A Snowball's Chance in Girdwood

Not even ten minutes outside Anchorage, the presence of humans decreased dramatically, giving way to a surge in mountainous peaks. No more big box stores. No more concrete. Just the road and nature. "Ah, now this is Alaska," I thought. Suddenly, my head was twisting and turning in my seat, finding new awe-worthy views in every direction. Driving along the southern coast, keeping Turnagain Arm to our south, I consulted my map to see where we were, and where we were headed. And that's when it hit me. Alaska is enormous. More than twice the size of Texas, Alaska has 665,284 square miles of land and only 20% is accessible by road leaving the other 80% virtually untouched by humans. And, here we were, about to cover only 127 miles in our 9 days here, just a tiny spit of land on the Kenai Peninsula. We'd need a lifetime of adventure to see it all.

As we drive toward Girdwood, the water remains our companion for the duration of the ride. The Turnagain Arm is a tranquil body of water that hides an extraordinary secret: it features the second-largest tidal range in North America, with fluctuations reaching up to 40 feet—surpassed only by the Bay of Fundy near Nova Scotia. This impressive tidal range creates a stunning natural phenomenon known as the bore tide. This event occurs when rapidly rising waters, combined with the arm's shallow and gently sloping floor, produce one long, continuous wave. A sought-after destination for long-distance surfers, this wave can reach heights of 6-10 feet and travel at speeds of 10-15 miles per hour. Dolphins and Belugas are also known to ride the wave, making it a mecca for surfers of all species.

Only 39 miles from Anchorage, which is home to 40% of Alaska's permanent residents, Girdwood feels a world apart. We pulled into our cozy log cabin within striking distance of Mt. Alyeska. Surrounded by vivid green woods with windows to see every vantage point, I spent a good portion of my time searching for bears; a task made possible around the clock in a place where the sun never truly sets. At 3:00 pm or 3:00 am, the search was an equal opportunity endeavor.

In one of our quiet cabin moments, Liam and Quinn were stationed in the loft, drawing, while Onora quietly read Warrior Cats. Gaelan, our resident animal lover, stood at the window, watching for wildlife. Thirty minutes later, he came bounding into the living room, excited for me to "bear" witness to the large animal that had made itself comfortable right on our porch.

One of my favorite things about Gaelan is his absolute, dead give-away smile when trying to pull one over on you. Thanks to Google's 3D Animal App that can conjure real animals and place them directly in your current location, he had some fun with a whole host of creatures, even extinct ones.

Games of hearts, boggle, or reading a good book next to the gas fireplace in this splendid house made it a bit more challenging to get up and explore. But, explore, we did!

On a beautifully sunny 66-degree day, we drove five minutes to the Mt. Alyeska Ski Resort to ride the tram 2,025 ft. to the top of the slope. On the 4-minute ride, the tram operator gave us a few staggering statistics. "Mt. Alyeska gets an average of 669 inches of snow each year." That's 55 feet! That's more than a 5 story building. One rider asked, "Where are the ski slopes?" The attendant smiled, "Most of the trees are covered in snow during the winter, so people ski on top of them. There's no need to cut the trees down to make slopes." Imagine: Snow so deep it buries entire pine trees. Mt. Alyeska is nicknamed, "Steep and Deep" and its North Face features North America's longest continuous double black run.

We stepped off the tram and stood transfixed at our 360-degree view of the mountains across the resort valley with Turnagain Arm in the distance. The sun glinted off the clouds, light playing hide and seek with the mountains below.

We began a leisurely climb up a winding gravel path, my camera on rapid fire while the kids tore off to the top. We zigzagged our way higher until the trail ahead lost its "family-friendly" designation. As we neared our stopping point, seasoned adventurers passed us, equipped with ropes, hard hats, and crampons, ready to tackle the more treacherous terrain that awaited them at the summit.

Even if the kids wanted to hike farther up the mountain, the allure of snow underfoot in July was too much to resist. Gaelan staked his claim. We weren't going anywhere without making full use of this icy wonderland.

