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

Winter Cycling - An Origin Story

Story originally published in The Radavist.

 March 1998 - Behind me, a strong and gusty north wind stung my legs. I sped across a rock hard snow trail, atop frozen sea ice, effortlessly. My modified mountain bike with Snow Cat rims and two and a half inch wide tires was shifted into the highest gear. With each gust, the fine crystalline snow swirled around the trail, blowing past me and over the polished glass surface of the exposed sea ice, in hypnotic patterns. In front of me and to the right sat a lonely and distant mountain cape. To my left was the shallow arc beach of the Norton Bay coastline, several miles away.

Stories of snow-machiners riding into unseen open leads of water never to be seen again circulated through my mind. The uneasy fear of being offshore and alone in an alien sub-Arctic environment, with very real threats to life pushed down further as joy bubbled up.

I hit a small pressure ridge of ice, felt my front tire leave the surface and bunny hopped my bike into the air. An uncontainable whoop erupted from my lungs and I hollered with abandon into the lonely winter vastness.  Visibility was fantastic but the orange sun was low. ‘Would I make it across the ice and to the shelter cabin before dark,’ I wondered. At this fast pace with the accompanying tail wind it seemed certain.

As the sun continued to drop and the pink and orange glow of the impending sunset settled in, a strange thing began to happen: the cape to my right began to change shape in an incredible and surreal way. At first, the pointy top of the summit distorted just a little but then it grew into a taller and more round shaped bubble. My mind struggled to make sense of what I was seeing. As I rode on, staring transfixed, the cape morphed further until finally a perfect mirror image of the conical peak swelled upward into the sky, doubling in size; bewildering my senses. 

Over the roar of the wind and the flapping of my nylon hood, I could hear the high-pitched whine of a fast approaching snow-machine coming from behind. When it caught up, the driver stopped. “Everything okay,” he asked, after removing his ice-encrusted facemask. “Yes, but what is that?” I yelled over the wind and his idling machine while pointing to the hourglass shaped and impossible looking cape, bathed in rich sunset light. “Fata Morgana*,” he said. “It’s a mirage. It happens here a lot, when there is a temperature inversion.”

Standing still, the harsh wind on my backside and legs felt even colder. His definition of what I was observing left me wanting more information but we were both in a hurry to get off the sea ice and out of the wind before dark. He was on the way to the village of Shaktoolik. My goal was closer—a shelter cabin on the immediate shore. We both removed our mittens, as is custom along the Iditarod Trail, shook bare hands, wished each other well, and said good-bye.

An hour later, I sat in front of a rusted wood stove in the shelter and lit a fire. Through the frosty paned window, the last of the pink light fell to starlit darkness. As I waited for the space to warm and for my friends to catch up, I reflected on the past few days: we’d left Nome after watching the winning Iditarod dog teams come in under the burled arch, ridden our bikes down the trail, visited an out of the way hot springs that had been in use by Inupiaq Eskimos for thousands of years, and today I had ridden alone across the sea ice and witnessed the most mysterious and wondrous natural phenomena of my life. Despite stiff-cold fingers and wind-burnt cheeks, my sense of euphoria was cranked to eleven. My home state of Alaska—an ancient land of enchantment and mystery—had charmed me once again.

In that moment, I knew this method of human-powered exploration was for me. The freedom to explore wild and remote places that few ever experience is an innate passion that had, up to that point in my life, been achieved by kayak, skis, and mountain climbing. Exploration coupled with the sheer joy of riding a bike on technical terrain, like sea ice hummocks and frozen tundra, had sealed it. Few experiences in my life compared with the overwhelming sense of gratification I felt that night in the shelter cabin. More of this, I thought. Much more.

In the days of my first winter cycling trip, adventure bikes were rigid mountain bikes with 26-inch wheels. Some shade-tree innovators made custom bikes with multiple rims and tires—laced to one hub—but for the average person, unequipped with welding skills and handy access to custom equipment, few options existed for adventure bikes well suited for wilderness conditions. Anyone who rode on snow trails at that time knew that wider wheels and tires were needed but they didn’t yet exist.

In Fairbanks, a bike shop sold wheels originally made of two rims welded together. This led to the winter subculture rim known as the Snow Cat – which is now considered a plus size wheel. At 44mm wide, it was the best commercial option available. But, because of its double width, it fit few mountain bike frames of the time.

In the era of winter cycling with Snow Cats, a heel test could inform you if a snow trail was rideable. The test involved bringing your foot down with all your force, slamming your heel onto the trail. If it didn’t buckle or break you knew you could ride. New snow, breakable crust snow, wind drifted snow, spring snow and many other soft conditions were entirely unrideable. In those days, winter and off-trail cycling involved considerable bike pushing.

For several years, wilderness cycling took a bit of a back seat for me. Backcountry snowboarding, mountaineering, and expedition kayaking were the staples in my life. Far-flung backcountry expeditions by bicycle, however, never left my mind and in the mid-2000s the cycling industry began to catch on. The fat-bike—an unstoppable idea whose time had come—was born.

An era of unique and creative wilderness exploration has opened up as a result of the fat-bike. Over the last dozen years, the discovery of what this new and evolving technology is capable of has been a consuming source of investigation, inspiration, and discovery. On every trip since my very first, nearly twenty years ago, I learn and experience something new. What four and five-inch tires on modern fat-bikes are capable of surmounting is still a source of near daily revelation.

I am continually seeking experiences like my first winter trip on the Iditarod Trail — moments of private and shared bliss within the natural world; traveling and exploring by human-power, with self-reliant alertness; poised to bunny hop a sea ice pressure ridge whenever the situation arises and hungering for mirages that trick the eye and excite the senses.

* Fata Morgana— (Italian: [ˈfaːta morˈɡaːna]) is an unusual and complex form of superior mirage that is seen in a narrow band right above the horizon. A Fata Morgana can be seen on land or at sea, in Polar Regions or in deserts. It can involve almost any kind of distant object, including boats, islands and the coastline.

Fata Morgana is often rapidly changing. The mirage comprises several inverted (upside down) and erect (right side up) images that are stacked on top of one another. Fata Morgana mirages also show alternating compressed and stretched zones.

The optical phenomenon occurs because rays of light are bent when they pass through air layers of different temperatures in a steep thermal inversion where an atmospheric duct has formed.

Arctic Adventure Cycling Gear Review

This gear review originally published by Salsa Cycles.

The Roof of Alaska Fat-Bike Expedition Gear Review

Summer 2017, Kim McNett and I completed the first part of our Roof of Alaska, Arctic fat-bike and packraft trip. We began in the Inupiat village of Point Hope, in the far northwestern region of the state, passed through two other villages—Point Lay and Wainwright—and ended 450 miles later in the northernmost community in the United States, Utqiagvk (formerly Barrow). Alaskan adventurers Daniel Countiss and Alayne Tetor joined us for the first twelve days, as far as the village of Point Lay. 

