& photography hy kirn heacoxDuring the first summer of what would hecome a 25-year love affair with

Alaska, Kim Heacox was afresh-faced seasonal park ranger discovering Glacier

Bay National Park and Preserve. In The Only Kayak (Lyons Press, 2005),

Heacox chronkles the impact the "last wild shore, 900 miles north of Seattle and

900 years in the past," has had on him. The book begins with his first pad-

dling trip among Alaska's glaciers, a tale Sierra has adapted here.

4 8 • I U L Y / A u G U s r 2 0 0 6

YOU PADDLE A CANOE; YOU WEAR A KAYAK.

It was my first day in v ild Alaska. Rudder down. Life vest on. The

whereabouts of my tide tables, map, and compass escaped me. I

couldn't fmd them and didn't care as I approached the luminous tide-

water face of Reid Glacier.

Blue minarets of ice tipped away at precarious angles. Others stood

as fractured fins and flying buttresses 200 feet tall, certain to fall any

day. A]iy minute. A light rain washed the ice and rock, the kayak, and

me. Delicate streams dripped off my hat into Reid

Inlet, where each droplet beaded diamond-like be-

fore joining the great whole of the silt-laden sea.

Birds called in dialects of kittiwake and tern. A har-

bor seal watched me with obsidian eyes, only its

head above the water, its whiskered face a cipher

A Gilman Glacier

S I E R 1( A • 4 9

of mistrust. Long memory, no doubt, from whenTlingit Indians hunted seals in boats of similardesign.

Icebergs surrounded me, this one a castle, thatone a swan, each a corridor into the magic weknow as children but lose as adults.

My knees were braced against the inside of thekayak. My gear was packed in plastic garbage bagsstuffed into compartments forward and aft. Notmuch room to maneuver. My teet operated ped-als connected to thin cables that controlled therudder. Push on the left pedal and the kayak wentleft; push on the right and it went right. Sit stilland it obeyed the higher calling of v^nd and tides.

I glided forward, thinking that a kayaker's pas-sage through (Jlacier Bay is more like that of lightthrough water, a refraction, a silent process ofchanging—and being changed—with each pull ofthe paddle and chant of the rain, each soft landingof snowtlake on icefield. You hear the idioms ofice, the crystals cracking, the glacier groaning. Youbrace tor the icetall that doesn't come because the

50 • l u i . Y / A u G U S T 2 0 0 6

The only kayak in Glacier Bay, we were alone, left towonder how long it cotild last, this wildness and grace.

glacier bas more patience than you. You think about geologic time, thedepth of an epoch, the tiny tenure of a single human life.

I stopped paddling yet continued moving forward as I shared myfate witb Richard Steelc, a boatman of mysterious pedigree and ques-tionable nautical skill, who managed to torque our two-man kayakwitb each exuberant stroke. A big-sbouldcrcd, dccp-cbcstcd fellow,Ricbard, when be paddled, didn't pull himself forward so much as hepushed the ocean behind. As best I could tell, he didn't intend to stopuntil we rammed the glacier. I wondered if he bad his boots on tbewTong feet, or if be flossed with twine. Tbree hundred yards from tbeblue ice wall. Two hundred and fifty, maybe 200. Hard to tell in anuncalibrated place.

"Ub, Ricbard," I said, "you think we're close enougb?"He stopped paddling.We drifted among ice like so many stars in the sky. Constellations

of ice. I scooped up one chunk in my baud. Shaped like an awl, witb asbarp tip and a smooth, rounded grasp, it appeared as clear and deli-cate as glass.

From his sinking shoulders, I could read Richard's disappointment.He wanted an icefall. He wanted tbe glacier to perform. His beadtwitcbed, and he seemed to pace even when seated. The rain drummedsteady as Ravel's Bolero as the sea chewed away at tbe glacial underpin-nings, yet everything was eerily still.

Our map told us the surrounding mountains were 6,000 feet high.But tbe mapmakers were city fellows who didn't come out here. Tbey

^ The spectacular and the sublime: A paddler approaches Johns Hopkins

Glacier (bottom left); pink wtntergreen, paintbrush at Reid Inlet (above).

offered no corrections for the imagination, whichitself is a wild place.

