Grewingk Landslide and Tsunami

This article originally appeared in the Homer Tribune.

Imagine hovering in a helicopter above Grewingk Glacier Lake, in Kachemak Bay, fifty years ago. From this safe vantage, you watch as 80 Empire State Buildings worth of material, slowly dislodge from the steep slope above the lake, and then let go all at once. Cleaved from the surface, you see the unfathomable volume of material gain momentum. By the time the deafening roar reaches your ears, the 110 million cubic yards of rock has thundered into the lake, sending a wave hundreds of feet into the air. Craning your neck, you watch this fast moving bulge of water slosh over the outwash plain, uprooting alders and mature trees, carrying everything in its path all the way to Kachemak Bay, more than four miles distant.

You just witnessed a suite of natures most destructive and incredible phenomena—a landslide generated tsunami.

This may seem like a crescendo scene from an apocalyptic Hollywood movie, but last October marked the fifty-year anniversary of the Grewingk landslide and tsunami.

No helicopter hovered in the air and thankfully no one was in the valley that day. However, many in Homer and nearby Halibut Cove heard the crash and later witnessed glacier ice in Kachemak Bay. Homer residents were able that fall to salvage trees for firewood that washed ashore onto the Homer Spit.

This event has captured the attention of two local geologists, who worry another landslide and tsunami could occur in the same area with similar, or worse, devastation.

“The rock all along the mountainside is highly fractured and faulted, as is the rock generally in the Kenai Mountains,” geologist Ed Berg said about the slope above Grewingk Lake. “Major rockfalls or landslides could probably occur anywhere along the steep slope of the mountainside.”

Seldovia resident and tsunami hazards expert Bretwood Higman added, “The combination of steep slopes and weak rock is the perfect recipe for a big landslide. Additionally, the 1967 landslide shows this area has the potential for very large landslides, and this potential may be all the greater now, since the glacier has retreated a lot in the past fifty years.”

Throughout coastal Alaska, landslides, some of which have caused massive tsunamis, are occurring with increased frequency. Steep mountain valleys, fjords, and bays that have, for many thousands of years, been full of glaciers have seen rapid retreat over the last fifty years. This has led to slope instability in many areas. Glaciologists and geologists call this process, glacial debuttressing.

“The slopes above Grewingk Lake are notable because they are much steeper than most slopes in the area, and they're not more strong,” noted Higman. “They probably are so steep because they were supported by the Grewingk Glacier until recently, and because the glacier has been actively undercutting them. The combination of steep slopes and weak rock is the perfect recipe for a big landslide.”

In June, Berg, Higman and the American Packrafting Association organized a human-powered research expedition to Grewingk Glacier Lake, hiking over the trail with a flotilla of packrafts and some low-budget tools.

One of the goals of the group was to better understand the depth of the lake. This information is key to understanding the potential for another tsunami. 

For the trip, Berg engineered a simple 1x4 contraption, which he affixed to the stern of his packraft. From this device he mounted a borrowed sonar fish-finder to measure and record the lake bottom depth profile. Others in the party used less sophisticated instruments to measure lake depth from the platforms of their packrafts, like a handheld sonar depth gauge or weighted lengths of string.

The deepest spot the team discovered—490 feet—was near the glacier face and the average depth below the potential landslide slope averaged 360 feet. “We were surprised that the lake is so deep,” said Berg. For a landslide tsunami, deeper water means greater hazard. The entire volume of the landslide could end up beneath the water‘s surface—creating a much bigger wave. Deeper water absorbs more of the landslides energy, converting it into a bigger, more powerful wave.

But how likely is such a landslide? Berg and Higman both agree that further study is necessary, including a detailed survey of the ridge above the lake. “In particular,” Higman says, “I'd look for roots that are stretched across cracks, or signs of blocks that have shifted down as cracks opened below them. If such signs are apparent up there, that would be a "red alert" situation, suggesting dramatic action like closing trails.”

Higman would also like to see computer modeling of landslide tsunamis to assess areas within the valley, which are most at risk for visitors to the area. Furthermore, computer models could resolve the potential for marine tsunamis in Kachemak Bay. “The marine tsunami risk is likely very minimal,” says Higman “but may be relevant since even a small marine tsunami could be very damaging to the Homer Harbor.”

Thus far, Berg and Higman have been aided with small equipment loans and organizational support from the American Packrafting Association but the two are working without funding or institutional backing.

“We would like to see some monitoring program put in place,” says Berg “that could provide timely warning of a future collapse and tsunami.”

“University researchers could be great, especially if they worked with us locals,” said Higman. Adding, “I'd like to see some funding to support someone to take the next steps, including assessment of the hazard, public outreach, investigating monitoring, [and] coordinating different research efforts.”

Statistically speaking, there is no good reason not to visit Kachemak Bay State Park’s magnificent treasure, the Grewingk Glacier. It’s not advisable to camp on or near the lakeshore but the likelihood of a cataclysmic event occurring during a day hike through the park is quite low. No one can predict when or even if there will be another landslide and tsunami. As our climate continues to warm, the research and study of these interconnected phenomena is wildly important—as important, perhaps, as visiting an Alaskan glacier.