As far as we know, no one has employed a fat-bike in this vast region of Alaska and only a few have done human-powered trips in this region by any means, in modern times.  

For the entirety of our trip we were above the Arctic Circle. We cycled over mountainous terrain, tundra, beaches, and riverbeds and, once away from villages, saw little sign of human traffic. We paddled where necessary and pushed our bikes very little. Much to our astonishment and delight, this trail-less wilderness route was attained almost exclusively from the saddle of our bikes.

Each trip reveals new insights into technique and gear and every year new innovations in equipment design stand on the shoulders of the previous incarnations.  Below is an overview and review of the equipment we used. 

Bike:

Since the fat-bike was first conceived, refinement has yet to cease. In the late 1980s, Alaskan shade-tree bike innovators welded two rims together and laced them onto one hub to provide better flotation on snow trails. Since the mid 2000s, interest in this subculture sport has grown exponentially and innovation has been off the charts.

For our recent fat-bike and packraft trip through Arctic Alaska, I used a Salsa Cycles 2017 carbon fiber Mukluk – the apex of wilderness adventure cycling design. This lightweight bike is an adaptable, do anything, go anywhere machine.

The goal of any fat-bike and packraft expedition, in my mind, is to ride as much as possible. In order to circumvent the myriad obstacles one is bound to encounter, on an untested wilderness route, a bike needs to be nimble, yet comfortable, lightweight, yet durable, and outfitted with the widest wheels and biggest tires available. The 2017 Mukluk is all this and more.

For our Arctic expedition, we stripped our bikes down to their most simple form—a derailleur-less multi-speed drivetrain with one brake.

The drivetrain on my Mukluk consisted of two cogs and two stainless steel rings on Surly OD cranks—30 tooth and 22 tooth. The OD crank is an ideal choice for trips like this as it is easy to pull in the field, the dust cap does a decent job of keeping out dirt and water, and re-packing the bottom bracket bearings are a cinch. I used a Salsa freehub and ran 26 tooth and 22 tooth stainless steel cogs

On a Sram eight-speed chain I installed two sets of master-links. I could quickly add or remove one set and three links that separated the master-links and shorten or lengthen the chain to fit either the big or small ring, as needed. The Alternator dropout allowed me to use either cog when I was in one or the other ring. I used all four of these gear options on this trip. If I were to do this trip again, I wouldn’t change a thing in regards to the drive train.

The 2017 Mukluk is well suited for expeditions and carrying a load. The front fork has three mounting bolts per leg, the down tube is flat on the bottom and therefore an ideal place to strap a long skinny dry bag, it supports a rear rack, and the front triangle, despite having a swale for stand over clearance, has plenty of space for a frame bag due to the steep angle of the down tube.

Our longest stretch between food resupply on this trip was 12-days. When fully loaded, I used two lightweight dry bags on my fork legs and one long, skinny dry bag on the bottom of my down tube to carry food. Daily snacks were carried in my handlebar-mounted feed-bags and the remainder of my food went into my home-made frame bag.

I also used a Salsa Alternator rack, which I typically used to carry one medium size dry bag. Within this bag were my sleeping quilt, sleeping pad, shelter, and clothing. The rack was more useful than a seat-pack because we often had to carry water for more than one day at a time. With the rack, I could strap 90-ounce dromedaries onto the side of the rack as needed.  

Our usual strategy, on summer fat-bike expeditions, is to carry a big, lightweight backpack, which we can put all gear and food inside when we are forced to push/haul the bikes long distances. Due to the mostly rideable terrain on this trip, our backpacks were nearly empty and the food and gear fit, with room to spare, on my Mukluk.

Packraft:

Much like the fat-bike, packrafts are currently enjoying a never-ceasing evolution of improvement. Alpacka Rafts have been at the forefront of design and innovation for many years. Alpacka sent us out on this trip with two prototype rafts—Fjord Explorers with a proprietary lightweight fabric, typically used for the featherweight Scout series rafts. 

On numerous occasions, I have made the mistake of sacrificing durability for lightweight equipment. On those trips, I end up wasting time in the field on repairs. One of the major debates we are often concerned with before a long trip is where to shave weight and where not to.

Although the fabric on these rafts is less durable than the standard Alpacka raft fabric it more than stood up to the rigors of this expedition. We were, however, cautious with the boats, which is good practice with packrafts regardless.

The prototype Fjord Explorers had few bells and whistles: Cargo Fly zippers, one valve, and four tiedowns in the bow and two in the stern. To shave weight, we opted to forego spray-decks.

This trip involved many short, flat-water crossing but also a handful of 10 to 15 mile open-water stretches. Hull-speed in these instances is a huge asset and due to the rafts increased length we could always achieve full and powerful forward strokes with the bikes on the foredeck. The increased length and pointy bow and stern also kept the boat from drifting a little to the right and left on every stroke, which is unavoidable on shorter rafts.

Within both fat-biking and packrafting there are several sub-disciplines, of which bike/rafting is one. Over the years, I have tried many packraft designs and configurations for long, wilderness cycling traverses, where most of the water we encounter is relatively flat. For this type of trip, a slightly longer raft is ideal but an even longer raft, with a pointy bow and stern is even better. By using the lighter fabric, these rafts weigh less than and roll up to the same size as our previous rafts, which are much shorter. 

Shelter:

The Mountain Laurel Designs Duomid is a lightweight two-person, floorless shelter made with sil-nylon. The weight of our duomid comes in around one pound. When packed, it compresses into the size of a large grapefruit, yet, when pitched, two people have enough room to fully lie out with room to spare for gear.

The Arctic summer is famous for insects. Before we left, I sewed a continuous strip of mosquito netting­—about 16” wide—around the perimeter of the shelter, which we tucked inside and set gear and sleeping pads atop of. Although this didn’t keep every single bug out, it did do remarkably well and it would be hard to find a lighter weight option.

For four days and nights on this expedition, we encountered incredibly strong wind—gusts over 60 miles per hour. As long as we took care to properly anchor the shelter our Duomid withstood the onslaught handsomely.

For the center pole we used three pieces of our four-piece kayak paddle. We typically rely on natural anchors, which are often more robust and capable at withstanding strong wind than aluminum stakes are.

Sleeping System:

Kim and I both used Therm-A-Rest Neoair sleeping pads and Mountain Laurel Designs Spirit quilts—rated to 28 degrees.

