The three of us stood huddled against the wind, assessing the situation in our expedition parkas. Low clouds had come up the valley to pin us against Eagle Glacier. The misty curtain descended over the surrounding peaks, leaving only a view of the glacier, its river and our destination — the other side. Now a light drizzle added to the dreary prospect that lay before us.
The headwaters of the Eagle River flowed rapidly by; its  frozen source lay just one mile up valley. I turned to look at the glacier. Blue cracked ice mingled with glacial moraine, giving the sloughing giant a bruised and battered look. The sun had done its damage this summer. Melting under weak Alaskan sunshine, the glacier was retreating. It knew that for now it was beaten, but it would return in the winter, strong and healthy once again.
The blood of this wounded glacier was still being spilled into the valley, and we had to cross it. Here, Eagle River Trail, 12 miles from the trailhead, met its namesake, marked on the map as a river ford. A scramble up a 2000-foot hill on the other side connected ERT to Crow Pass Trail, our desired route. Once we found CPT, we would hike another seven miles to Crow Pass, then complete the 25-mile trip with a march down to Girdwood. Luckily we were taking the whole journey at a relaxed pace, giving ourselves five days to complete it. We were out here, after all, to enjoy what was the culmination of a mind-blowing summer of bicycle trekking, mountain climbing and bolstered friendship.
This was also the last trip I would do in Alaska, possibly forever. I was moving to California in four days to continue my schooling at Humboldt State University. Excitement mixed with fear when I thought of the new territory that California offered. I was opening a new chapter of exploration in my life. First, I had to close one that had been a book in and of itself. Here, in Alaska, I had learned and experienced more than I had my entire life. The process of leaving, though necessary, was like saying goodbye to a lover who you would probably not meet again. It left an aching in my breast, yet the memories that I had forged made me smile.
That smile turned into a crazy grin as I jumped up and down to stay warm. What was the worst that could happen?
“Let’s do it!” I shouted exaggeratedly. Matt was hesitant, eyeing the icy water with apprehension. Jason was even more ready than I.
“We’ve come this far,” stated Jason. “Our only option is to cross here or turn back, right?”
“We could cross on the glacier,” Matt said. We all looked at the glacier again, considering.
“Let’s look at the map,” I suggested, though I knew that a third look would provide little more insight. Matt produced from his pack the wrinkled paper safely tucked inside a Ziploc bag. The course over the glacier, marked by an alternate trail route for when the river was unfordable, would only add about two miles to the hike. Though all crevasses could be easily spotted, we did not have any glacier-travel gear. So we nixed the idea. It was cross the river here or turn back.
The ford site was one of the widest sections of the river, as is typical. Here the river split into three parts, divided by submerged gravel bars that created low islands covered with willows and alders. The distance did little to distribute the  flow. The first section was easy enough, no more than a foot deep. The second looked a bit deeper and faster but also feasible. The third (pictured on the right), which we still couldn’t see that well after scouting, was more than 120 feet in width, gray flecked with white caps and moving fast. There was no way to tell how deep the water was because of the glacial silt that gave the flow the appearance of dirty milk.
That last crossing posed the problem that we were now mulling over. Though we were all strong enough to cross with confidence without packs, Jason and I had never crossed such a large river with packs. I had had some experience traversing very cold streams, knowing that almost instantly your feet go numb. Keeping your footing then was even more difficult. If one of us were to fall with our pack on, we could be pulled under the frigid water. At that point the thing to do was ditch your pack and make it to shore as fast as humanly possible. You would be at risk of dying of hypothermia within minutes if you didn’t get to dry land and out of your wet clothes. It is recommended in such crossings to strip down to your underwear or go naked so that if you do fall, you won’t soak your clothes.
Of course we had to take our packs, which were already so heavy they seemed to drag us down on terra firma. Matt’s pack (nicknamed “The Fridge” because of its huge size and gray pack cover which made it appear even larger) was heaviest of all, and he was also the shortest. He was packing his shotgun for bear protection, which easily added 12 pounds to his load. He was concerned, and reasonably so.