Let the snowball fight begin! You'd swear these kids were training for the Winter Olympics in ice packing. Depending on the arm doing the throwing, dodging ice missiles became an adrenalized, high-stakes game of survival - feeling as if your life depended on your ability to duck and weave. Thanks to Liam, for three days afterward, I had a red, baseball-sized mark on my stomach.

In shorts and fleeces, with the sun on our faces, we played in the snow for almost an hour, relishing in the juxtaposition of snow in summer.

Liam and Quinn's epic snowball battles were a frosty mix of exhaustion and hilarity. With competitive fire in their eyes, they tackled each other, wrestling in the snow, while laughing too hard to aim straight—determined to crown a snowball fight champion for the ages. Just as Quinn was preparing to showcase his strategic skills, Liam hurled an ice rocket with such force that it sent Quinn bending backward in a dramatic Matrix-style move, the snowball grazing his neck and tearing his necklace right off his body. In an unexpected twist, Kip, the quiet underdog, sauntered in, calm and steady. Within minutes, he had Liam on the ground and defeated.

At the Bore Tide Bar and Grill, we ordered hot chocolate simply to justify staying a little longer at the top. Because who wouldn't want to take in this view as long as possible? Twenty minutes later, despite several attempts at adding ice cubes to our HOT hot chocolate, our drinks were still untouched lest our tongues disintegrate into the boiling liquid. Alas, with scratchy tongues, we emerged from the bar and had to make a decision. To Hike Down OR To Not Hike Down - that is the question. On one hand, it's a 4-minute free tram ride in cushy comfort that delivers us directly to our car. On the other, a 2-mile descent into knee-buckling madness, while dodging hidden artillery shells and potential bears? Well, okay. Hike it is!

At first, the hike was a stroll down what could generously be called a gravel slope—more like a controlled slide between the mountains. I’d glance up every so often to admire the scenery, only to quickly look back down before the loose gravel sent me tumbling into an unplanned somersault. Meanwhile, the kids were off like they had rocket boosters, leaving me, and my still-recovering ankle, to eat their dust. Kip, bless his heart, stuck with me, even though I’m sure it felt like he was witnessing a toddler’s first steps. I was setting my own record pace: slow and unsteady wins... well, nothing, really.

Here's a fun fact about me: Thanks to genetics, I was born with knees that seem to have been engineered by Dr. Frankenstein himself, who thought it would be hilarious to replace my ligaments with rubber bands that had long since lost their elasticity. After the 1st hour, my knees were junk, each pounding step like tiny seismic events going off in my kneecaps. On more than one occasion, I seriously entertained the idea of barrel-rolling down the hill, hoping to limit my injuries to just a few cuts and bruises. Instead, I took a different tactic and began to walk backward down the mountain. This gave me a fresh perspective on the scenery (mainly a view of how far we’ve come rather than how far we had to go) and a new appreciation for uphill hikes. At home, I hobbled from the car. The kids sprinted inside.

I limped into Chair 5 Restaurant, ready for a laid-back dinner. Liam, my ever-hungry 15-year-old, who seems to have a black hole where his stomach should be, immediately zeroed in on the menu. His eyes lit up when he spotted the most filling option: Alfredo pasta. Alfredo, fish tacos, hamburgers, pizza, grilled cheese with fries—Liam devoured his meal and still had room to offer his "services" to anyone who couldn't finish theirs. It made me think of my dad, who, much to my mom's dismay, has been known to ask the waiter, "What's the biggest thing you've got?"

The weather in Alaska is reliably unpredictable. One moment, the sun blazes down; the next, a light drizzle begins, with every possible type of cloud cover in between, casting an ever-shifting mood over the landscape. As we drove to the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center, low-hanging clouds partially shrouded the distant mountains, adding an air of mystique and mystery.