The Mountain Laurel Designs zipper-less quilt is simple, lightweight (23 ounce) and quick drying. It has a fairly roomy foot box, which is held into this shape with Velcro and snaps, and it employs a thin webbing strap to secure the quilt around the sleeping pad. This quilt can also be opened into a rectangle bedspread but for maximum insulation it is best to secure the foot box and cinch the edges under the sleeping pad.

The trick I had to learn is how much to tighten the strap under the quilt and around the sleeping pad. If the strap is too loose, the bag slips from under the pad, letting cool air in. If the strap is too tight, it feels constricting inside the bag. After a few days I had the ratio finely tuned and the quilt worked as designed.  

At the beginning of our trip, we had several chilly nights and I often slept in my puffy sweater with the hood up. This sleeping quilt does not cover your head so it is important to have a warm hat and either a vest or a sweater with a hood when you use it near the low end of the recommended temperature rating.

Kitchen:

On summer trips, we typically forgo cook stoves and instead rely on open fires. However, trees do not grow in the Arctic. Before leaving on this trip I knew of only one person who had undertaken this journey by human-power. Alaskan adventurer, Dick Griffith, skied across the Arctic of Alaska in the 1980s. He assured us there would be plenty of driftwood. Only once, while we were traveling overland, were we unable to have a fire or cook a meal.

Cooking and heating water on open fires takes a little more time than using a cook stove but I take great joy in all aspects of this camp chore: gathering wood, lighting the fire, cooking, and drying wet gear. There are few things better in life than reflecting on the day, with a hot beverage and warm bowl of food in front of an open fire. The daily uncertainty, when relying on wood fuel, is something I fully appreciate, not to mention the liberation from carrying an extra piece of equipment and the fuel it requires.

Kim and I carry one 30-ounce titanium cook pot to cook meals in and we each carry one 24-ounce titanium mug apiece for beverages. Beyond these items, we carry one spoon apiece, one Victorinox knife and several lighters.

Pack:

For the last several years, I have used a Mountain Laurel Designs Exodus 58 liter backpack on summer bike expeditions. Cycling with a backpack is, by my estimation, never ideal, but for long wilderness trips they become a necessary evil. The backpack becomes most valuable when the riding ends and long hours of pushing begin. Pushing or carrying a bike with most or all the gear stowed in the pack is more efficient and easier on the body. The Exodus backpack is a fantastic choice for this sort of undertaking. This lightweight (16 ounce), no frills, frameless pack is comfortable, wicks moisture well, and can haul a big, heavy load. When the riding resumes and all or most of the gear is re-packed onto the bike, you hardly notice this featherweight pack freeloading on your back.

Technology:

There were three pieces of technology we carried on this trip: a DSLR camera, a GPS, and an InReach satellite tracking/texting device.

For GPS, we used a Garmin 64. Before heading out, we uploaded topo maps into the GPS unit. Thankfully, our Arctic route was just barely within the coverage area of the USGS topographic map database. We also carried 1:250,000 scale topographic maps, which gave us the big picture. But, for the detailed route finding, we relied on the GPS. One of the things I appreciate about this model is that is not a touch screen. In the past, I have found that the touchscreens eventually become difficult to see. Navigating traditional buttons with wet, cold-stiff, or dirty fingers is also much easier than on a touchscreen. The Garmin 64 is a straightforward, no frills GPS, with all the basic navigation features.

The Garmin InReach has worked its way into the, never leave home without it category. This handheld satellite tracking and emergency texting device allows friends and family to follow your progress and read short updates through an online service called Mapshare. More importantly, though, this small device can send and receive satellite text messages. In the past, the only option for wilderness or maritime travelers to request emergency assistance was with an EPIRB – an emergency locater beacon, which, in Alaska alerts the state troopers, Coast Guard and other emergency responders. Now, with the InReach, if the party is in a bad situation they can text the details to a friend or family member and a more measured, less expensive option can be discovered. We also sparingly use the InReach to request weather forecasts from friends. It is paramount that any person heading into the wilderness be self-reliant, have basic first-aid knowledge and willingness to self-rescue. However, unforeseeable calamities can befall anyone. Having the technology to save a life is worth its weight in gold.

Final Thoughts:

Few places that I have experienced have felt as remote, with the umbilical chord of safety so distant, as our trip in the Arctic. This trip was one of the most demanding and rewarding I’ve yet to undertake. Accomplishing this trip took more than a modicum of luck. It also required sound route finding, good local knowledge, persistent effort, a solid partner and dependable equipment, well suited to the rigors of daily use and abuse. Gratefully, all the proper ingredients, for the fat-bike expedition of a lifetime, accompanied me.

If you happen to find yourself drawn into the backcountry with a bike and packraft I hope you find this gear review useful.

Bjørn poses with a mammoth tusk he found while riding his Salsa Cycles Mukluk fat-bike in the Arctic of Alaska. 

100% Renewable Alaska

This article was originally published by Alaskans Know Climate Change and the Anchorage Press. 

An elegant proposal to transform Alaska’s Rail-belt to 100% renewable energy.

Just after sunrise, the icy hoar frost clinging to the willow branches in the Tanana River Valley begin to shudder. At first, the wind comes in a light zephyr. Branches lazily sway; a few ice crystals lose hold and fall from their perch, catching the rosy dawn light, making the morning air sparkle. Within an hour’s time, a powerful gale is blowing. The air fills with fine, crystalline powder and snowdrifts form on the leeward side of every bump and rise. The wind will not stop for weeks. All the critters in the valley will forget that there was ever a time when the world didn’t scream and hurt.

Wind is an Alaskan natural resource that, for the most part, we let slip through our fingers. Daily, billions of kilowatts worth of energy whoosh and rush through our valleys, down our fjords and off our mountain peaks—untapped, and unrealized.

What if we could harness that power? What if every Alaskan home had so much cheap energy that we could heat our homes with electricity, charge our cars and trucks with electricity, light our streets, power our schools, public buildings, and illuminate brilliant minds set on making Alaska a better place for future generations? What if our power came from wind that doesn’t become more or less expensive because of the whimsy of distant market forces? Cheap, consistent, reliable wind is what Alaska has in abundance. What if we tapped into it?

Tucked into a hill, up the Eagle River Valley, in an unfinished, three story home, a 66 year old retired engineer, and life-long Alaskan, has developed a plan to save Alaska, fight climate change, and solve our energy problems—for the next several hundred years. For months, Kerry Williams has sat in front of his computer screen crunching numbers, using his sophisticated CAD software, creating Google Earth maps, and researching a bold and visionary concept. For months, Kerry has been slapping his forehead. His idea, on the face of it, is so simple it hurts.