We paddled to shore, if it could be called pad-dling. Our broad-bcanicd kayak was a boat withhips. In our attempt to slalom through the icebergs,we swag:?rred and bit every other one. The smallerbergs we glided over. Their percussive musictapped our bull. Hundreds of bergs bejeweied theshore where the receding tide had abandonedtbem. Holy bergs, they seemed to glow fromvidthin, each with its own lambent light. We extri-cated ourselves from our kayak and walked amongthem. Ricbard estimated tbey weighed tens of tons.

He took ofF for the glacier, half a mile away,said be wanted to "investigate" an ice cave in itsflank. Perhaps walk into it. He moved over therocky, mossy slope like a fullback. His powerfulchest and arms were those of an eagle, a greatsoaring bird that by comparison made a bard-working heron of me.

I HAD MET RICHARD A WEEK BEFORE when ourNational Park Service supervisor introduced us ina Juncau grocery store and told us we'd be room-mates in Glacier Bay for the summer. Richardsquared up to me and shook my band gently, asurprising gesture from the big-shouldered man.He pushed his cart down the aisle and tbrew inboxes and bags. Twenty pounds of popcorn, tenpounds of spaghetti, a weigbtlifter's bag of flour,a vat of yogurt, a tub of honey, and four large jarsof peauut butter. Ricbard said, "I'm going kayak-ing for a week. You want to come along?"

He talked about kayaks and bow Native Alas-kans had been perfecting tbem for 5,000 years.Swift and silent, the Native kayaker wore a hatmade of wood with a long visor to shed tbe rain.Believing tbat seals loved beauty, the wife madethe bat ornate so her husband could approachtbem closely. He used a sea lion bladder for a can-teen or filled it with air as a buoyancy bag. Heused a small gaff to haul in fish and a large gafFtobaul himself onto ice floes. When a storm blew,tbe hunter would take refuge in a bed of kelp, theforest of the sea, and wrap the long fronds aroundbis little boat. Snuggle deep into the bull to waitfor the waters to lie down.

As Richard spoke, he seemed to become abunter himself, though be had no wife and no

Continued on page 78

S I n R i( A • 5 1

P O L L U T I O N - frontpage 62

never sued. (Midwest Generation didnot return Sierra^ phone calls.) In all,more than 500 power plants around thenation still operate with pollution con-trols from tbe beehive-bairdo era.

" T H E EARLY ENVIRONMENTAL LAWS

were all about potential barm to people,and the issue of cost was not part of tbeinitial mandate," notes David Rosner.a professor of bistory and public bcalthat Columbia University. "But there'sbeen a transition since then, from tbeidea that if tbere's danger, we bave tofind a way to remedy it, to tbe idea thatit's all about cost-benefit analysis and itmay not be cost-etTective to protectpeople's health."

A growing number of researcherspoint out, though, that even in strictdollars-and-cents terms, letting pollu-tion continue is far costlier than clean-ing it up. By reducing lead exposureover the past 20 years, and thus savinga generation of children from losingbetween two and five IQ points on av-erage, tbe nation netted about $215 bil-lion, according to a smdy by researchersfrom Harvard and tbe Centers for Dis-ease Control and Prevention.

On the wbolc, the Clean Air Act hasbeen one of tbe most cost-effectivemeasures to clear Congress: In its first20 years, the EPA has estimated, the lawcost the U.S. economy around $500 bil-lion while producing an economicgain of more than $22 trillion, a tallyno tax cut or pork-barrel job-creationincentive could hope to match. Noneotber than the Office of Managementand Budget (OMB)—the White Houseoffice tbat bas recently taken tbe leadin questioning and weakening environ-mental regulations—has concludedtbat the 1990 amendments to the actthat significantly reduced acid rain bave"accounted for tbe largest quantifiedhuman health benefits of any federalregulatory program implemented intbe last ten years, witb annual benefitsexceeding costs by more than 40 to 1."

