What it means to do field work on a glacier
The Kaskawulsh Glacier
When I first arrived at UBC I knew that one of my big dreams was to do fieldwork on a glacier. After three years of a lot of improvised networking I had finally found the opportunity. Dr. Schoof has been surveying the Kaskawulsh Glacier in the St. Elias Mountain Range in the Yukon for many years. The St. Elias Mountain Range is located in southwestern Yukon near the border with Alaska. It is found in Kluane National Park and Reserve and it’s where the highest mountain in Canada is found, Mt. Logan. After months of planning we arrived in Kluane, where we would be stationed before going up to the glaciers. We were hosted by Icefield Discovery Tours where expedition planes take off to tour around Kluane park. It’s how the climbers who attempt to summit Mt. Logan start their journey. We prepared our gear, food, science equipment and many other things. In that week I learned that when they say the bugs are unbearable in the Yukon they were not joking.
The view of the first confluence of the Kaskawulsh Glacier from the helicopter. Our camp was further up the right arm you see.
I have to say those first few days at the outpost in the valley were harder than expected. Of course, I was excited to go on the glacier, but there were moments in which my mind was struggling to accept the unknown. A few of those nights I needed my melatonin to help me sleep. The closer we got to the departure date, the better I got. Eventually after losing plenty of blood to the mosquitoes we were ready to leave for the ice. To get to the glacier we flew in by helicopter. It took us five full flights to transfer all six of us and everything we needed for three weeks of fieldwork on ice. So, you can imagine how backpacking on foot for 30 or so kilometers would have taken us a really really really long time, hence the helicopter.
When you first land on the ice you don’t really realize where you are for a few moments. Then you look around and only see rock and ice with only a few distant alpine green shrubs. The helicopter leaves and we start setting up camp, on the ice. I learned how to use an ice auger to dig holes into the ice to pitch your tents. You learn what knots work best for tying down tent lines to your V-anchors that you just drilled in the ice. Took me a few tries to win the learning battle with these knots. Why is it so hard to watch someone tie a knot and then do it yourself? Anyways, eventually our camp was set up. We were a group of six, me, Christian, Camilo, Christina, Cole and Hannah, so six personal tents and one big kitchen tent. The tents are four-season mountaineering tents which is a must when camping on a large valley glacier like this, as I will soon learn. The large dome red tent is the kitchen tent where we sit on our food buckets and eat breakfast and dinner. Then, there is the ice fishing tent, the red cube on the left you see in the photo is our make-shift bathroom. Some privacy on the ice is important.
The team enjoying some soup in the kitchen tent before our dinner. Note that it is still very bright out at dinner time in this part of the world.
The last but not least addition to our village on the ice, what you can’t see in the camp photo is the bear fence. Yes, we have to practice bear safety while on a glacier. There has been an accident in the past where the camp used to be set up closer to the glacier edge and a grizzly bear managed to somehow find it and things did not go well. As a result we now maintain an electrified bear fence with all of our food and carry bear spray when we leave camp. During my time on the glacier I sometimes thought about how mind-boggling it is that a bear can smell and discover a human camp that is so isolated from most other forms of life.
It’s July and we are 60˚ North. After dinner we each have our own different routines before tucking away in our -19˚C sleeping bags. The sky is still bright with an evening glow that will last till midnight before the few hours of darkness take over. We take turns doing the dishes in the glacier-cold water, literally. I walk downstream of camp to find my little blue stream to brush my teeth. A moment for your own thoughts. I look up in the cold evening, the air sharp on my face, only to see rock and ice. It’s the most mundane tasks that hit you. Usually when I brush my teeth I look at my own face in the mirror, analyzing my own ego. Instead I am forced to stare at mountains in the face. They are real.
Let the science begin
The next morning the real work starts. Our team is split into two groups researching different topics. Three are studying katabatic winds and so most of their time is spent setting up a meteorology station and other fancy weather sensors. The group I was part of is interested in subglacial hydrology. The hidden system of voids, channels and cracks that allows water to travel through and under the glacier. The main task for us is to install water pressure sensors down moulins. What are moulins? As the glacier slowly slides down the valley the shear stress of the ice causes it to deform and new crevasses open. When one of these fresh crevasses crosses a surface stream the water flows into it and starts sculpting a large vertical shaft downwards as the water melts the ice. This results in what at first sight just looks like a large hole in the glacier. These are our natural access points into the realm of subglacial space.
So, we go to the first moulin close to camp and start the process. We rope up as you definitely don’t want to fall down a moulin. Then we slowly begin to lower down the water pressure sensor. Every ten meters we take a pressure reading to see if it has hit the water. On the first try it goes down 150 meters, but it’s still reading atmospheric pressure. During the day as the sun melts the ice, water flows into the moulin and gets bigger, so we just have to wait. The next day the sensor did indeed get flushed down and the pressure reading was higher. Once we see that it stays submerged long enough it’s time to do more drilling in the ice to create permanent anchors that will hold the sensor down there until the end of the summer.
Camilo standing next to the data logger measuring water pressure down in the moulin behind Christian (red jacket).