“I’m always assigning myself difficult but entertaining problems to solve in my spare time, as a hobby.” Kerry says. “When I retired fifteen years ago, I decided that the problem that most needed solving was how to get Alaska’s post-oil economy stabilized.” No small task. But for someone with 4 standard deviations above the normal IQ and an active member of several international high IQ organizations, for Kerry, this is just another day in the life; another challenge to be met.

Alaska is rife with alternative energy potential—wind, solar, geo-thermal, tidal, and biomass are all here, in abundance. However, one challenge to integrating renewable energy into the grid is what to do about the inherent variability of renewables? What do you do when the wind stops and the clouds obscure the sun? How do you store that energy in times of abundance? A battery. You need a really big battery, and this is where Kerry’s idea picks up. This is where Kerry believes he has found a solution so simple it is elegant.

“I was recently looking closely at the possibility of developing and exporting some very concentrated renewable energy resources in central and northern Alaska.” Kerry tells me. “Variable Renewable Energy (VRE) requires some method of evening out the energy for transmission and integration into the grid. There are three methods of doing that,” he says.

“The original conventional method is to overbuild the generation, and shut off or dump excess power. Even conventional energy resources don’t have 100% availability (called the capacity factor), which is why excess generation capacity is always required,” he says. “Another method of leveling the power output of variable resources, such as wind, is to link together widely separated sources. That way, when the wind stops blowing at one wind farm, the others keep feeding the grid. The wind doesn’t stop blowing everywhere at once.”

A team of dedicated alternative energy experts—including Kerry and his partner Ceal Smith— have been studying this issue for the last several years and have come up with the Alaskan Roadmap to 100% renewable energy for the entire state. For Alaska’s rail-belt, widely separated sources of alternative energy, on the face of it, should not be a problem. Wind farms on Fire Island and in the Tanana River Valley, Cook Inlet tidal, Kenai Peninsula solar, etc., etc. However, it is the final method of leveling the Variable Renewable Energy that has most captured Kerry.

“The third method is to provide energy storage for VRE. Batteries are the first solution, but molten salts and other methods are being developed and deployed now also. Most storage solutions are quite expensive when trying to level the thousands of megawatts of output I’ve been looking at balancing,” he says. “Researching the issue, I found a good Levelized Cost of Storage analysis, which identified pumped hydro as the cheapest large-scale storage method. I was modeling potential pumped hydro sites nearer the most concentrated potential natural energy resources when an article about Eklutna’s salmon restoration clicked and it occurred to me that pumped hydro could fix the issue [salmon restoration] and at the same time lower our electric bills.”

Besides having plentiful alternative energy potential, Alaska has other unique assets: gobs of freshwater and high elevation mountains. “My proposed Eklutna Complex is nothing more than a gigantic rechargeable battery. It takes in variable randomly generated energy, and dispenses energy to match demand. In terms of mWh capacity,” Kerry says, “the second phase would make it the largest in the world. In terms of total output capacity, a fourth phase could bring it to the largest capacity in the world also, all without harm to Eklutna Lake’s elevation or it’s renewed salmon run or it’s recreational values.”

Sounds too good to be true? How does it work?

This plan proposes to build a 6000 acre-feet freshwater reservoir below East Twin Peak, on the south bank of the Knik River. The massive Knik Glacier and its river is capable of providing large volumes of water and because of the glaciers massive size and geographical location, it is not in danger of going extinct because of global warming anytime soon.

The next thing to focus our most talented engineering minds on is the study of Kerry’s proposed high elevation impounds, e.g. dams, above Eklutna Lake and then building them. Kerry has identified five ideal, high elevation valleys, which are perfect locations for enough high altitude water energy storage to light, heat, and drive the entire railbelt for months. By pumping water up to these reservoirs, through tunnels in the mountains, when there is surplus energy, this project would be an energy savings account—a literal rainy day fund.

Talking with Kerry, several things jump out to me. As a fellow life-long Alaskan, I have come to take it for granted that Alaskans are quite often modern day Renaissance women and men—handy and capable in numerous and often widely divergent skill-sets. The ability to swap a transmission out of a Ford F-150, design and build a home, develop a website, weld a bicycle frame back together, hunt, fish, and grow a garden, and play Bach on a classical guitar, for example, is just who we are. We also do not know how to take no for an answer. When there is a problem in front of us, Alaskan’s get to work and fix the goddamn thing—whatever it is.

Throughout his working years, Kerry has accumulated a robust construction background including large projects, like TAPS, some oil field, flood control projects, harbors, energy project research, design and consulting in solar, wind, electric transportation, and geothermal projects and has been Chief engineer on an electric vehicle project.

But something unique about Alaskans is that when we are asked, “What do you do?” we often don’t highlight how we make money. What we do is what inspires us and how we want others to think of us. For Kerry, many years of hiking, biking, skiing, hang-gliding, photographing, paragliding, fishing, and many other activities within Chugach State Park have given him a great appreciation for the place, a sense of identity and a strong desire to care for and enhance the natural attributes to the best of his ability. Kerry currently lives within walking distance of the Park and has a deep reverence for the natural environment of his backyard and the state as a whole. Kerry is an environmentalist.

In 2009, then Governor, Sarah Palin, understood the threat climate change was having on our state. Alaska is warming twice as fast of the rest of the nation and four times faster in winter because our civilization produces an additional 40 billion tons of greenhouse gases every year.  This increase in greenhouse gases is also disproportionately acidifying our seas.  Roughly 30% of those greenhouse gases come from our global energy demands—coal, oil and natural gas power plants. Governor Palin set a mandate* that Alaska would, by 2025, provide half of its energy needs from renewables. If we get to work, Kerry’s plan could shatter this goal.

When I ask him what comes next, he says, “I haven’t a clue. But I hope if it has legs that I will at least get to sit on the most appropriate commission(s) or engineering and design team(s) to help guide it. The legislature needs to act to enable the project.”

It is clear, after spending time with Kerry, asking lots of questions, looking at his Google Earth mock-up, and trying to stump him with my inquiries, that it is time for his project to leave the nest. What this proposal needs now is an army of smart people to rip it apart, find the flaws, improve on it—what this project needs now is peer review and investment.

What would rate payers pay per kilowatt-hour, I asked him? Without flinching, he has an answer and I realize, again, I am in the presence of someone way, way smarter than me. “After we’re at 100%” he has calculated, “and have paid off the bonds, it should drop to around $0.08 kWh, except for homeowners and businesses who cover their roofs with solar panels. They would pay considerably less, or even profit if they generate more than they use.” That’s less than a penny! Right now, MEA customers pay about $0.20 kWh, and Golden Valley members pay $0.21.