-Bjørn Olson

Roof of Alaska

The word Arctic, for me, is a magical word. As someone who lives in an Arctic state, I have spent relatively little time above latitude 66º. What time I have spent in the far north has further emboldened my romance. The land of no summer sunsets, bowhead whales, walrus’, shorebird colonies that darken the skies and ancient cultures surviving and thriving in the lands of their ancestors easily distract my mind. A quixotic vision compels me north this summer, but with a healthy dose of realistic expectation, and even more caution.

This summer, myself along with Kim McNett and Daniel Countiss will fly to the northwestern Alaskan community of Point Hope and begin a long, fat-bike and packraft trip. Our aim is to traverse more than 800 miles of Arctic terrain to Kaktovik in the northeastern region of the state. We will pass through the villages of Point Lay, Wainwright, Utqiagvik (Barrow) then continue east to Deadhorse; and, if everything goes incredibly well, we’ll continue on to Kaktovik. For the first ten-days, we will be joined by our friend Alayne Tetor.  

For months, we have poured over satellite data, photosets, and maps; and have reached out to any and everyone we know that has experience or who lives in the region. We have repackaged and stuffed seven-weeks worth of food into flat-rate priority mail boxes, to be sent to village post offices when needed, and assembled all the odds and ends one needs to survive while traveling unsupported in the wilderness. We’ve overhauled all the little parts and pieces of our bikes and stripped them down to single speed and single intention machines. Our bags are packed.

Before any big trip, but particularly before a previously unattempted big trip, I hear the questions from friends and family: how long will it take, how many miles do you expect to travel each day, etc. My response is, we have seven weeks worth of food. We can make assumptions and guesses based off the information we have, but until we are actually there we’ll have no real or clear idea about our efficiency on this road-less and trail-less route. This uncertainty gives me butterflies. The giants of our imagination may turn out to be benign windmills or we may come home with our tails between our legs. Regardless, we are going…to find out.

Beyond the straightforward adventure, we will also be attempting to contribute to the scientific community by documenting and measuring coastal erosion. Similar to geocaching, we will be attempting to locate the dozens of “shore stations,” which have been created by Shore Zone, with our GPS. Once we locate them, we will re-measure, photo-re-occupy, make field notes, and nature drawings. Some of the coastline we propose to pass through is losing more than 20 feet a year to erosion from the warming seas – a symptom of climate change.

Arctic explorer Vilhjalmur Stefansson once said, “There are two kinds of Arctic problems, the imaginary and the real. Of the two, the imaginary are the most real.” From where we are standing, all Arctic problems are imaginary and therefore very real.

With any luck, we’ll be able to send updates from the villages we pass through. We will be carrying our InReach tracking device, which will send daily “pings” from our current location. To follow our progress click here: https://share.delorme.com/BjornandKim

We will also send occasional, short updates from our InReach, which will be received by Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/groundtruthtrekking/

An enormous thank you is due to the brands and organizations that have helped us realize this expedition: Ground Truth Trekking, Cook Inletkeeper, Kachemak Bay Conservation Society, Salsa Cycles, Alpacka Rafts, Mountain Laurel Designs, and the Time Lords Cycling Group. 

Fat-Bike to the Arctic - Gear Review

I wrote this gear review after our Fat-Bike to the Arctic expedition, in 2014, in which Kim McNett and I became the first people to fat-bike from Knik to Kotzebue - 1,100 miles. We learned and experienced much on this expedition. Here are my reflections on the gear we employed. -- Originally published on Ground Truth Trekking

Sea-ice between Shaktoolik and Koyuk. 

Fat-bike to the Arctic: gear

We have returned home from our fat-bike expedition to the arctic and it seems almost like a dream. If not for the photos I might not believe it actually happened. Our luck and good fortune were beyond comprehension and the people we encountered without equal.

Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.

Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,100 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.

Shelter and stove:

Mountain Laurel shelter and Titanium Goat wood stove.

Before we embarked, Kim and I spent time trialing our Mountain Laurel, floor-less, mid shelter with the Titanium Goat, wood burning, barrel stove but this arrangement was still largely theoretical.  After 5 weeks of near daily use, we are beyond theory and into the realm of the actual.

We opted to rely solely on the wood stove for our water making and food cooking and left our MSR Whisperlite with friends to send if we decided we needed it. Using the wood stove to make water and cook on takes longer than a gas stove but our routine with the stove proved to be a nearly ideal arrangement.

In the evening we would both work together to erect the shelter. This chore consisted of strapping together two collapsible ski poles, handle to handle, with the tips on the end. We used two Voile straps, which are stretchy and very secure. (More about Voile straps later.) Then we would harvest four stakes from whatever was available. Typically, this was willow, spruce or birch branches. Then, Kim would hold the center pole within the shelter, while I set the stakes. Once the shelter was secure, we would either cut snow blocks or scoop loose snow around the perimeter “skirt” that I had sewn onto the shelter. 

