I was a kind of nervous I hadn’t felt since I first started diving. One minute, I was anxiously chatting with anyone nearby to distract myself, while the next, I was putting on a drysuit in the middle of a freezing cold driveway. Curious onlookers and guests at the lodge studied my presentation, perplexed in my preparations. I was layering bulky socks underneath the crushed neoprene, stuffing my drysuit with as many layers as possible completely lost in thought—questioning my abilities, my training, and what had led me to this moment. Had I spent enough time in cold water? Did I really understand my gear? Was I ready for this?
From years of diving, I’d learned that the nervousness would eventually pass. And admitting it was usually the best policy, keeping everyone aware of where you’re at, for better or worse. But this time, it wasn’t just some lingering insecurity. This feeling was real, and for good reason. We were about to dive off a helicopter, onto a glacier, into nearly freezing pools of water that only a handful of people had tackled before.
In the lead-up to this moment, everyone told Adam and I that we were about to experience a level of cold like never before—cold that would make us question our sanity, make us hate ourselves yet also leave us thrilled to be among the few who dared to put ourselves through this painful yet fascinating torture. We trusted the cold-water experts at Dive Alaska, but that didn’t completely settle the nerves.
Personally, I had logged over 30 hours of temperate water diving, most of it in a worn-out 7mm wetsuit with its fair share of holes and tears. We knew what it meant to be “cold.” But I had just 10 hours of experience in cold-water diving with a brand new drysuit—one that had already given me trouble, flooding multiple times, due to my own errors of course, in the weeks leading up to this. The thought of flooding in 0°C (32°F) water was far from ideal, but my excitement was pushing me to let go of the fear and embrace the challenge.
Layered up beneath my drysuit, I felt like a walking marshmallow, as ready as I’d ever be to face the cold. A tiny red helicopter touched down next to Sheep Mountain Lodge, drawing even more curious onlookers from the restaurant. As we loaded the scuba tanks, it took two trips to accommodate all our heavy dive gear. Each onlooker was more stunned than the next, and frankly so was I—were we really about to dive into glacier lakes in the middle of nowhere, Alaska? The answer was a hard-core yes.
Adam was going to be freediving in a 5mm wetsuit with just two small vests underneath. Adam took on the persona of a stoic minimalist, again and again rising to these challenges with what seemed like a neutral coolness. If he could manage in practically nothing, I figured I could handle it with all my legit cold-water gear. We planned to dive each of the lakes for just 15-20 minutes, knowing that most people don’t last much longer. The cold would first numb our faces, hands, and toes, as blood was going to rush to protect our core and vital organs. The real challenge was seeing which body part would shut down first and how detrimental that would be to the psyche.
The flight to the glacier felt like entering another world, guided by Mark Fleenor, the owner of the lodge where we clearly made a scene in the driveway. For the past 15 years, Mark has immersed himself in Alaska’s rugged beauty, making over 1,000 flights a year to Matanuska. With more than 7,000 flights under his belt, he’s witnessed the glacier’s ever-changing landscape firsthand and because of it, was one of the first people to explore the glacial lakes, wanting to see what it would be like to ice climb his way down and see a completely different side to the glacier he calls home.
We flew at 125 miles per hour, just three feet above the ice. As Mark narrated the scene below, he shared glimpses into his life exploring this 27-mile-long glacier. The Matanuska Glacier, which feeds the Matanuska River, is a notable sight even from the highway. Yet despite its proximity, its terminus has remained relatively stable for the past 30 years. Mark explained that the glacier’s unique location creates warmer, sunnier conditions, making it an ideal spot for ice climbing, hiking and diving—something that inspired him to start exploring it after taking over the lodge a decade ago. To put it in perspective, Alaska is home to 100,000 glaciers, less than 1% of which have names, despite covering nearly 5% of the state. Matanuska is one of the most accessible and explored, but that’s not really saying much! Wild Alaska is simply just that: wild.
At the end of summer, the surrounding area was still green, with vibrant wildflowers—reds, purples, and yellows—dotting the valleys. In the distance, snow-capped mountains loomed, contrasting sharply with the glacier's stark white, blue, grey, and black tones. It was a breathtaking scene, reminiscent of a prehistoric world. I couldn’t believe I was back here, 25 years after first visiting Alaska as a child, to the very week in fact. At 13, my parents took me on a cruise from Vancouver up to Alaska, visiting places like Juneau, Ketchikan, Anchorage and Denali National Park—the classic Alaskan tourist destinations. I don’t remember much from that trip, but I do remember a flight out to a glacier, standing on the ice, and being struck by that ferociously deep blue color. It was a shade I’d never seen in nature before. I wondered if I’d see it again after so many years and so much change in our natural world. As we touched down on the Matanuska Glacier, that same brilliant blue greeted me. All the fear, nerves, and self-doubt vanished. I was relieved to see that not all of wild Alaska was lost.
We spent an hour exploring the glacier, retaining our body heat as best we could. My hands were already cold and we hadn’t even touched water yet. We climbed on the ice, waded in the crystal-blue water, and marveled at the sheets of ice we were sliding around. Glaciers are massive, slow-moving rivers of ice, formed over thousands of years from compacted snow. They are constantly evolving, gaining mass through snowfall in the colder months and losing it through melting and calving in the warmer seasons. As they flow, glaciers shape the landscape by eroding rock and depositing sediments, creating an environment just like what we were exploring.