“I’ve already talked with a few of the stakeholders whom I would expect to have the most relevant expertise and pointed criticisms, and so far they’ve been encouraging,” he tells me. “Rick Sinnot, whose study and article about Eklutna Salmon* was the trigger; Marc Lamoreaux, Eklutna Village environmental director; Debra Lnne, Tanana Chief Conference natural resources director—about their potential wind resources to ‘charge’ the Eklutna Complex—and her Tanana Chiefs Conference colleague who owns a lease on the potential lease site; also, Ed Zapel, Senior Hydraulic Engineer for HDR, who understood my project instantly. They all seemed quite interested. I still need to talk with AEA personnel and CIRI wind personnel,” he tells me.

As far as I know, there has never been a study within Alaska, which looks at the potential for large, man-made reservoirs to produce methane, which is a more potent greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide. In temperate regions, where reservoirs are built in valleys, which contain a lot of biomass, methane is produced. Whether or not man-made, large volume water impounds within Alaska would produce this greenhouse gas is yet to be seen. But Kerry’s proposal has almost zero chance for methane production; the reservoirs are all within recently glaciated, high alpine zone, with low biomass.

Another massive issue typically associated with large hydro projects is their potential devastating impacts on salmon and other fish species.  In this instance it will be, in matter of fact, just the opposite. “It was the issue which started my investigation into turning Eklutna hydro into a pumped hydro energy storage complex,” Kerry tells me. “Because excessive water from Eklutna Lake is being used for hydroelectric power, the lake has not naturally drained for years. (That, and an older dam lower on Eklutna River, which was recently removed.) Doing the first stage of a conversion—swapping the turbine generators for reversible flow turbine/pumps—would enable us to keep Eklutna Lake filled and allow salmon to return. It would enhance the entire State Park by returning that lake to it’s historical level, and would lower our utility rates by about a penny per kWh instantly by replacing the very expensive gas fueled peaker plant operations. Excessive peaker plant operation is the cited reason for denying expanded wind farm and solar energy for rail-belt utilities.”

Environmentalists are often called C.A.V.E. people—Citizens Against Virtually Everything. My retort to that is, “Show me a project that works with the natural world rather than despoils it for short-term profit.” This is a mega-project that all Alaskans, regardless of political affiliation, can get behind.

For as long as I can remember, we have been offered a phony dichotomy: we can choose—the thinking goes—between either a healthy environment,or jobs and a robust economy. This notion is poppycock!

Kerry’s proposal would, in his words, “…provide two to four times as much as we need to power everything from Fairbanks or Tanana, Anchorage, to Homer.” This mega-project would provide countless construction jobs and long-term maintenance jobs. Furthermore, Alaska would become an incredibly attractive place for business to invest. Imagine Internet companies buying our cheap renewable energy and using glacier air to cool their massive servers. But I digress.

It is time to come together as Alaskans to fight climate change, defend our way of life and embolden the industries of the future. Kerry Williams and his pumped hydro project is a part of that future and, like the wild of Alaska, it is calling us to action. 

-Bjørn Olson

Watch a short video with Kerry Williams discussing the Eklutna Pumped Hydro project.

For more information about this project please visit Alaskans Know Climate Change. 

Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami

This article originally ran in Alaska Magazine. 

On October 17, 2015 a mountain at the head of Taan Fjord, an arm of Icy Bay, Alaska broke in half and crumpled under its own weight. Some 200 million metric tons of material came crashing down in what must have been a deafening roar. Some of the rock slid onto the snout of a tidewater glacier but most slid into the head of Taan Fjord – displacing a massive volume of water. This landslide-generated tsunami had a maximum height of over 600 feet. The wave traveled down the fjord, dislocating sediment and scouring forest for over ten miles.

JUNE 2016: From the foredeck of the MV Seawolf, an aluminum six-pack charter boat, I turn to see Scott Chadwick, the burly Yakutat boat captain, look nervously from his depth sounder to the slowly approaching shore. Chocolate syrup water in the silty glacial fjord obscures hidden rocks. My eyes are peeled; ready to yell stop at the first sign. The bow grinds against the shoreline and gently makes contact. Perfect. The look of apprehension on the captain’s face is gone and I, along with four earth-scientists, disembark. 

On land, the five of us create a gear-chain and hand scientific equipment and my camera gear up the steep and unstable edge of the shore. Directly across the bay is the massive, cleaved-in-half mountain. The boulders and gravel under my feet had traveled over a kilometer from somewhere within that mountain and were deposited here in a feat of unimaginable violence. “Sometimes geology isn’t slow,” Bretwood Higman, one of the scientists observes.

My task is to document what the “crime investigators” learn about the Icy Bay landslide-generated mega-tsunami - to tell their story of geologic and hydrologic discovery.

After shooting video from the shore we wave goodbye to Scott, who will spend the day fishing, while we walk up the valley to find the high watermark of the tsunami.

The National Science Foundation has funded this series of investigative expeditions. Scientific inquiry is why we are here. “It’s like a perfect experiment,” Colin Stark, one of the geologists says. “Find the remotest place in north America where a massive landslide and tsunami occurred, without loss of life or destruction to infrastructure. Run a host of experiments and make observations. Learn from that, and apply it to building some sense of what will happen when a similar event occurs, which will inevitably happen in a much more populated area.”

Landslide tsunamis have happened in Alaska before. Most notably was the 1958 Lituya Bay landslide and tsunami, which created a wave 1720 feet high – the highest wave ever recorded. What is unique about the Icy Bay landslide and tsunami is that scientists are able to study it so soon and with a suite of state of the art equipment.

Alaska’s rapidly warming climate – twice that of the global average - is related to this catastrophe. Icy Bay was as recently as the early 1960s filled with glaciers to the mouth of the bay with ice as thick as 1000 feet. This rapid de-glaciation and de-buttressing of the hill slopes is at least part of the reason for the instability, which led to the landslide. Other areas of Alaska and Norway are experiencing similar phenomena much nearer to tourist destinations and communities.

“This is happening in environments that the Park Service manages,” Eric Bilderback, a National Park Service geologist says. “We should take this opportunity to learn where nobody was hurt so we can maybe be proactive about the things where people could be hurt.”

After gaining 600 feet of elevation in our mile-long hike, I take off my backpack and drink a long slug of water. The day is warm and we’ve all sweat under our loads.  We are standing at the trim-line where the rush of water scoured the brush and left only bare rock. The team looks for evidence of broken branches or out of place sediment above the line – trying to locate the absolute highest run-up. They finally make the call – 187 meters, or 613 feet.

I turn around and face the fjord. The charter boat, anchored in the middle, is now a tiny dot below us. Directly behind the boat is the cleaved mountain. I try to imagine the force, the violence, and I come up short. Geology may not always be slow; thankfully it usually is.