A lot of the sensor installations in moulins were not as smooth as we would’ve liked. For the second one we realized we had sent it down the wrong part of the moulin, so we set up a pulley system to try to pull back up. In the process of pulling it hard against the force of the waterfall the cable snapped right above where a prusik cord was holding it and so thankfully we didn’t completely lose the sensor. We were able to reattach the wiring of the broken cable to still get readings from the sensor, however we wouldn’t be able to retrieve it anymore. One of these sensors Christian and Camilo managed to send down 400 meters deep. Not even halfway to the bottom of the glacier.
A panoramic view of our first moulin with the cable you can see going down into the moulin. This one had two streams going into it which made it more chaotic in there to get the sensor down.
The draining lake
A large part of improving our understanding of how water moves through a glacier and installing these water pressure sensors leads to better predicting a phenomenon known as a glacier-lake outburst flood, or how the Icelanders call it a jökulhlaup. Side valleys with melting tributary glaciers produce enough seasonal melt water which gets dammed by the main valley glacier, the Kaskawulsh, to create a lake. Such lakes are unique because as they rapidly fill during the spring and early summer they apply an increasing pressure on the glacial ice dam. When the water level passes a threshold the ice dam starts to bend and float creating channels for the water to drain through. The lake starts to drain rapidly and often in a matter of days it is completely empty. The vast amounts of water displaced flow under the glacier until the water is spit out downstream at the tongue of the glacier. Then the creek downstream of the glacier becomes flooded and can cause damage to towns and infrastructure along the flooding river. One of the scientists on the team, Camilo, is working on developing a warning system in the Andes to predict when such a flood is at risk of damaging downstream communities. The ability to achieve this largely depends on the accuracy of the models we can develop to simulate such outburst floods, hence the importance in understanding subglacial hydrology.
Life on a melting glacier
Our camp was situated on the glacier so that we wouldn’t have to walk too far with all the heavy science gear. However, there were some moulins that required us to walk a few extra kilometers than some of us had hoped for. Towards the end of the third and first long day with a lot of weight on my shoulders my back began to complain. It was a new kind of pain, sharp and localized. Walking on a glacier is not straightforward. It’s never flat, always some bump, narrow creek or crevasse to hop over; and the ice is not forgiving. The pain started in pulses towards the end of our glacier hikes. That evening I did not mention it to anyone as I hoped it was just temporary. Unfortunately, it was not just temporary. This was frustrating as I was the youngest one on the team and I was the one with back problems.
The remains of where our tents used to be before the ice around them melted too much leaving behind these strange looking platforms.
Camping on a melting glacier consists of a lot more camp maintenance than one would think. After three or four sunny days the ice melts roughly 20-30cm. This is important because our tents shade the ice, so the ice directly beneath our tents does not melt as fast. The result is that our tents end up elevated as the ice around them melts more rapidly. So, at a certain point the melting makes your platform small enough that you want to move your tent somewhere else. In fact every four days we had to move our tents and pitch them again, including the bathroom tent. I was tasked with a lot of camp maintenance as some days I had to stay at camp alone to rest my back.
Nowadays we always have to be entertained by something, our brains are wired to. Now picture yourself for a full day at a camp in the middle of a massive glacier with nothing but a sleeping bag, book, and sudoku on your phone. It takes quite a lot of effort to accept this and make the hours pass by. I was definitely worried that I would be overwhelmed by the feeling of loneliness, as sometimes happens in the real world. However, what I discovered is the difference between experiencing mental loneliness and physical loneliness. Instead of being surrounded by a negativity engine in your mind you are welcomed by the simplicity of the physical world. The irregular motion of the wind. Your hands are getting cold and you feel the need to put on gloves. The awareness of how your movements sound and feel. An harmony that arises between your senses and your surroundings. I also discovered how useful naps are.
Oh hi, Mr. Katabatic
Above all, what made camping on a big valley glacier so real was the wind. I mentioned that one group was studying katabatic winds. Well we all got to experience them quite personally. What happens is that at higher elevation above the glacier the air cools at a much faster rate due to the high reflectance of the snow and ice compared to the mountains around it. This dense cold air mass flows downhill on the glacier towards lower elevation, and that’s where our camp was. On top of this, we were located just below where two of these valley glaciers meet, so the effect was doubled. All this to say that it was really windy. Really windy and I would say probably 80% of the time. During the nighttime the katabatic wind seemed to pick up even more. There were some nights when I sincerely thought my tent was going to get crushed. If we didn’t have the robust mountaineering tents there would have been some tent casualties. I was very grateful to have brought a few pairs of ear plugs on top of melatonin to help me sleep over the relentless sound of my tent being blasterred in the wind.
