A bridge of seven years spans the time since I first touched a living glacier. The first, Svinafellsjokul in Iceland, proved a groundbreaking moment in my life, even if at the time I did not realize it. It was during my first large trip abroad, organized by myself and my elven photographer friend Kindra. We spent dreamy sunlit arctic nights exploring waterfalls and moss-draped highlands with a little rented camper van. Wandering and taking photographs through the night, and sleeping in the daytime. When we came upon the glacier, it was early morning and almost time for us to go to bed. We stumbled across the alien frozen landscape, me clutching our bottle of red wine beneath my leather jacket, marveling at the immensity of this wild piece of Earth. Eventually a very friendly Icelandic tour guide approached us to say that a glacier is not a safe place to wander around unsupervised, and we giggled like teenagers with our illicit morning wine and crawled back into our van to sleep.
Concavo Glacier’s Edge