Watch the film, Icy Bay Mega-Tsunami.

Traditional Kayak

I gently set my new skin-on-frame sea kayak into a draining tidal slough and then shoehorned into the tight cockpit. As I readied myself, the outgoing current tried to pull me loose from the shore. I set my paddle to lock me into place while I secured the neoprene spray skirt and pulled on gloves. At the mouth of the slough and all along the shore, four to six foot waves crashed. The water was most dynamic where the current met the waves. I set my eyes on this zone, studied it for a minute, took a breath and shoved off. How the new-to-me kayak would handle big waves was a mystery and one I was anxious to solve.

On most days, one can look out from a perch above any Alaskan harbor and observe a variety of watercraft. By many people’s estimation, a skiff is the most utilitarian boat for exploring the bays, sounds, and fjords of Alaska. A skiff, with its complimentary outboard motor, is a fishing, hunting, and sightseeing vessel, distinctly capable of coming ashore. The skiff, however, is a latecomer. For millennia, another vessel reigned supreme in Alaska and throughout the circumpolar north—the skin-on-frame sea kayak.

Traditional kayaks are elegant watercraft, made from raw, local materials—driftwood, bone, animal sinew, and hide—and are the product of hundreds of generations of refinement and perfection. Each region throughout the Arctic had specific and exacting designs. Kayaks are hunting and fishing vessels, which, in the care of a skilled practitioner, are one of the most adept watercrafts the world has known. Kayaks are one of the few boats that can be capsized and re-righted.

The swift current puled me toward the roaring waves. I widened my knees, locking them into a secure position and rapidly dipped the boat right and left a couple times to acquaint myself with its stability. To properly sea kayak, hips must remain loose. A four-foot wave jacked up in front of me, grew to five feet and crashed. I pulled hard on my paddle and leaned forward; my little dart of a kayak pierced the first wave handsomely. The next one in the set was bigger. As it stood up and took shape, I realized this one was going to clobber me. Weighing my options, I needed to make a decision, and fast.  

The legacy of the kayak, throughout the circumpolar north, varies, but, for the most part, skiffs and outboard motors began replacing their use in the early 20th century. One big exception, however, was in Greenland where the art of kayak building and their practical use never fully went out of fashion.

In the 1980s, many Greenlanders worried that the kayak was falling out of use. Qaannat Kattuffiat (Inuit for Kayak’s Club) was founded with the idea to develop traditional kayaking into a sport, which is now the countries’ most popular, followed by soccer. The organization's position is that the physical process of building kayaks and learning the skills of how they are used is communicative of cultural knowledge, which cannot be acquired any other way than practice and personal experience.

In Greenland, children begin learning to kayak at age 6. By their teenage years, they are allowed to compete in summer kayak contests. These competitions consist of races, demonstration of dozens of capsize and recovery rolls, harpoon throwing, rope gymnastics, and other techniques. Every summer, thousands-of-years worth of knowledge, innovation and traditions are celebrated and handed to the next generation. As a result, the flame of the kayak within Greenland was never quenched.

Alaska, however, was not so fortunate. By the 1940s, with the increasing popularity of motorized watercrafts, one generation neglected to pass on the skills and methods of ocean paddling to the next. It is possible to infer how to replicate traditional Alaskan kayaks; it is impossible to know what techniques their practitioners employed on the water.

The most famous contemporary Greenlandic kayaker is 35-year-old Maligiaq Padillia. Maligiaq received his first kayak at a young age from his grandfather—a highly respected hunter. After a rigorous mentorship, Padilla became champion kayak-man of the year, for a record holding, ten times. He has now built over 450 traditional kayaks, and has taught classes the world over. Maligiaq, a torchbearer of the circumpolar Inuit, is celebrated in Greenland and within kayaking circles like a rock star. 

Maligiaq’s kayaks hang in The Smithsonian Museum, public buildings, schools, and other institutions, but he is most gratified by kayaks that slip through the water and are put to vigorous use.

Currently a resident of Anchorage, Maligiaq is on a mission to revitalize traditional kayaks and the skills of their use in Alaska. Over the last several years, he has traveled throughout the state, studying and replicating regional designs, building kayaks with school-age youth, and fostering interest in the renewal of recently lost traditional skills.

Last winter, in a 60-foot yurt, heated by a wood stove and pleasant company, seven people, including myself, built traditional kayaks under Maligiaq’s guidance, in Homer, Alaska. Each kayak is made to fit the owner, relying on anthropometry—measurements and proportions of the human body.

In nine days, the kayaks were shaped, lashed, skinned with ballistic nylon and waterproofed.

The wave in front of me advanced and grew frightfully tall. At the last possible second, I intentionally tipped over rather than taking the heavy wave on my head. My lower body remained firmly locked into the boat. Under Maligiaq’s expert care, I had made this craft to fit, perfectly. The wave slammed onto my upturned hull and the turbulence jostled me like an earthquake made for one. When the commotion subsided, I reached my paddle to the surface, made a wide sweep with the blade and rolled back upright. On my face, an uncontainable grin; ready for the next one.

Before the Roman civilization or the pyramids of Egypt, kayaks have been cutting the waters of Alaska. The simple and elegant technology, adroit and at home in the most punishing marine conditions, makes too much sense to not exist. The traditional kayak has reemerged, unwilling to go extinct.

Carter to Crescent and a Wounded Bear

The Forest Service notice at the trailhead read, Trail Not Advised – Wounded Brown Bear. For several years now, I have thought that the Crescent Lake Trail to Carter Lake Trail, with a packraft paddle of Crescent Lake, would make a great overnight trip. Our bags and bikes were packed; the day was flawless...but now this.

“Not advised,” I said. “Which is different from trail closed, right?” After a few minutes of debate, the three of us repositioned our bear spray for quick draw convenience and decided to risk it. The sign had been posted four days earlier, we reasoned, and a handful of vehicles in the parking lot assured us that others had made the same call.

Where bears and people cohabitate, there is often an uneasy tension. Many years ago, I guy I knew was mauled by a brown bear on his way back from a day of fishing in this area. The bear clamped down on his head. Thankfully he survived the attack but the damage was severe. His eyes were bitten and in an instant he lost his sight forever. As we rode up the trail, I thought about him and the time I was seriously charged - periodically glancing at the can of spray strapped to my stem.

Friendly faces greeted us at the end of the trail and the beginning of our lake paddle. They too had read the sign and opted to cautiously gamble. We had all rolled the dice and won.

On the lake, my attention wandered away from the bear. The day was incredible and the trip was everything, if not more, than I’d hoped it’d be. The trails on either end are one’s I’ve ridden many times and I’d once gone all the way through on the primitive trail, which follows the lake shore, but this was my first traverse with the packraft.