With the shelter erected, we each set out on our individual chores, which alternated daily. One of us would assemble the collapsible bow saw and harvest enough wood for the evening and morning. Relying on the wood stove establishes parameters as to where we decided to set a camp. We preferred to be in spruce forests, as dead spruce is the best fuel for the stove. That said, dead and dry willow or alder works very well too. The only fuel we tried to avoid was birch. Even when birch is well cured, it still contains moisture and does not burn hot enough. A typical strategy was to cut down long pieces and chuck them near the shelter. Once a healthy pile had been gathered we would make ourselves comfortable and cut the wood into sub-22 inch lengths. Lastly, we would bring the wood inside the shelter and stack it into a pile.

Simultaneously, the other person would lay out the inside of the shelter with sleeping pads and begin setting up the stove. The collapsible, two-pound, titanium woodstove takes a little practice to set up efficiently. Thankfully, our trip began with unseasonably warm temperatures. By the time we experienced our first evening of -20º we were well organized and stove assembly was a painless task. 

I always bring a paperback book on trips. This time it was ‘Homage to Catalonia’, by George Orwell. Every page that has been read becomes the evening fire starter. As soon as the fire was lit we would fill the pot and mug with snow, add a little water from the thermos and begin the task of making hot drinks, dinner and water for the evening and next day. Rarely, if ever, was there a time, when the fire was going, that one or two vessels was not on the stove. Once dinner had been consumed and water made we would crawl into our bags and let the fire go out.

In the morning, whoever had been to one to make dinner (‘cookie’) woke early, relit the stove, started coffee, water and breakfast. This lead-time on the morning fire was perfect for many reasons: drying the shelter of frost and moisture from the sleeping bags was resolved and by the time coffee and breakfast was ready, gear and clothing were warm and dry. Even in -20º, we were able to comfortably do our inside chores glove free, in our long underwear.

We eventually learned some handy tricks involving the stove that made life better. By placing spruce boughs under the stove and piling snow around, we were able to keep the stove from melting down into the snow. Willow branches also worked. When disassembling the stove in the morning, we dumped the ashes and embers in a pile outside. Before we were ready to ride, we would warm our hands for one last time on the embers before smothering them. Starting the day with warm hands is a remarkable treat.

There are very few downsides to the woodstove but it’s worth mentioning them and hopefully they will be resolved before our next trip. The most negative aspect of the woodstove, in a sil-nylon shelter is obvious – embers. Most of the embers that made it out of the stovepipe either burn out or were blown away before they came in contact with the nylon but after 5-weeks of use, there are more than a handful of little holes. Whenever we slept in a cabin, I would bring the shelter inside and sew up the holes. Most were smaller than a pinhead but a few were pinky diameter.

I would like to experiment with a spark arrester, which could be a piece of fluffed steel wool. Maintaining a good draw is very important so this method would require experimentation.

The other drawback to the stove is that the actual barrel is made of very thin titanium. Over the course of the trip, this material became malformed from setting the pots atop it. Titanium Goat has another stove design that turns this concept 90º, with the thicker, non-bendable titanium on the top and bottom and the thinner sheet metal on the walls. However, our barrel stove was remarkable and improvements, in this case, would be nice but not necessary.

Saws:

We carried two saws and one 21-inch replacement bow saw blade, which we never needed. The primary woodcutting saw was a Coghlan’s, folding bow saw. Our other saw was a T handled, stainless steel Gerber, with finer teeth. For us, these two saws complimented each other and we used them both, most days.

The Coghlan folding saw is a lightweight, aluminum “bow saw” saw with two pivot points and a very simple and secure tensioning apparatus. Once the saw is assembled the blade is very taught and thus, it cuts extremely well. On a few nights we opted to sleep in shelter cabins. Trail ethics dictate that you leave the shelter better than when you came, so we always tried to replenish more wood than we burnt. Within most cabins, hanging on a nail, are conventional bow saws with longer blades than ours. Because the tension on these saw blades is not taught, we almost always preferred ours.

The T handled saw had multiple purposes, but mostly it lived inside the shelter and was used to shorten pieces of wood, as needed. We also used it as a snow saw to cut blocks for anchoring the shelter when the snow was compact and would bring a few blocks inside for water making.

Both of these saws are light, compact and effective. Since there are pivot points on the folding saw, I carried some replacement hardware and I did replace one pin with a bolt and a locking nut. I see no reason to improve or change anything about the saws for future trips.

Airlite Snowshoes:

Because of our strange winter, here in Homer, we were never able to give our Airlite Snowshoes a proper test before we left. During our trip we experienced only one storm. Thankfully, not much snow accumulated and we were always able to ride. However, having the snowshoes is insurance and we never debated sending them home.

