Alaskan Icescape
There are few places on Earth that feel as wild and immense as Alaska. It’s a land that humbles you—its silence, its scale, and its ancient ice all speak a language older than memory. I traveled there with my daughter Kelly when she was twelve years old. We went not just to see Alaska, but to experience it—to touch it, fly over it, feel it.
We flew by helicopter over mountains of blue ice, gliding above long flows of glaciers, ice and water all moving steadily toward the sea. From the air, the world below seemed unreal—rivers of frozen time carving through valleys, ancient and majestic. When we landed on the ice and stepped out onto a glacier, it felt like a sacred space. Kelly was wide-eyed, taking it all in, jumping over small streams that ran across the surface, curious and brave, her boots crunching against the crust as she listened to the slow drip of melting ice and flowing water beneath.
By boat, we got close to calving glaciers, where towering walls of ice broke away with thunderous roars and crashed into the sea. The water was littered with chunks of ice in every shape and size, glinting like glass in the Arctic sun. I watched Kelly as she stood quietly, wrapped in a jacket, holding her camera. I could feel her perspective widening, just like mine had many years ago.
To photograph these glaciers with my daughter—to share that experience, that wonder, that moment—was something far more important than any image I could make. It wasn’t just about capturing the landscape; it was about holding onto a fleeting moment in both the Earth’s life and hers.