Although this trip could be done in a day, we’d gotten a late start and from the outset had planned to camp on an island in the middle of the lake. The sound of loons calling and fish splashing in the calm water lulled us to sleep.

In the morning, we finished paddling the rest of the lake, transitioned back into bike mode and hit Carter Lake Trail – a steep and fun technical trail – back to the highway and the bustle of mid-summer traffic.

A couple hours later we were back at the vehicles - just in time to see a ranger removing the warning sign. They’d found the bear, dead in a ravine.

The bear, as far as we gathered from the ranger, had been an aggressive sub-adult that had bluff charged a cyclist several times. Finally, fearing for his life, he shot the bear with his handgun – wounding but not killing it. Shooting a bear out of season is only ever lawful in defense of life or property. In this instance, it appeared that no charges would be brought; the cyclist had been within his rights.

It’s unfair to pass judgment on someone in a stressful life-threatening situation – and so I don’t. However, it’s worth mentioning, that bear spray works. If you have the time and the presence of mind to draw a handgun, aim, and fire up to four direct and well-placed shots, you certainly have time to draw and spray. Sub-adult bears often behave badly; a peppery dousing can be just the medicine they need to learn that humans can hurt. I can’t help wonder: had the bear been sprayed, would the trail warning have been necessary and, more importantly, would the bear still be alive?

An Alaskan coastal brown bear.

Back From The Ice Age

Kim McNett and I attempted a spring fat-bike expedition from Nome to Fairbanks, Alaska but mother nature had other ideas. We returned to Nome after four days due to extreme snow fall. Below is a slideshow and video of our short but remarkable time on the northern end of the Iditarod Trail. 

A perfect, clear and cold day to land in Nome; spirits high.

Kim and I snap a selfie near the Iditarod finish. Our plan was to spend a couple days taking in the scene of the Last Great Race. We were just in time to see Pete Kaiser come in 5th. 

Aniak homeboy, Richie Diehl, came in 6th!!! So rad!

Richie gives his dogs some love under the Burl Arch. 

Richie's fan club.

In 2014, I gave Deede a smooch in Rohn; this year she kissed me under the arch. Ti amo, Deede.

Salsa rider and all around BA, Jay Petervary, was the first human-powered athlete to Nome this year. Congratulations, Jay! 

Jay rode Salsa's new Blackborow and said it was the best bike he's used on the trail so far. 

Japanese musher Michi Konno under the arch.

Kaktovik musher Vebjørn followed his father Ketil Reitan to Nome on snowmachine. Kim and I met Vebjørn and Ketil in 2015 in White Mountain village. They had finished the Iditarod and were mushing home to Kaktovik. They are attempting to mush home again this year. 

Ketel finished 14th this year. After resting the dogs for a bit, he and his son will mush home to Kaktovik from Nome; 1,300 miles. These two are the real deal. 

As Kim and I were attempting to escape Nome our dear friend Monica Zappa came in. Team Zappa 4 Ever!

Kim and I knew a snow storm was in the forecast. Our goal was to make it to a shelter cabin to sit out the blizzard and ride against the rest of the mushers still coming in. 

Kim atop Cape Nome. Hard to believe that a storm was in the forecast and two mushers had had to be evacuated earlier this same day not too far from here. 

Kim and I stopped to warm up in the last checkpoint in Safety and then pushed on into a very cold and windy night. I have yet to confirm but I believe with wind chill that night it was in the neighborhood of -50 or -60 below zero. 

Despite the extreme cold, the evening was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

Kim and I spent two nights in this shelter sitting out the blizzard and discussing what to do. With all the new snow and all the snow in the forecast we made the realization that this was not a year for biking on the Iditarod Trail. 

The storm raged and raged. 

In the middle of our second night in the shelter, we awoke to a Ice Miner returning home to Nome with a team of beautiful Siberian huskies. The storm was too intense, so Reese, his seven sled dogs and Kim and I shared the small shelter in grand company. 

Reese's Siberian huskies were so well trained that he let them loose and called them one at a time to hitch them to the gang line. Beautiful. 

For a brief moment, Kim and I were able to ride back to Nome. That didn't last long. 

Safety Roadhouse and the last checkpoint on the Iditarod Trail. 

Snow, snow, snow, and more snow. 

Taking a break from bike-pushing. 

Our friend and the fastest long distance dog musher in the world, Nic Petit. Without question. Your day will come real soon, my friend. 

Back in Nome with friends. 

Tim Osmar; legend!

Monica prepares to send everybody home. 

Looks like a cute lil' pup but this sweetheart has run the trail four times. 

Snoozing in the snow. 

Perhaps the most striking dog in the field: Blue Steel. 

Monica and Tim

Monica and Kim

The final adventure came when we all boarded our Alaska Air flight, sat in the jet for three hours and then had to get back out. One of the engines had frozen. Thankfully, Tim and Monica invited us to stay with them at their host family's house. 

We saw Jan Kriska, the first walker into Nome at the airport. He'd walked 48 hours straight from White Mountain and looked entirely destroyed. He'd had to abandon his journey last year due to frostbite and this year was beset with intensely deep snow.  

The thousand yard stare face. This shit cannot be faked. 

Justin Boot serenaded Tim Osmar, and the rest of us, in the airport, with a song he'd written about Tim's father, Dean. 

Below is a short video from our time in Nome and on the trail. 

Nome to Fairbanks - Fat-Bike Expedition

On March 14, 2018, Kim and I fly to Nome, Alaska, with the intention of riding our bicycles to Fairbanks, on the greatest equipment the world has yet seen. The fat-bike is a marvel of modern industry and design. Man’s greatest invention—the bicycle—has been fussed over, considered, and modified into a thing of beauty and unrivaled efficiency.

Winter cycling expeditions can be really hard. Soft snow trails, strong and sometimes relentless wind, discomfort, and injury are all potentially on the menu and to be anticipated. In the late 1990s, winter cycling expeditions had the potential to be even more difficult—fat-bikes didn’t yet exist. Even with big tyres, these trips are often impossible; without big tyres, impossible was more frequent.  

In the 1980s, 1990s, and well into the 2000s, a handful of diehard winter cyclists were begging for bicycles with bigger, wider, and fatter wheels and tyres. Shade-tree inventors like Mark Gronewald and Ray Molina were pushing the boundaries but the options were few. Finally, however, one bigger bike company took a chance, made the leap of faith, and kicked off the fat-bike design arms race.

Since 2005, interest in this sub-culture cycling pursuit has grown exponentially. What used to be a sport wherein everyone who did it knew the name and or reputation of almost most everyone else, has mushroomed into a global phenomenon. Alaska has exported an idea and an activity to the world, and there is no going back. 