Finally we decided that it was best to try. We traded our boots for shoes that we had brought for this function. As I unlaced my Garmonts, I looked at the ground around me. Littered about the sign that marked the ford were pairs of sandals and running shoes, left behind by adventurers for others to use. Some didn’t have partners, a testimony to the accidental slips that sent footwear down stream. I wondered if anyone had died here, then banished the thought.
By the time I had donned my running shoes, Jason was already waiting on the second island. He was wearing his flip-flops, a lightweight, though inappropriate, choice in crossing 35-degree water flowing over slippery boulders. Matt was starting across. I followed.
The first two sections were a breeze, even if the cold water wasn’t pleasant. When we reached Jason my feet were already throbbing. Regrouped on this submerged sandbar, we didn’t wait long in planning the last drive. When crossing large rivers in groups it is a good idea to form a human chain. If one person falls, the others can pull him or her up. We decided that it would be safest to go independently but close together. Jason, gung-ho, and perhaps naive as ever, went first. I was close behind, followed by Matt. About one quarter of the way across I lost all feeling in my legs below my knees. By half way the water was up to my mid-thigh, Matt was nearly to his waist. Ahead of me, Jason suddenly stumbled. He pitched forward but caught himself as he frantically scrambled to shore.
“Your flip-flop!” I exclaimed. “Jason, it’s floating downstream!” He turned and looked as the current pulled his flip-flop from the embankment. He jumped back in and saved the precious piece of foam. In retrospect, I have no idea why we were so worried about it. Perhaps it was symbolic that we make it across intact, where others had not.
I struggled the last few feet that suddenly went deeper over  larger rocks. This is why Jason had slipped. Finally to the other side, I was shaking with adrenaline. Behind me Matt was making slower progress but he, too, eventually succeeded.
“We made it!” was the collective cry. We were pumping from the adrenaline and slapped each other on the backs, all smiles and sighs of relief. We took our packs off and then our shoes (or flip-flops) to warm our feet.
“I had no idea I lost my flip-flop when I slipped,” Jason explained. “My feet were so numb I couldn’t even tell I had them on! Crazy!”
 We laughed as we rubbed life back into our tortured appendages (Matt to left, resting on "The Fridge," Jason above). After eating a snack to warm back up, we continued on. The rest of the hike was not quite as dangerous but definitely as exciting. One night we chased a curious black bear out of camp with stones and shouts. There were sections where we had to bushwhack through alders. There were areas of trail washed away by streams that we had to navigate around. We climbed thousands of feet and crossed fields of snow. Warm sunshine spilled into valleys so unforgettably immense and picturesque they brought tears to my eyes. Cool August nights passed with a hint of coming winter. We ate plump blueberries, raspberries and watermelon berries as we hiked through the ripe countryside.
As an Eastern Washingtonian, I had never experienced anything close to the awesome power of Alaska. Sure, I had gone camping in the Cascade Mountains. I had seen cold winters, with what I thought was as much snow as the sky could release. I had even seen a bear once, high up in a tree.
Who knew two feet of snow is a dusting in Alaska? That single-digit temperatures are mild? That mountains in the Lower 48 are mere hills to mighty Alaska?
No, really, Alaska holds much more than bears and mountains and snow. There are also moose, rivers and lots and lots of ice.
There are few times in  one’s life that experiences so memorable become ingrained into one’s very being. Unfolding events change you because of their significance. My time in Alaska was one huge metamorphosis from teenage naivete to more worldly manhood. For three years I journeyed into the unknown (to me) wilds of novel territory, both physical and mental. The harshness of nature trained me to respect the world more than any civilization could.
The crossing at that river has become a symbol of much in my life. It was a turning point, a place of no return where I and two of my dear friends forged ahead to overcome something that we feared, rather than turn back. I’m now prepared better than before.
And the journey, now, has only begun.
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