If tbose kinds of numbers made animpression on the MBA in the OvalOffice, tbougb, he hasn't let on. Last

winter, around the same time that thepresident declared the nation "addictedto oil" and stirred hopes for a revival ofcleaner-energy policies, tbe WbitcHouse was looking over the latest setof recommendations by the EPA'sClean Air Scientific Advisory Commit-tee. The scientists were urging theagency to reduce paniculate emissions,such as those from power plants and oilrefineries, noting tbat new researchshowed particulates to be far more dan-gerous than previously thought. Butthe committee found itself snubbed forthe first time in 30 years wben the EPAdisregarded most of its suggestions andmade, according to a scientist inti-mately familiar with the process, "last-minute opinions and edits" suggestedby the OMB.

"Tbis is a very cautious group of sci-entists," says the source, wbo asked notto be identified, "and it's an absolutelypainstaking review process they gothrough. Every paper is vetted, andthere's discussion about every singleline of interpretation. But things thatwere vetted in open forums were re-vetted behind closed doors by theOMB, and tbings ended up in the[EPA'sJ proposal that had nothing todo witb science." The scientist, whoreviewed tbe White House's annota-tions of his own papers, came away"stunned," be says, at the degree towbich politics had trumped scientificresearch.

"Some people don't believe Ameri-cans are dying from air pollution,"says Brian Urbaszcwski, wbo runs tbeenvironmental-health program at tbeAmerican Lung Association of Met-ropolitan Chicago. "It never sbows upon A death certificate. It's not like aknife sticking out of someone's back.But when you look at the research that'sbeen done over and over for the last 15years, tens of thousands of people aredying every year." As Washington keepschipping away at clean-air laws and tbescience meant to guide them, he says,"more people are going to get sick anddie." •

MoNiKA BAUERLEIN IS art editor atMother Jones magazine in Sait Francisco.

G L A C I E R B A Y • from pane si

wooden bat, and the kayak be intendedto use was an old fiberglass bog patchedwith duct tape and glue.

"Still," be said, "a kayak is special. It'ssomething you . . . "

"Something you wear?" I said."Right, it's something you wear.

How mucb beer should we get?" Heloaded four cases into the bulging cart,and a bottle of whiskey, and headed fortbe checkout stand.

IN REID INLET WE WERE TWO MEN IN

a little boat, rookie park rangers inAlaska who bad no idea what we weredoing. Richard had come from the Ev-erglades, I from Deatb Valley. To saywe were naive would bave been gen-erous. From reading our embellishedsummer park ranger applications, you'dbave thought we were Leatherstockingand Black Elk, brother hunters in tbewilderness, sons of the earth.

We had only a topographic map thatshowed Reid Inlet as a tiny bluesmudge on a vast arc of tbe wildestcoast in North America, a tectonicjumble of mountains, glaciers, rivers,inlets, and coves without a single trailor road. Our rain gear lasted ten min-utes before it started to leak. A windblew off tbe glacier with no bint otsympathy. We had no thermometer,otber than our red and runny noses.Richard bad cracked our only compass.

"Don't worry," he said as be bar-reled off to explore Reid Glacier. "Wedon't always want to know where we'regoing."

All tbat night the glacier calved col-umns of ice into the sea. Pleistocenethunder filled our dreams until some-time before dawn. Unable to sleep, weclimbed from our tent and sat on tbeground with our legs crossed and ourbacks against tbe cold. Like two monksbefore heaven, we watched one icct'aliafter another, each more illuminatedthan tbe one before in tbe emerginglight of day.

As IT TUIINED OUT, THERE WAS A CABIN

in Reid Inlet. It belonged to Joe andMuz Ibach, who bad used it as a sum-

7 8 • J u i Y / A u G U S T 2 ( ) n 6

mer home for nearly 20 years as tbeyprospected for gold. Richard and I weredetermined to find it.

A timpani of rain played on ourkayak. In tbe presence of seals, wesigned vAtU our hands so as not to alarmtbem. We beard the puff and blow of aharbor porpoise, the muted music ofbirds. We sensed something descendedthrough the ages. Witb so many land-scapes having been shaped by man tbepast 10,000 years, it was nice to find onethat could still sbape us.

Onshore that night, near the Ibachcabin, we found a plover that walkedaway when we approached. But oncewe sat still, it came within a couple offeet and issued a thin peeping call. Wemight have picked it up and cupped itin our hands.