The center itself is a unique outdoor sanctuary for animals in need of extra care, some of whom are eventually released back into the wild, while others remain permanent residents due to their disabilities. Unlike any traditional "zoo," this place feels more like a piece of the wild itself, with expansive enclosures that blend with the surrounding environment. Typicaly, I'm uncomfortable at these types of places, feeling infinitely sorry for the animals who are stared at all day by curious humans. In this place though, I thought, "I could be a bear here." Throughout our summer travels, we’ve been fortunate to encounter many of these native animals in their natural habitats—bears, moose, elk, bison, reindeer, coyotes, and eagles. But, this gave us a closer peek without the fear of spooking one of the animals and having it charge.

We watched a rather interesting display of bear behavior that, in hindsight, I wish I'd gotten on video. It went something a little like this: To the left...and move to the right...take it back now y'all...Stand on a rock...right foot, let's stomp....left foot, let's stomp...now dip your head and do it again...Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. The dancing bear repeated these rhythmic movements, always ending with a head swish, channeling his inner Stevie Wonder. He performed this routine over and over like he'd gotten the Cha Cha Slide stuck in his head on repeat. Note: I'll take this moment to apologize for ruining your day by getting that song stuck in your head too.

We decided to make the most of the perfect weather and drove to the Byron Glacier trailhead. As we navigated the winding road, the glacier intermittently came into view, appearing as a mere speck from a distance. I started to doubt if the drive was worth it, imagining myself standing dejectedly on that tiny patch of ice. However, the short, flat 1-mile hike from the parking lot quickly transformed my skepticism.

As we trekked through the lush undergrowth and along a stream—whose glacial chill made its origin unmistakable—we felt the air change temperature as we suddenly emerged into a breathtaking sight: a colossal, stunning glacier of shimmering blue and white. HOLY ICEBERG!

Large mountains of ice begged us to climb up and explore. The kids took off in their excitement to wander through crevices, leap across chasms, peer inside eerie blue tunnels, and gather for their weekly "album cover photo."

Standing in head-high snow and ice, you're surrounded, and its tightly packed structure reveals an ethereal color.

Glaciers are responsible for more accidents each year than one might expect. Byron Glacier, devastatingly, sees its share of these incidents. Despite the warnings, many visitors are drawn to explore the stunning ice tunnels, which can be incredibly tempting. However, as summer snowmelt progresses, the ice becomes increasingly unstable. A seemingly harmless soft spot can suddenly give way, leading to a catastrophic collapse that traps anyone inside. The beauty of these tunnels belies their peril, and the danger is all too real. So, we looked inside from the OUTSIDE.

Surprisingly, we had the glacier all to ourselves. Unlike many "tourist attractions" across the world (think Mona Lisa or Niagara Falls) there was no line, no waiting to get a photo. Just us and nature. For an hour, the kids explored the rocks and ice to their heart's content, Liam stopping to comment that this place was a highlight of the trip for him. For much of the time, the older two, decked out in their usual gray and black colors, found a use for their dull palette. They managed to camouflage themselves in every conceivable way, turning their hoodies backward, and covering their faces. Can you see them?

Seriously, try and find them .

Time was up. As we began our trek back to the trail, thick clouds rolled in like a sudden, opaque curtain, accompanied by a fine mist of rain and a chill breeze. Just hours earlier, the weather had been perfectly sunny. As I said, reliably unpredictable.

We took one last glance over our shoulder and said goodbye to Byron Glacier.

Since leaving Anchorage, I've come to expect scenery that almost knocks you down, the breath catching in your throat. Yet, no matter how often I experience it - literally every waking hour - I always find myself emotionally unprepared for the staggering beauty. At times, I feel compelled to set the camera aside and absorb the view with my own eyes, removing the lens's emotional barrier. In those moments, I often find that my chest tightens and a hiccup escapes as I struggle to hold back tears. Being in this place is the epitome of humbling. It is evidence that there is something so much bigger than ourselves.

Standing in this ancient valley, forged millions of years ago, I can't help but envision the glaciers advancing and retreating, shaping the landscape as part of Earth's ongoing story. What this mountain has seen in its lifetime is unfathomable. If only I could glimpse the history of the world through its unique perspective, even for a moment. Lip still quivering, I wipe my eyes and continue shooting the landscape.

One last post is coming before our adventures are over for the summer. Stay tuned for Seward...