Because of our stove, we always needed to camp near wood. One evening on the Yukon River we were ready to camp but the trail ran straight down the middle of the massively wide river. Finally we decided to march at right angles off the trail, to the bank and camp. Kim decided to try the snowshoes for the ¼-mile bike push and I tried the Alpacka ‘sled’, without snowshoes.

Unpacking the snowshoes, blowing-up and pumping, with a bike pump, takes around 5 minutes. Once Kim was strapped in, she began pushing and was able to fine-tune her gait to avoid collision with the bike and said it felt very natural. The floatation these snowshoes provide is substantial. The snowpack in this instance was dust on breakable crust with rotten and bottomless snow underneath – terrible walking snow. She stayed on top and was able to reach the shore without strain.

Again, because of our no snow winter we never tried our Alpacka ‘sleds’ before embarking. Even though they are much less heavy than a packraft we sent them home after that evening on the river.

It may be that in certain kinds of snow the ‘sled’ would work better but in cold, dry snow the ‘sled’ offered tremendous resistance. It felt like I was dragging a 4x8 sheet of plywood over sand.

We are back to the drawing board for a lightweight and compact, emergency sled that can haul bike and gear. Since pushing the bike with the Airlite Snowshoes proved to be successful we discussed the new strategy: if riding becomes impossible - push, if pushing becomes impossible – inflate snowshoes and push, if pushing with snowshoes becomes impossible and the situation becomes dire – abandon bike, drag a dry-bag with sleeping bag and food, and snowshoe to safety. Thankfully we never had to make these kinds of choices but it is important to consider options – options that don’t include being rescued by others.

Sleeping Gear:

Up to now, we have always used a vapor barrier within our sleeping bags to prevent our sweat from corrupting the down and becoming heavy and eventually lousy with ice buildup. Sleeping in a non-permeable sack or rain gear within the sleeping bag is clammy and no fun.  Up to now, vapor barriers have been the only solution - until we started using the wood stove.

We both use -20º down sleeping bags and two pads – one close-cell foam and one inflatable, air mattress.

Our shelter is floorless, so we first lay down the close-cell pad and then the air mattress atop it. This configuration is warm and comfortable and since the foam lies on the snow it never accumulates moisture. When we felt ambitious or the resources were available, we would cut spruce boughs and lay them down under the pads. For the most part, we have found this to be an unnecessary step. 

I used a ¾ Therma-Rest, Z pad and a full length Therma-Rest, Neo-Air. Kim used a full length Ridge Rest and a ¾ Neo Air. Having at least one full-length pad is important because this ensures your sleeping bag is completely off the snow.

Clothing:

Body types and metabolism vary widely – this is very apparent between Kim and I. Often I am sweating and removing layers while she is adding another and cracking a hand warmer. Knowing specifically what clothing to bring is something everyone has to discover for themselves and trial and error is the only answer. However, there are some basic ideas that we both adhere to.

Layering is the primary strategy. Being ready to remove layers before you become too hot or adding them when getting cold should become instinctual.

We have included our itemized list of clothing and there is not too much more that can be said about our basic clothing but there are a few individual pieces I will discuss in detail.

I have found that the outer shell can be very thin and light as long as it’s windproof. Raingear, for me, is way too heavy and I eventually sweat. I use Patagonia Houdini top and bottom and find them to be near perfect. They protect from wind and breathe very well. I like them to be oversized so I can add as many layers underneath as necessary.

Modern hi-tech fabrics are amazing and getting better all the time but traditional Alaskan clothing also has its place on our trips. We both use fur mittens, fur saddle covers and ruffs. When the wind is blowing and it’s really cold nothing works as well as fur. I used wolverine for the ruff on my windbreaker, seal mittens and beaver saddle cover. Kim used wolf for her ruff, beaver mittens, a sheepskin saddle cover and a rabbit fur hat. A remarkable feature of fur is that moisture freezes onto it but rather than permeate, it breaks off and is as good as new without excessive care.

Proper footwear is tremendously important for winter cyclists. The basic idea we employ begins with a thin, wool liner sock, knee high vapor barrier sock, thick wool sock, insulated boot and a waterproof mukluk. This system keeps moisture out of the insulation from both outside, e.g. overflow and from within, e.g. sweat.  One very important consideration when fitting boots is that they are not tight fitting. Frostbite is often brought on by poor circulation and tight boots are to be avoided at all costs.

Bags:

My $20 thrift store sewing machine has proved to be one of the most valuable tools I own. Before embarking on our trip, the kitchen table was transformed into a sweatshop as I labored over clothing modifications, new mittens, hats and bags for the bike.

For our bikes I sewed frame bags that fit within the main triangle of the frame. I sewed them to be as wide as possible without colliding with knees, while riding. Before we left, we sent 9 food drops along our route that each contained roughly 5 days worth of food. Fitting the bulk of that food into the frame bag was the goal. We also use ‘feed bags’ on our handlebars for our daytime snacks. Beyond needing a little more capacity, the ‘feed bags’ are great in their ease of access for eating on the go. 