Thick fog obscured our surroundings, forcing us to focus on the blue pools that ranged from deep azure at depth to bright crystal blue near the surface, reflecting off the ice structures. I was eager to dive in, but the gear setup was far from straightforward, and it took an extraordinary amount of time. We meticulously checked every component, knowing how critical it was for all pieces of our kit to work. For such a short dive, it was surprising how much work was involved, but it was clear why so few people had ever done this—and why many more possibly shouldn’t.
We expected our gear to fail in one way or another in the cold. Regulators were likely to freeze, and if we used our inflator hoses too much or improperly, the button functionality could do the same. A free-flowing regulator would pump air into our faces, designed to keep us alive if the equipment started to fail. If the inflator failed, we’d have to manually inflate our gear to help keep our buoyancy, which would require oral inflation. I was weighted so heavily I could hardly stand. We slid into the icy pools, and the cold immediately pierced our faces. We knew there was simply no turning back now.
So my regulator failed immediately, free-flowing as soon as I started descending. But I was determined to keep going—I knew if I got out there was a good chance I wouldn’t go back in. The difference between the warmth of my face and the cold of the water caused instant mask fogging, and my weights started falling out of my pockets as my gear struggled under the load. It was a top-to-bottom gear failure, unlike anything I’d experienced before. But we pressed on. With very little movement, surrounded by ice, it felt like we’d entered some alternate, freshwater universe.
The second dive went more smoothly, with fewer gear issues. Although Josh, our guide from Dive Alaska, had his own round of failures, we still managed to press onward. Apparently, this was just the norm around here, and we had no choice but to adapt. Surprisingly, I felt relatively warm, considering the conditions. My face and hands lost full feeling, but the rest of me was fine. My adrenaline was driving me forward. After four hours, the sun finally started to break through. Adam’s hands were white, and his body was shaking from the cold. How he managed to stay in the water with us was beyond me—he was essentially polar plunging. Both Josh and I were impressed.
There was no life out here—just sheets of ice, pools of water. If we weren’t talking, the only thing you could hear were tiny drops of water, as the glacier changed at our feet. With more light, the snow-covered mountains surrounding us became visible. And I wanted more. I wondered what this place would be like in the winter, with sub-zero temperatures and ice forming on the wet parts of our faces. I knew this wouldn’t be my last time here, as I felt myself growing hooked on yet another niche of scuba diving. My nerves had transformed into an obsession and curiosity like never before. What else was out there to explore? How far could I push my limits in the cold? The answer was a resounding yes—I wanted to know what the infamous Alaskan winter was really like.
Winter in Alaska is both breathtaking and brutal. Locals warned us how the long, dark days could feel isolating, and temperatures plummeting well below freezing can make even the simplest tasks a challenge. But for the adventurous, there’s unparalleled exploration right on Alaska’s doorstep. Diving in these conditions means constant threats of gear failure as the cold turns even the most reliable equipment into ice. Josh explained that only one glacier expedition had ever been attempted in the winter. And that’s because as one might suspect, everything freezes, even the drysuits. The only way to thaw out was in a hot tub, hours after the dive, in order to prevent DCS. For some reason, I had an aching desire to experience that.
The dives were so quick, and the gear issues so real, that our time on Matanuska Glacier seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. We didn’t even have a moment to fully process what had just happened. Alone in the middle of the glacier, with the helicopter leaving us to soak in the vastness of Alaska, I tried to savor every second. To some, diving in a shallow glacier lake might seem pointless. There’s nothing to see but ice, in its purest form. No life, no megafauna—just ice and alien shades of blue. Some lakes on the glacier have caves, caverns, ledges, and icicles that could impale you if your buoyancy was off. But for the most part, there’s nothing else. This is reserved for the extreme, the die-hard, the adrenaline junkies who want to see the world in the most unique way possible.
I had a clear Nalgene water bottle with me. Kneeling by one of the lakes, I filled it to the brim and took a sip of the fresh glacier water. It was the best water I’d ever tasted, reminding me of the scene from Waterboy where Adam Sandler’s character has his first taste of “good” water. I felt rejuvenated. I bottled up as much of the glacier water as I could, knowing it would be a memory I’d carry with me long after the helicopter lifted off, taking us back to solid ground.
As the helicopter lifted off, carrying us away from the glacier and back to the familiar world, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and awe. The nerves that had gripped me at the start, the relentless cold that tested my resolve, and the gear failures that could have halted our adventure—all of it had led to this moment. We had ventured into a landscape that few have ever seen, pushing ourselves beyond the boundaries of comfort and expectation. Diving beneath the ice of Matanuska Glacier wasn’t just about the thrill; it was about embracing the unknown, challenging our limits, and discovering the beauty that lies in the most unexpected places. This experience reminded me that the world is vast and full of mysteries, waiting for those willing to step out of their comfort zone. It’s in these moments of uncertainty and exploration that we can truly find ourselves—and truly experience the world around us.
To be continued …
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