Glaciers have always been inexplicably appealing to me. Every time I’ve seen images of ice caves, blue tinted climbing glaciers, and Arctic tundras, I’ve also felt a longing to be there. Surrounded by the ice. Feeling the frigid air bounce off the ice and back towards my skin. When I finally had a chance to visit Alaska, one of the top things on my list was to spend some time exploring ice. I didn’t quite get to do a full on ice climb, or crawl through ice caves. Juggling three kids meant that would have to wait. But I did make it out to Byron Glacier, and for the time being, that was plenty.
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On paper, the hike to the glacier was easy. But we had our own added challenges that we brought with us, namely in the form of three kids under the age of three. Two weren’t walking yet, and could be strapped into a pack for the hike, but it was still a pretty young crew. It was also a wet day. Southern Alaska had been trapped in an incessant summer storm for about a month. I was told this was atypical, but perhaps a new unpredictable consequence of a changing climate. Living in a rain-deprived California, I gladly welcomed the precipitation, accepting the added wetness of the hike as part of the whole experience. The moisture gave every green thing we passed an extra shine, so the leaves that lined our hike popped like emeralds. Soon enough, the glacier was in view.
Being at the foot of a large glacier that grew as it ascended up a slope meant being at the part of it that gets interrupted by a river created from its own melt further ahead. I watched the steadily flowing water. The sound of the water flow created it’s own symphony, playing a little rough with the chipped rock floor below. This runoff would feed so many things on its outbound journey. The interruption created a few hollowed out spaces in the ice. Caves. They didn’t look like the most stable formations so I kept my time there short and shallow, but it was still mesmerizing to have walls of glowing blue ice rise up around you. I ran my hand against the ice wall. It was as hard as anything I’ve ever felt. The least desirable thing to use as a punching bag. And yet, I couldn’t help but think of its vulnerability.
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The image of a melting glacier is about as stereotypical as a climate change trope can get. You just need a sad polar bear clutching to it. But that image reflects a reality. Glacier National Park contains about 26 glaciers, a staggering decline from the 146 that were identified back when the park got its name. All of the 26 survivors are now much smaller. As I stepped over ice sheets with a nine month old on my back, and his two siblings in the vicinity, I wondered if they’d even have glaciers by the time they were old enough to plan their own trips. Would this be something they could do with their kids, or would it be too late?
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Climate anxiety is gaining more and more attention, and those in the mental health arena are adapting very quickly to better account for the ways the climate crisis takes a psychological toll. But our relationship with our natural surroundings is an ancient one, and people have always felt grief or dread around environmental damage. At some level we know the damage is done to us as well. Everyone’s experience with climate anxiety is valid, and some might say it’s perhaps the emotional response that makes the most sense. Yet, as valid as the grief or anxiety may be, they point where they become disruptive is when it freezes us from playing our role in protecting the climate.
The reality is, even if we got everything right behavior-wise, in regards to climate change, we would still be dealing with the effects of the damage that has been done. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try, for the sake of reversing what happens before it gets even worse. But the past few months have been a preview of further things to anticipate. Natural disasters, heatwaves, countries struggling underwater. In order to stay in the fight, we need to develop our own capacity to experience joy and to stay motivated in spite of this sort of feedback.
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Climate joy. To me that looks like being able to delight in creation, to erupt in wonder over its mechanics, and to share the experience of discovery with others. It includes celebrating the wins in our efforts to protect it and being reminded of the value of all living things. Almost all of the fiercest environment protectors I know have a story that begins with a childhood spent among the trees or waters. Climate joy is a bit about stubbornness, but also defiant resilience. It’s about maintaining the urgency of taking action, but with a grounding that allows you to do so year after year without burning out. And a day spent around a fragile natural wonder is a compelling invitation towards climate joy.