We each used one rear rack and had one dry-bag strapped atop of it. Mine contained clothing and the shelter. Under the rack, I strapped the snowshoes and on the side I carried the small tool kit.

On the handlebar, I used a harness system, of my own design, which carried a double end dry bag that I made from waterproof flooring of an old tent. This dry bag contained my sleeping bag, down parka, down vest and insulated over pants. Openings on both ends of the dry bag is useful, as I would pack the sleeping bag in the middle and have over garments on both ends. If I needed one or both layers, the dry bag was still centered and well secured to the harness. On the outside of the harness I sewed wide Velcro straps that held my Z-Rest sleeping pad and another small pouch that carried sunglasses and goggles.

Beyond these bags I carried a ‘gas tank’ bag on the top of my top tube and another small bag below my saddle, on the frame. These bags carried the sewing kit, small parts, twine and odds and ends for field repairs.

Tools:

Pairing down the tool kit consists of trying to anticipate what might actually happen or go wrong while underway and being reasonably prepared for a flat tire, loose bolts, ripped tent, punctured sleeping pad, etc. etc… You can never be fully prepared for everything that might go wrong but with a few multi-tools and some ingenuity many issues on the trail can be solved.

Beyond spare twine, webbing, buckles and Velcro we also carried a couple spare Voile straps. These straps were in use on our bikes to securely lash snowshoes and snowshoe crampons to the rear rack as well as lashing the ski poles together each night for the center pole of the tent. The strap also became useful for me when my oversized water bottle cage broke. Without the cage I had no good way of carrying my 64oz thermos. By padding the sharp metal of the broken cage, with a chunk of sleeping pad foam and lashing it back onto the frame with the Voile strap I was able to continue using the cage. These straps have been well proven in temperatures as low as -40º and are both useful and versatile.

Changing tire pressure on a winter bike trip is like changing gears – you do it often depending on conditions. Carrying a decent pump that moves a reasonable volume of air is important. When adding air, I would count how many pumps and after a couple weeks out was in a fine tune with my PSI.

First Aid:

Similar to the tool kit, you can never carry enough First Aid to field all scenarios but you can cover many of the likely solutions in a compact package. For us, analgesics, Band-Aids, skin cream, talcum powder, sunscreen, burn cream, tampax (for big gashes) and an ace bandage are the bulk of our little red kit and thankfully we needed to use it sparingly.

Taking care of skin is a daily chore when the air is dry and windy and the sun reflects off the snow. We used SPF 30 several times a day and in the evening applied Bag Balm. Saddle rash was resolved by using diaper ointment. (Go ahead – laugh.) Talcum powder is useful to help dry feet that have been in vapor barrier socks all day.

‘Prevention is the best medicine’ in general but especially on a long, remote trips. Listening to your body, good nutrition, rest, hydration and early detection of potential problems are important to successful fat-bike expeditions.

Technology:

Almost every community in rural Alaska has central utilities. As a result, recharging batteries is reasonable. Our technology is fairly sparse but, for us, very important. We carried a DeLorme InReach tracking device, headlamps and cameras.

The InReach tracking device ‘pings’ our location at a set interval and delivers the data to a website with a map. People who want to follow your progress can visit the webpage and see your path and current location. The device allows you to text up to 40 messages a month and ultimately it can be used to send an SOS. Being able to text is a great feature. My thoughts about rescue are to never require one. However, accidents do happen. If you ever were in a dire situation and needed help, texting someone who could call the local SAR would be so much better than hitting the SOS button and having the Air National Guard called out. But if your life depends on it – do it.

We both carried DSLR cameras, one lens apiece, several spare batteries loads of memory and chargers. Photography is very important to me and the weight of a full frame camera is not a burden. If Bradford Washburn could lug around a Fairchild F6, I can carry a Canon 5D. There is a chance that I will never cover that terrain again and I would hate to miss an opportunity to capture a great image.

We both carry our cameras in dry bags, on our bodies. The cameras typically perform well in the cold but it is important when bringing the camera inside to keep it in the dry bag while it warms. Taking it out prematurely will result fogging the glass and sensor. The same is true when going back out. I often leave the camera outside if I am only going in for a while.

Summary:

Every trip reveals insights, thoughts and ideas to incorporate into the next adventure and even though we felt adequately prepared for this trip there is always room for improvement. Listening to others and sharing advice is a way to save yourself making unnecessary mistakes but experimentation requires a willingness to fail.

There is an art to wilderness travel and each discipline comes with its own palette. Winter fat-biking is still a young pursuit, not full of bibles and stuffy codes. Adventure by bike is a noble and elegant way to experience the world. I hope this gear review is helpful.

Landslide Generated Tsunami in Icy Bay

In October of 2015 a massive landslide occurred in a remote area of coastal Alaska. Seismologists, who usually pick-up and decipher earthquakes, noted a unique low-frequency wave pattern on their instruments – the pattern looked like a landslide, and a big one. They sent the information along to a tsunami expert and within days it was determined that the event had occurred in Taan Fjord – an arm of Icy Bay.

