Glacial slush ice

Glaciers kind of freak me out. They’re beautiful, even awe-inspiring. But also freaky. Huge silent walls of frozen water that sit around doing nothing and then break unexpectedly and frighteningly with a sound like a gunshot. I’ve read too many stories of people who ended up in crevasses, and mostly didn’t get out again, to find enjoyment in walking around on the thin snowy veneers above them. Even ignoring all the drama, they’re still slippery and steep and if you fall over you’ll cut your hands.

All these things I was considering as I reluctantly followed my husband and son up an icy slope at the foot of a glacier on our summer holiday. Menacing ice crunched under each step until, eventually, caution prevailed and I resolved to stay put until they decided to descend. Husband and son called from their vantage point where they happily looked out over the foot of the glacier and the iceberg-pocked bay. I shook my head. I was going nowhere.

I frowned at the winding stream of freezing water cutting over the ice beside me. The stream, at least, was quite nice, I could admit. Then as I watched, I had a strange sensation. There came a distinct, sudden change in the sound of the flowing water. Something was coming down the stream from above me. It made a strange swishy, glassy tinkling sound. I could see it coming toward me – an invisible mass that was holding back the flow a little – but I couldn’t recognise what it was. Only when it passed right by my feet did I realise that it was a thousand icy fragments, like ice cubes, ejected and washed down from somewhere higher up. A glittering, tinkling glacial slush ice.

I had never imagined such a magical thing. No longer frowning, I was reminded of one of the reasons I venture to wild places and make myself uncomfortable, scared, tired, cold and wet. It’s to share in these small secrets.