For over an hour Julie and Gideon had sat relaxed in airplane-style seats in the boat, mostly hand in hand, watching the scenes slip by. The living attractions of Glacier Bay had made their appearance as if programmed. They had seen a trio of humpback whales lolling in the water; black bears swinging lustily along the shore; mountain goats on the high rocks; nesting kites and puffins tucked in stony crevices among the Marble Islands; seals and sea lions and bald eagles; clownish, red-beaked oyster catchers awkwardly stalking mussels.
They had watched the blue water gradually turn milky green from the infusion of “glacial flour,” the powdery silt from glacially pulverized rock. The first icebergs-eroded, small, bizarrely shaped-appeared near Rendu Inlet at about the time they were breakfasting on minced ham and scrambled eggs from the ship's galley. And by the time they'd finished their second cups of coffee, they had caught up with the glacial flows themselves. At Lamplugh Glacier the boat slowed and stopped. With everyone else they went upstairs to stand on the top deck and gawk at the two-hundred-foot-high face of brilliant white, shot through with cracks of glowing turquoise blue. And to listen.
Unlike mountain glaciers, tidewater glaciers are never quiet. The grinding noises are predictable enough, but the other sounds from the straining ice come as a surprise to those who haven't heard them before. Sharp cr-a-aks indistinguishable from echoing rifle shots. Long, slow boooommms like cannon fire in mountain passes. Gurgles, clicks, rattles, even wheezes and moans. Gideon and Julie stood for half an hour, hunched against a dry, scraping wind. With the others they murmured with pleasure when huge chunks of ice came away and slid ponderously into the water, making great splashes that left the icebergs rolling about in their wake.
When the captain started the ship up again they went downstairs, poured cups of hot chocolate to warm themselves, and found their seats.
"Julie,” Gideon said, balancing his cup as he slid in beside her, “there are some things I don't understand about glaciers."
"Like what?"
"Like how they work."
"How they work?” Although she had seen her first tidewater glaciers here in Glacier Bay only the day before, she knew plenty about the glaciers in general. Olympic National Park, where she worked, had a dozen of them, and she herself had given lectures on glacial ecology. “Well, they start when snow accumulates faster than it melts over the years, and the old snow underneath is compressed by new snow, so that ice crystals-"
"No, I understand how they form. I don't understand how they work, how they move."
She twisted to face him more fully. "You don't understand how glaciers move? The world's leading authority on Ice Age man?"
"Just because I know something about human evolution in the Pleistocene doesn't mean I'm particularly well acquainted with glaciers. The Ice Age has been over for some time, you know.” He gulped from the steaming cardboard cup. Beyond the window was what looked like an Ice Age very much in progress. “Anyway, I'm not the world's leading authority on Ice Age man."
"One of the world's leading authorities, then."
"That's different,” he said gravely.
"Either way, I still can't believe that you don't understand-"
"I understand the theories of Ice Age progression. I understand the theories of glacial advancement and withdrawal on a global level. I'm fine with the theories. Sometimes I just have a little trouble with mechanics, that's all."
She batted her eyes, or came as close to it as Julie ever did. “Do tell."
"Hey, is that a crack about the cabinet I tried to put up in the den? Because if it is, there's no way that can be considered my fault. In theory those toggle bolts should have…” He grinned at her. “Okay, I see what you mean. I admit it: Operational details aren't my strong point."
"Really."
"Now wait a minute. The only reason the back door won't hang straight is-I mean, sliding doors are not as simple as you think. How the hell was I supposed to know…What's that look supposed to mean?"
"Gideon, have I told you that I loved you today?"
He shook his head. “Not a word."
"Well, I love you."
They leaned together and kissed gently, barely touching. “I love you too,” he said quietly. Her soft, glossy black hair fell against his cheek. He closed his eyes. What astonishing power she had to move him. He tipped her head toward him. They kissed again.
"Hey, we don’ ‘low none of that stuff ‘roun’ here,” a ranger rumbled from across the aisle. “Eyes front."
They separated, smiling.
"Now,” Julie said, “exactly what do you want to know about glaciers?"
"Basically, I want to know how those bones got where they did. Look, as I understand it, Tremaine and his people were on Tirku Glacier itself, about two miles above the snout, when the avalanche came down on them. Since then, the snout has retreated about half a mile inland. Which means that it's now one and a half miles below where they got hit in 1960."
She sipped from the cup, basking in the steam. “That's the way I understand it too."
"But the avalanche came from Mount Cooper, to the southwest, which means it hit Tirku sideways, so it wouldn't have carried them down the length of the glacier toward the snout."
"True. What's the problem?"
"The problem is, how did those bones wind up at the snout? How did they get carried forward that mile and a half down the glacier? If Tirku had been advancing all this time I could see it, but it's retreating."
She studied him. “You really don't understand how glaciers work, do you?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
"That's amazing. How can you be a full professor, a recognized-"
He sighed. “Do you ever hear me going on about minor deficiencies in your education?"
"Are you serious?” She tucked in her chin and frowned, the better to affect a deep, masculine voice. “No need to be ashamed, my dear. You are not dumb; merely ignorant."
"Julie…"
"Okay, okay. Well, what you have to realize is that there's a difference between glacial retreat and advance on the one hand, and glacial flow on the other. Even when a glacier is retreating, the ice is still flowing forward, it's just melting at the snout faster than it's flowing. It's like a…oh, like a big conveyor belt that's working fine but being dragged slowly backwards. Whatever's in the ice keeps moving forward all the same."
"I see."
"Bill!” she called over his shoulder.
Bill Bianco, the course instructor, stopped at their seats. A blond, easygoing thirty-five-year-old who looked twenty, he was a much-published expert on glaciers, particularly on crevasses. ("How did you get to be an expert on crevasses?” Gideon had asked him the evening before. “Fell into enough of ‘em, I guess,” he had replied.)
"Bill,” Julie said, “what's Tirku's rate of flow?"
"Tirku? On the average about a foot a day, maybe a little less."
"Say three hundred feet a year,” Julie said. “In twenty-nine years that'd be, uh, between eight and nine thousand feet.” She smiled at Gideon. “A mile and a half. Voila."
Gideon laughed. “I'm impressed."
The boat slowed again.
Bill looked out the window. “This is your drop-off point,” he said to Gideon. “Tirku Spit. We'll be back for you in about three hours.” He looked at his watch. “At about one. Have fun."