Over the winter experts from around the world began reaching out to each other and eventually it was decided to put together an expedition funded by a National Science Foundation (NSF) grant. The goal was to get as many disciplines from the related fields of study into the field and uncover the mysteries of this fantastic event as soon as possible, before erosion, glacial retreat and other processes sullied the evidence.

I joined the team, as videographer and documentarian, with sedimentologists, tsunami modelers, surveyors, landslide specialists, engineers, and other earth researchers. Like the good burglar Bilbo Bagbins I was the lucky 14th member.

Better understanding of geo-hazards, landslides, and tsunamis leads to better public policy, city planning, engineering and other human-related developments. In this time of rapid de-glaciation and climate change it is very likely we’ll be seeing more of these types of landslides in coastal Alaska and other glacial regions around the world.

Many of the researchers on this expedition have studied earthquake-generated tsunamis in Indonesia, Japan and other places where loss of life and property was profound. To study a landslide generated tsunami in a remote fjord is not without challenges but it also provides a fantastic natural laboratory, where no loss of human life occurred.

Over the next few years, data generated from this expedition and another in August of this year will be crunched and models will be created. This tsunami was the largest (600 feet) anyone has yet to study so soon after the event and the instruments used are state of the art. It seems likely that what was uncovered from this expedition will be useful around the world for many decades to come. 

Photo credit: Bjørn Olson, Ground Truth Trekking, and the National Park Service

Fat-Bike to the Arctic - 360º Article

Wind-crusted snow obliterated our faint trail and my 12cm wide fat-bike tires ground to a halt again. I dismounted the bike, brushed the hoar ice off the fur rough that shrouded my face and breathed in the cold, late March sun. My gaze scanned ahead and behind, then paused to marvel at the seemingly drunken path my bicycle tires had carved into the snow.

 The rosy-orange sunlight was still above the mountainous horizon but my girlfriend Kim and I were exhausted from our strenuous day of pedaling and pushing our bikes over the fickle snow trail. It was time, we agreed, to push off the faint path through the cold, crunchy snow, work our way to the closest stand of willows and make camp.

 We had been cycling north from Anchorage, Alaska’s largest city, for three weeks. Our expedition began in late February on a 2 meter wide, wilderness snow trail, that we hoped would lead us 1,700km, to the arctic community of Kotzebue, on an untested route. Our success depended on good snow and weather but winter snow trails can be as ephemeral as smoke and clouds. After 1,300km we began to wonder if our luck was about to run out.

 Kim and I live in Homer, a small, coastal, fishing and summer tourist community in South Central Alaska. Our lifestyle is simple. We live in a small cabin by the seashore, we work and we save, and we do human-powered trips through Alaska.

 Alaska is my native home and since my teenage years I have had a passion for exploring her hidden secrets and deepening my understanding of this “last frontier”.

 Most archeologists place the first inhabitants of Alaska sometime around 8,000BCE. The first peoples migrated over the Bering Land Bridge from Asia – some settled these cold northern lands while others continued south and east to colonize the rest of the hemisphere.

 Not until the 1700s did Westerners first make their presence known. Again, it was from the west that they came – Russians driven by the lure of easy money in the form of sea otter pelts. By 1867 the otter were nearly extinct, much of coastal Alaska had been forcibly subdued and Christianized, and laissez faire capitalism had been introduced.  Alaska had experienced its first big economic boom and bust.

 Much to the chagrin of the rest of the nation, U.S. Interior Secretary, William Seward, under President Lincoln, proposed to buy Alaska from the Russians for $7million – roughly equivalent to one U.S. dollar per acre. “Seward’s Ice Box” and “Seward’s Folly” were the derisive terms of the day - that is until gold was discovered and a new crop of acquisitive pioneers marched north to the future.  

 Fossil fuels are Alaska’s current primary economic driver and the latest boom in our sad saga of peaks and valleys which tend to enrich a few while leaving devastated communities and despoiled landscapes behind.  

 Alaska is on the front lines of climate change and nowhere is this more apparent than in rural Alaska where people still depend on snow and ice to travel in winter months to harvest the wild game that sustains them.  

 Beyond adventure, Kim and I wanted to travel south to north across Alaska and into the arctic to experience these changes. Ground Truth Trekking is a small nonprofit we work for which is based on the idea that by traveling at human speed through vast landscapes we can enrich our understanding of some of these complex issues, then share our insights with others.

 Preparing for long winter expeditions requires months of training, planning and foresight. Kim and I have many long, winter fat-bike trips under our belts but our proposed ‘Fat-Bike to the Arctic’ expedition was our most ambitious. We took all our years of experience and laid them on the line. But experience, physical health, and preparedness can easily be subdued by early thaws, persistent storms and other meteorological phenomena that are becoming harder and harder to predict.