One morning I woke up from my professor shouting to come out and help him. Not what you want to hear when camping. I got ready as fast as I could, which is not fast since I usually have to put on around 6 layers. Hence, he was shouting for quite some time as no one seemed to be getting ready quickly enough. When I finally got out I saw the damage. Our big kitchen tent had been crushed from the wind. Two of the thick poles had snapped and the tent fly ripped at some spots. In the still strong wind we tried our best to secure all the gear and food inside it while taking the tent down. Luckily we had spare pole sections to repair the broken poles and some patches to cover up the ripped parts of the tent. However, the wind for the next few days did not let down, so we did not risk putting the tent up with the spare poles. So, the back up kitchen tent came into play. A much less luxurious option. A small backcountry skiing tent held up by one pole that allowed for plenty of wind to enter. Eating in there with the four of us now (Christina and Cole had left by then) was quite the squeeze. One night I was not able to brush my teeth from how cold I was. I ran to my sleeping bag to try to get my toes back to life. Not a normal summer July evening, one might say.
The morning after we were scheduled to be transferred to the second glacier by helicopter. We had been stuck at the Kaskawulsh for a few extra days as the remains of the storm reduced visibility which didn’t allow for the helicopter to reach us. Finally, this next morning we woke up to a mix of sun and clouds, but still really gusty winds. In the morning we packed most of the gear, and went off to visit one of our moulins for the last time while we waited for the helicopter. It was impressive to see how much larger it had gotten. Just a week or so of melting and what used to be a creek now was a decently sized river on the ice. When we got back to camp the wind was still blowing in full force. This katabatic wind doesn’t extend very high up so we still believed the helicopter might make it. In fact, after a lot of sitting around we heard the sound of the rotor blades break the sky. It was time to fly.
The Donjek Glacier
The view from the helicopter of the Donjek Glacier with Mt. Logan standing tall in the background.
The helicopter flight was something out of this world. You exit the glacier valley through a high pass where the helicopter goes pretty close to the ground. As the pass rolls by the next valley is revealed and more spectacular peaks rise high. One especially caught my eye, far in the distance upstream of all the glaciers. I asked Camilo, and it was indeed Mount Logan, the highest mountain in Canada. We landed on the Donjek Glacier pretty late. The sun had already set behind the surrounding mountains acting like walls around this narrower and more rugged glacier.
Setting up camp was more challenging as finding a perfectly flat area was close to impossible. We did our best by chopping up the ice with our ice axes to flatten it as much as we could. Eventually we made it sort of work and we all went to bed on our new glacier. The mountains around us felt a lot more prominent than on the Kaskawulsh. The hanging glaciers and seracs at the top also added a certain element of fear. Even if the wind was not as strong during that first night there was another auditory event disturbing my sleep. The mountains overlooking us were rumbling. The roar of boulders rolling down hidden gullies is definitely not what you want to hear when trying to sleep. I kept telling myself to trust the decision-making of my professor that we had enough distance from the crumbling rock faces to be safe. At last, the mountains went to sleep, and so did I.
The weather and delayed transfer meant that we only had three full days on the Donjek. So, we had to prioritize. It was the first time it was being surveyed by this team, unlike the Kaskawulsh. There was a pretty impressive moulin in an ice canyon near camp which Christian and Camilo focused on. It was unsuccessful during the first day. Hannah and I were trying to figure out how to work radar lines to measure depth profiles. Turns out it is as hard as it sounds, especially on a bumpy glacier like the Donjek. The radar apparatus is made of transceiver and receiver boxes mounted onto two pairs of cross-country skis and a long antenna inside a hose in between. The two people carrying the boxes have to walk at the same pace otherwise it becomes a tug of war game. After many failed attempts we finally received a good signal for the glacier bed. The ice was about 800 meters deep.
Camilo’s tent tucked in on the Donjek with some unique lenticular clouds that form only when the wind is at its strongest.
The Donjek Glacier is interesting because it is a surging glacier. This means that roughly once a decade an imbalance in the ice mass gradient and subsurface slip dynamics cause it to slide downhill at very fast rates. For this, on the second day we went to install a “floating” GPS station. I call it floating because it is not drilled into the ice but rather sits on the ice surface. Using satellite imagery we knew which part of the glacier experienced the fastest sliding rates and that’s where we left it. Even with the few rest days I took, my back was still struggling during the longer treks. The surface of the Donjek is the opposite of flat, usually a trait of surging glaciers, they are a mess of bumps. When we got to the spot we built the GPS structure out of the wooden beams that we were carrying. We attached a really big battery to it in the hope that it will still be running when the next surge happens.
After three full days on the Donjek it was time for the helicopter to come and take us back to low land. I have to admit at this point I was pretty excited to get back to civilization, kind of. Once you land you see again the greenery and life that we had missed on the ice. You feel the warmth of the sun as you shed off some layers. Transitioning again to mundane life never felt better. The beauty around us takes on a whole new level. A warm shower, a flushing toilet, an indoor kitchen with a sink. Three weeks on a remote glacier humbles your expectations of beauty by connecting you with the extreme elements of nature that make you feel human. The sharp cold wind that makes your bones shiver, the dish washing in the deep blue glacial water, the dark orange sunset light painting over mountains and clouds. I got back and for once did not feel the need to check my phone. It felt amazing. We had a few days at the outpost station to organize all of our gear and pack up the leftover food for next season. Then, it was time to drive back to Whitehorse and fly to Vancouver. I am now continuing on researching the flooding lake by the Kaskawulsh Glacier and hope to one day have a similar experience again.