And, since 2005, the cycling industry has been in overdrive, designing and tweaking the equipment.

To the engineers and designers, who have lost sleep, listened to input, and spent long hours in the saddle wondering how to improve the fat-bike, thank you. To the OG’s who spent their inheritances and re-mortgaged homes on the original fat-bike dream, thank you.

Twenty years ago, I took my first winter cycling trip on the Iditarod Trail with Roger and Arleen Cowles. My mind was blown. We were on the equipment of the day and we didn’t achieve the massive objective we’d set out for. We made it to Unalakleet and called it.

Tomorrow, I fly with my favorite adventure partner, Kim McNett, to Nome, again. We intend to hang around for a few days and take in the finish of the Last Great Race, visit friends, and camp on beaches dripping with gold and history.

On this trip, I plan to shoot video. I want to ask anyone we meet, how global warming has affected their ability to travel. For ten thousand years, winter has been the time for travel and human migration; winter has been the time to visit distant family and to reconnect. On our watch, this tradition is disappearing, unless we get serious and start fighting like hell against global warming.

The stories I hope to capture will I hope help others understand the dire straights we are in. The stories I hope to capture will I hope spur us to action. “Summer,” an Inuit proverb tells us, “is the season of inferior sledding.”

On this expedition we will be carrying our InReach tracking device. You are invited to follow our progress and read our updates by clicking this link: https://share.garmin.com/BjornandKim

Our messages will be sent to Kim’s Facebook page as well as Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook page.

Our bikes have been tuned; our bags packed; our batteries full of charge; and there is nothing left for it. We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Wish us well.

"It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” –Gandalf

A big shout-out to our gear sponsors, Salsa Cycles and Mountain Laurel Designs. 

Also, a big shoutout to the authors of Drawdown for giving me reason to hope. 

Reflections on 2017

Reflecting on 2017, one word comes to mind: unbelievable. It’s unbelievable that I should be so fortunate; to have friends and family of whom I draw so much from and am eternally inspired by. These people within my sphere seem incapable of thoughtless compromise and live under their own enchantments. My vibrant, supportive, and engaged community is filled with unbelievable brilliance, creativity, and steely-eyed determination to fight the good fights. 

It is unbelievable that I was, again, able to experience so many new, wild, and remote areas of untamed Alaskan wilderness. Traveling through Arctic Alaska last summer was one of the most rewarding and eye opening expeditions of my life. The shorter ventures by bike, packraft, and kayak were all, also, unbelievable.

The flood of support, input, and collaboration regarding the Alaskan climate change education campaign has been unbelievable. Three years ago, I made a New Year vow to become a better climate change communicator and not miss opportunities to learn and share. That vow still stands. Perhaps it runs.

In 2017, we have had to march and protest against systemic and swelling racism. Unbelievable! We had to march, organize, strategize, and mobilize to protect and stand up for science. Unbelievable! We have had to march and stand up for the rights of women. Unbelievable! We have a racist, anti-intellectual, sexual predator for a president who endorses pedophiles. Unbelievable!

Late in 2017, the UN released a report claiming that America—despite being one of the wealthiest countries—is the most economically unequal society in the world. My country spends more on national defense than China, Saudi Arabia, Russia, the United Kingdom, India, France and Japan combined and has been at war for 16 years! Unbelievable!

2017 was the warmest year on record without an El Nino. Each of the 10 hottest years on record has occurred since 1998. Despite overwhelming scientific consensus as to why rapid global warming is occurring, 2017 set a record for fossil fuel consumption. Unbelievable!

One of the hardest things for me to reconcile about 2017 has been the disparity between the micro and macro. On the micro level—meaning my community—the fight for justice and right-headedness was in overdrive. On the macro level, autocratic, small-mindedness, with strong overtones of fascism, clutched our national politics.

This observation brings to mind Margaret Mead, who said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” This, I believe.

Happy New Year, everyone. May your optimism wear big boots and be louder than ever.

Below, is smattering of photos from 2017. 

Alayne and Daniel cross the Lisburne Hills - Arctic Alaska.

Noah rides a wheelie near Resurrection River - Seward, Alaska. 

Winter bike camp - Caribou Hills.

Alayne and Kim find a walrus skull - Arctic Alaska. 

Homer Cycling Club's Big Fat Bike Festival - Homer, Alaska.

Sammy learns to ride a fat-bike - Homer.

Kim, Alayne, and Daniel packraft in front of the Corwin Bluffs - Arctic Alaska. 

December moonrise - Homer.

Kim rides the frozen Tustumena Lake. 

Bjørn finds a mammoth tusk - Arctic Alaska.

Kali dancers perform during the whale festival - Point Lay, Alaska.

Kali dancers - Point Lay, Alaska.

Spotted seal pup - Arctic Alaska.

Caribou on the Kasegaluk Lagoon - Arctic Alaska.

Swimming caribou - Arctic Alaska.

A retired umiak - Wainwright, Alaska. 

A sod hut - Arctic Alaska. 

Bjørn and Kim finish their expedition to Utqiagvik, Alaska. 

Traditional qayak building with Maligiaq - Homer, Alaska. 

Bjørn's traditional Greenlandic qayaq - Homer. 

Finished qayaqs - Homer. 

Bjørn surfing his traditional qayaq - Homer. 

Kim returns from a paddle with her traditional qayaq - Homer. 

Alaskans Know Climate Change tote bags.

Protesting Northern Edge. 

Kim dip-netting sockeye salmon - China Poot, Alaska.  

Preserving summers bounty. 

Munitions training before Arctic fat-bike expedition. 

Katmai and Lituya harvesting berries - Seldovia, Alaska. 

Billy fishing for halibut - Kachemak Bay, Alaska. 

Doug fillets halibut - Kachemak Bay, Alaska. 

Homer residents protest against racism. 

The Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail. 

Salsa Mukluk fat-bike in front of whale bones - Point Hope, Alaska. 

Lael prepares to launch on the Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail.

Packrafting to Aurora Lagoon along the Kachemak Bay Adventure Trail. 

Maligiaq prepares for the most difficult roll - the Straight Jacket Roll - Resurrection Bay, Alaska. 

Alaskans Know Climate Change tabling - Homer. 

Beach biking toward the Lisburne Hills - Arctic Alaska. 

Big Fat Bike Festival obstacle course - Homer. 

Maligiaq returns to Seward - Resurrection Bay, Alaska. 

Margaret and Bjørn pause for sunset - Caribou Hills, Alaska. 

Sunset in the Caribou Hills. 

George rides through a deep creek - Seward, Alaska. 

March for Science, Earth Day, and Alaskans Know Climate Change event - Homer.