 120 feet deep. It’s indigo, not turquoise or sapphire or emerald or aquamarine. In the middle of the bay, just a half-mile away, the water is 1,400 feet deep.
No coral reefs.
Just marine depths and very, very famous ice. Ice that is melting and pouring water down to the sea that we are all eyeing warily.
“OK, who’s first?” the captain asks.