In the wilderness you learned whatwas authentic and wbat was not. Toboot up meant to put on your boots,not turn on your computer. A mousewas still a mouse. Software was warmsocks. Hardware was your kayak. Youslept on the ground until you were un-comfortable in a bed. You breathedfresh air until you suffocated indoors.You laughed from your toes and flewin your dreams. You found that youcould sing the high notes, that truewealth was not a matter of adding toyour possessions but of subtractingfrom the sum of your desires. You un-derstood what was enougb and wbatwas too mucb and why tbe prophetswent into tbe desert alone. You ac-cepted impermanence, or at least youtbougbt about it. You regarded thepowerful and tbe large but also thesmall and unheralded. You tbougbtabout relationships more tban names,stories more tban statistics. You learnedan economy of motion in each syn-chronous stroke, watching the paddlesrise and fall, the blades up and down,the droplets dripping away witb un-speakable grace. You found tbat everytool had a simple yet profound value:map, knife, tide table, tent, tarp.

Ab yes, tent and tarp. Day four, andwe had bad rain from everywhere andnowhere; a maelstrom and a mist; areign of rain and a find-every-leak-in-the-tent rain; rain to texture a leaf and

make a flower nod, to make a glaciergrow.

"It IS now about half-past nine andraining pretty hard," wrote Harry Field-ing Reid when he returned to GlacierBay in 1892. "We bave concluded tbatthere are many infallible signs of rainin this region. If tbe sun shines, if thestars appear, if tbere are clouds or ifthere are none; tbese are all sure indi-cations. If tbe barometer fails, it willrain; \i the barometer rises, it wiil rain;if the barometer remains steady, it willcontinue to rain."

With tbe barometer steady, Richardand I paddled out of Reid Inlet into theWest Arm of Glacier Bay. Shawls of fogrendered the mountains into an im-pressionist's view. Every point was avanishing point. I thought, "It shouldalways be like this." No painting wouldbe right in Glacier Bay were it not a wa-tercolor and no photograph true wereit not a black and wbite. Looking soutbtoward Icy Strait, then north beyondRussell Island, we breathed the dis-tance and attempted to grasp the fullbistory of glacial advance and retreat.

When Reid did his work here, a greattidewater glacier commanded tbis view,six miles across, broken in tbe middleby Russell Island as it emerged fromtbe retreating ice. Reid lost his boat totbe tides tbree times tbat summer of1892. Each time he had to swim for it.Once he nearly drowned. John Muirstayed in California that year andfounded tbe Sierra Club. Walt Wbit-man died and Rudolf Diesel, a Ger-man inventor, patented the internal-combustion engine. A century laterAmerica would bave 10,000 exhaustpipes for every poet, and people wouldwonder why tbe climate was changing.

The next morning we rounded anislet off Russell Island and flushed 30scoters that circled back to see what badfrightened them, their wings beating acomplaint. "Maybe our only kayak isone too many," I said.

I mentioned sometbing about re-gretting my own birth. Too manypeople in the world. Extinctions every-where. More dogs in Juneau tbanwolves in Alaska. Our chocolate run-ning low. No more whiskey. Tbe

Beatles breaking up.Ricbard said, "Let's go find a cliff

and jump offit"

THE NIGHT WAS MOONLESS WHEN THE

rain stopped and the stars bad theirway, and we slept onshore with the sea-tossed shells and the tangled kelp, andnothing seemed urgent because noth-ing was. Whales swam into our dreams.I heard a spouting in tbe distance, adeep breathing through tbe fog.

"Was that a whale?" I asked Richardthe next morning. "Or was it a dream?"

He whispered an echo from Islimael,"And I alone am escaped to tell tbee."

Tbe only kayak in Glacier Bay, wetoo were alone, and escaped, left towonder bow long it could last, tbiswildness and grace. Not forever. But atthat moment it was the most beautifulplace on Earth. Tbe ice, tbe sea, therain. In that transitory, enchanted mo-ment, it was perfect. •

KIM HEACOX is the author of several

noufiction hooks and the novel CaribouCrossing. He lives in Gustavus, Alaska.

Designed and Builtto be the Best

866.839.8787wwuv.RainJerYurts.com

FOR MOHE IN FORMAT ION, SEE HEADER 5E f lU I [ £ PAGE 76

S 1 UK n A • 7 9