The evening we pushed our bikes through the wind-crusted snow to the stand of willows we each unloaded our camping kit and together we set up our floor-less, pyramid shelter. Each evening of our expedition Kim and I switched chores. That night was my turn to cut firewood while Kim assembled our lightweight titanium wood stove inside the shelter.

 The wood stove was our only means of cooking but we’d finally traveled far enough north that the warmth it provided was truly necessary. For the entire first week of our expedition Kim and I pedaled and pushed our bikes in unseasonably warm temperatures. The snow melted and long stretches of open water threatened to prematurely end our expedition.

 Our route followed the famous Iditarod Sled Dog Race Trail for 1,200km, to the frozen Bering Sea, then broke off and continued north over land and sea above the arctic circle to the north western community of Kotzebue.

 A warm and snowless winter continued right up to the week before the Iditarod Sled Dog Race, which threatened cancelation or a re-start further north in Fairbanks. At the eleventh hour race officials decided that despite the lack of snow the route would suffice.  

 On the far side of the Alaska Range, Kim and I took a layover to let the dog teams catch up and pass us.  A gravel runway and a small Bureau of Land Management cabin is the entire infrastructure that makes up the abandoned community of Rohn. During the race, however, the dormant cabin and lonely airstrip comes alive as a race checkpoint – full of veterinarians, dog handlers, race marshals and media. Kim and I were quickly enlisted to help with chores and handling weary dog teams as they entered the checkpoint.

 As the bruised, broken and wide-eyed mushers began to pull into Rohn, Kim and I finally got a glimpse of what the trail must have been like for the mushers and their dogs. For us, on bikes, the descent from The Alaska Range had been bliss. The trail from the summit of the pass had been on snowless dirt and rock, with little off angle patches of ice and hastily assembled bridges that crossed open stretches of water. For the mushers it had been hell. Controlling 12 to 14 powerful sled dogs on long, tight descents is difficult with plenty of snow. Without snow it was a recipe for disaster. In the end, over 15% of the teams would scratch out of the race from this checkpoint.

 Our first cold snap came while we traversed the long and lonely stretch of trail between the Kuskokwim and Yukon Rivers. This region is affectionately known as the Inland Empire but to our eyes it was a hungry and sparse land that we hoped to quickly cover before the wind and snow erased our trail.

 The Athabascan village of Ruby and a resupply of food awaited us on the shores of the Yukon River but when we rolled into the village the place seemed abandoned. Despite the brilliantly sunlit evening no one was out. After making several circuits around town, two well-dressed women on a paddle-track snow-machine, the ubiquitous vehicle of roadless Alaska, stopped to greet us. They informed us that a local elder had recently passed away and that everyone was attending a potlatch * in his honor at the school. They insisted that we attend. With empty stomachs we graciously accepted.

 Inside the school gymnasium we were made to feel comfortable as heaping plates of food were handed to us. Over the next hour many people came to sit next to us on the bleachers. They wanted to inquire about our adventure but they also wanted us to know that the man they were honoring was a man of the trail. A man who’d known the pangs of hunger and in turns how to share his bounty with fellow travelers. “He would have been the first to welcome you and the first to see that you were in need of company and nourishment,” they all said.  

 After our second week out we finally reached the Bearing Sea and the frozen Norton Sound. This was Kim’s first experience with sea ice but both of us were equally elated and awestruck as we smoothly biked over a vast sea of frozen water.

 As we rode over the sea ice in predawn light one morning my emotions caught me off guard and I broke down. The pink and orange sunrise was spectacular beyond description and I was filled with the first intuition that our trip may actually be successful. I felt my mother’s presence who we’d delayed the trip a year for while we cared for her with a terminal brain tumor. Under my goggles, cold tears streamed down my cheeks. I felt an overwhelming sense of love, life and appreciation for this place and my parent’s wise decision to bring me into the world in a land as spectacular and mysterious as Alaska.

 Space is often hard to judge in low-lying, arctic landscapes where the white of the snow below matches the hue of the sky above and very few landmarks provide contrast for your eyes. In the distance we could see the wind turbines of Kotzebue but as the hours passed and the kilometers rolled under our tires the gently whirling landmarks appeared to grow no larger or closer. 

 Near the end of the day we entered the outskirts of the community and it was Kim’s turn to be moved to tears. After years of meditation and 36 days on the move we’d finally reached our goal.

 For thousands of year’s winter has been the time of travel and migration. We are eternally grateful to have sneaked through and caught a glimpse of this vast landscape and its people before the uncertainty of winter replaces the tradition of frozen adventure.

 * Potlatch: traditional Alaskan Native ceremonial feast. In modern times all attendees bring a food dish to share with the assembly.

Fat-Bike To The Arctic - Gear Review

Bjrn and Kim pause on the Seward Peninsula for photo-op.

I have written a gear review of the equipment Kim and I used on our 1,000+ mile fat-bike expedition the the arctic of Alaska which has been published on Ground Truth Trekking. 

'Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.

Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,000 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.'

Read more here. 

Titanium Goat Retrofit

Long winter expeditions present many challenges. Keeping clothing, sleeping bags and gear dry while underway are a very big concern when the option to come inside and dry out is not available for weeks at a time. Over the years I have employed many techniques to keep moisture to a minimum but none will be as effective as having a small wood-burning stove in the shelter.

Titanium Goat makes very lightweight (2 pounds), collapsible and efficient, cylinder, wood burning stoves. For our upcoming adventure to the arctic we will be carrying the 22-inch long version in our retrofitted pyramid shelter.

We decided to use Ground Truth Trekking’s old Mountain Laurel, silnylon, mid shelter, which we and Hig and Erin have used many times in the past. This may be the last hurrah for the shelter so we figured it would be a good one to experiment on. I also theorize that since much of the waterproof coating of this shelter has worn out, moisture may have a better chance of escaping through the fabric. 

Our first task was deciding where in the shelter we wanted the stove and where the stovepipe should come out. We settled on having the stove in the middle with each of us sleeping on separate sides of the stove and center pole – allowing us equal access to heat. The stovepipe coming out of the upper, side triangle made the most sense.

Once the location for the stovepipe was settled on I cut a piece of fireproof fabric into the triangle pattern of the shelter and cut out a hole for the pipe, leaving the circle un-cut at the bottom. Leaving the material hanging means we could cover the hole if we decide not to use the stove and it also acts as flashing for the stovepipe. Once the fireproof fabric was cut I pined it onto the shelter and sewed it on, using cotton thread and then cut out the silnylon.

With that, the retrofit was complete and it was time for a test. Kim and I loaded our bikes and headed into the Caribou Hills for an overnighter. For a single night out we couldn’t have asked for better weather to run our trial under – we experienced coldish (10º) temps in the night and woke to a snow storm.

After pitching the shelter we set up the stove together. Kim stayed inside and lit the fire while I harvested wood. When cutting wood, I was trying to anticipate how much we would need for both the evening and again in the morning. I ended up estimating fairly well but imagine on our trip we will require a little more as we will need to fill two 64oz thermoses, dinner, hot drinks and breakfast each day. It’s hard to quantify this into volume but I would say three full armloads of burning wood and a supply of kindling seems about right.

First impressions are all positive. The stove only has one setting – on. There is no damper and the door does not allow for closing down. In a shelter that does not retain heat this seems fine and melting snow into water means you want the most heat as possible. Stoking is fairly constant, at least with the dry spruce branches we were using. Moisture from our clothing was soon dissipating out the top vent and partially opened door. Within an hour we both had full mugs of hot chocolate, dinner and damp clothing was dry. Before bed we melted another 50 or so ounces of water and let the fire go out.

The next morning was warmer and snowing. The falling snow created a unique problem – it melted onto the shelter and once we let the fire go out this turned to ice.  I believe the solution in this scenario will be to go out before the heat is gone and wipe or scrape the moisture from the shelter before it has a chance to freeze. Overall this is not too big of an issue as the next nights fire will dissipate the ice but it does make the shelter heavier and bulkier to carry.

Setting up the stove currently takes me around 5 minutes but I believe with familiarity we will be able to shave time.

Our model for the trip will be to alternate morning tasks. Every other morning one of us will wake up two or so hours before the other, light the fire and begin melting snow for the day’s water – a casual but persistent chore. This will also help dissipate moisture from sleeping bags and frost from the tent. We plan to alternate evening chores as well. One night one person cuts wood while the other prepares dinner and drinks. Both tasks keep you warm but the alternating keeps us fresh and in the past this kind of chore swapping has proved to be good for overall moral.

We have yet to experience strong winds with this setup but from what we have gleaned from others the stove seems to still work fine. The stovepipe outlet is well above the shelter and we saw no sign of rogue cinders coming back to melt holes. That said, I have little doubt that after six weeks on the trail our shelter will be pretty or hole free.

I also experimented with a lightweight bow saw that I made from a commercial blade and three pieces of thin, flat aluminum. Although the saw performed well enough for this trial run, I have my doubts. There is currently not enough tension on the blade and it wants to bend. We may end up bringing small folding handsaws. The jury is still in deliberation on this topic.

We are planning to rely solely on the wood stove for our trip and not bring a fuel stove. We will however leave my trusty MSR Whisper-Lite with Hig to send to us if need be. I imagine some camps will be harder than others to harvest enough wood but on all past trips I have found that as you go, people are generous with trail information. As is the case with all trips – you never know until you go.

Circling The Sound In Homemade Kayak

In the summer of 2010, Kim and I attempted a circumnavigation of Prince William Sound in our handmade kayak. Familiar scenes of surfacing whales, calving tidewater glaciers, and winding watery mazes lay in wait. But in addition to our desire to witness this beauty, we sought insight into the ongoing transformations that distinguish the region.

Read more full article here:

Circling The Sound