We awoke to our first − and, as it turned out, only − sunny morning in Glacier Bay. Not wanting to waste such excellent sightseeing weather, we got underway at 0800. We were soon in Tarr Inlet, at the edge of the park and the terminus of not one but two mighty tidewater glaciers.

Again and again in Alaska, you confront the problem of scale. It's difficult to take in, let alone to convey, the vastness of the landscape when you're in a sailing vessel, observing nature at a great remove.

Here is one example. We sailed past innumerable mountains, most covered with ancient conifers. But only when I took the photo below − while we were cruising the Wrangell Narrows − did I appreciate how tall these trees were. Look at the house near the centre of the frame. Now notice the height of the new-growth trees that surround it. Finally, see the much greater height of the old-growth trees surrounding them.

Here is another example: I could tell you that the majestic Margerie Glacier is a ribbon of ice over twenty miles long that, seen from sea level, is a mile wide and two hundred and fifty feet high. All of this is true, but you might not know it from looking at this photo.

So I sought opportunities to defeat the problem of scale by incorporating recognizable elements into my photos. For example: here is another photo of Margerie Glacier, dwarfing a ship at the right edge of the frame.

Here that ship: the MV Norwegian Pearl.

We didn't dare get much closer to Margerie Glacier. While it's stable − neither receding nor advancing − its flow rate is six to eight feet per day, and it is calving. I failed to capture any calving on video, but the following photo is indicative. And I'll tell you one thing about the calving of a glacier: anyone who hears its sound will never again tremble at the mere roll of thunder.

With all of this calving, the water was full of bergy bits...

...and with all of the bergy bits − and the glaciers, and the climate − the water was cold. I believe our instruments registered a water temperature below five degrees, though I can't swear to it. Certainly I'd never seen seawater quite as turbid as this.

The second glacier at the head of Tarr Inlet is the Grand Pacific Glacier. Seen at close range, this glacier looks bedraggled, because it's receding. And yet it is grand: two miles wide and over thirty miles long, it is by far the largest of the region's glaciers. Here it is, with our friend the MV Norwegian Pearl passing before it.

The, er, grandeur of the Grand Pacific Glacier is best perceived from a great distance. Viewed not from the head but the mouth of Tarr Inlet, it looks like a vast, cold superhighway wending its way through the Canadian mountains. (Yes, I said "Canadian": the head of Tarr Inlet abuts the edge of the park, which in this location is also the border between Alaska and British Columbia.)

The mouth of Tarr Inlet is also the mouth of Johns Hopkins Inlet, so we sailed up the latter in search of more vistas. We soon passed the Lamplugh Glacier. A relative piker, it's only thee quarters of a mile wide and only sixteen miles long.

As we rounded Jaw Point, we got our first glimpse of the one advancing glacier in the park, at the head of the one inlet into which no vessel was permitted to travel.

This section of Johns Hopkins Inlet is forbidden to all ships during the months of May and June, and subject to speed and other limitations at other times, because it's a critical seal habitat. Indeed, we saw seals in the water there.

At the head of the inlet lay Johns Hopkins Glacier: one mile wide, twelve miles long, with a flow rate of ten to fifteen feet per day. Where it meets the sea, this glacier rises two hundred and fifty feet above the waterline, and descends two hundred feet below it.

Behind the glacier, if I'm not mistaken, is Mount Orville − part of the Fairweather Range − whose peak rises 10,495 above sea level and encircled by clouds. Naturally, the French have a lovely expression for this, which I learned from The Captain: "la montagne dans sa robe de soie blanche."