The United Nations has declared 2025 the International Year of Glaciers’ Preservation. Let’s face it: it’s a hopeful declaration. Between about 100,000 and 11,000 years ago, most of North America was frozen beneath ice three kilometres thick in places. Known as the Wisconsin glaciation, it was the last major ice age to grip the northern hemisphere. Time must have practically stood still in this virtually lifeless landscape. It’s no wonder that humans would adopt the word “glacial” as a metaphor for things that move ponderously slowly.
However, that metaphor is melting. The glaciers we know are vestiges of ancient geological history, and they are rapidly leaving the ice age. Human-caused climate change is accelerating this exit. Unless we can limit global warming to a few more tenths of a degree, we’ll lose two-thirds of the world’s remaining glaciers by the year 2100.
Helm Glacier is one of them. Nestled on the north face of Gentian Peak, near Garibaldi Lake, the Helm has been studied more than almost any other glacier in southwestern BC. Federal government scientists started taking measurements there in the 1960s when it covered an area of around 4 square kilometres. Today, it covers just a square kilometre, and it’s not long for this world, says Mark Ednie, a geologist with the Geological Survey of Canada.
The Helm is one of dozens that Ednie monitors in the Western Cordillera of Canada, from the Rockies to the Coast Range. He visits all of them twice a year: once in the spring to measure snow depth and snow density and once in late summer to measure ice melt. Combine these two measurements, and you get something called “mass balance,” a metric that describes whether a glacier is growing or shrinking.
“It’s usually in the negative column,” Ednie says.
You don’t need to be a geologist to know that most of our glaciers are disappearing; you only need to spend a few summers in the mountains and open your eyes.
Scientists divided a glacier into two zones. The accumulation zone occupies the higher elevations, where the ice remains snow-covered year-round. Below that snow, or firn line, is the zone of ablation, where more snow is lost than accumulates and is often bare ice.
A healthy glacier is growing and is in constant motion. Snow in the accumulation zone feeds the formation of ice, which flows from the upper to lower reaches of the glacier.
Since Ednie started visiting Helm Glacier in 2018, there has been no accumulation zone. Whatever snow falls in winter is long gone by the end of summer.
“So, it means the whole glacier is melting,” Ednie says.
It’s a similar story for most of the glaciers he monitors. And worse for ones like the Peyto Glacier, a dying appendage of the Wapta Icefield in the Rockies with data going back to the late 1800s. The effects of anthropogenic global warming are compounded by ash from massive forest fires. Ash darkens the glacier and reduces the albedo effect, or the surface’s ability to reflect the sun’s energy. The result is an even faster rate of ice melt.
In some ways, Ednie’s work is similar to that of the palliative care business. He makes the rounds to ailing glaciers and takes measurements, the way a nurse dutifully takes the vitals of a terminally ill patient. They know the end is near, but they do it just the same.
Hundreds of millions of people worldwide depend on rivers originating in high mountains. In western Canada, melting snowpack contributes most of the flow to rivers with mountain headwaters. Glacier melt, on the other hand, is responsible for a small portion of streamflow, less than five percent on the Bow River, for example. However, it’s a significant contribution. Melting ice gives streams and rivers a pulse of water during the year’s hottest months. There’s a reason glaciers have been called the water coolers of the earth; they store moisture for when we need it the most. When these water coolers vanish, it will have cascading impacts on irrigation, drinking water, fish habitat, and how we manage water.
Despite the dim outlook for glaciers, even anemic ones like the Helm in the Coast Mountains or the rapidly melting Peyto are still beautiful. Earth’s history is written in the layered, turquoise-coloured walls of a crevasse like the rings of a tree. Glaciers appear, for the most part, still and silent. Yet they are animate, moving imperceptibly by the pull of gravity as they scour, claw, grind and shape the underlying rock over thousands of years into the rugged landscapes we cherish.
Next to scientists like Ednie, who poke and prod glaciers for research purposes, mountain guides, perhaps more than any other people, have a profoundly intimate relationship with glaciers. As a Squamish-based guide, Evan Stevens has lived and worked in Sea to Sky Country since 1998. Stevens has witnessed phenomenal changes in the Coast Mountains, but in a brief period, it doesn’t even register in geological terms. Moats and bergschrunds are bigger and more complicated to navigate. Glaciers like the Serratus in the Tantalus Range are so shattered and broken by late summer that they are almost too dangerous to travel. Where ice retreats, unstable ground is uncovered, creating new rockfall hazards. In other cases, melting alpine permafrost is causing mass wasting events, like the cataclysmic landslide that ripped from the north face of Mt. Joffre near Pemberton in 2019. According to Stevens, most people think about the toe or terminus of a glacier when it comes to glacial recession. It’s easy to benchmark a glacier’s retreat. However, the diminishing thickness, perhaps less noticeable to the naked eye from year to year, profoundly impacts mountain travel, particularly at that threshold between rock and ice. As the ice thins, the glacier pulls away from cols and mountain passes. What once was a straightforward descent on skis or boots can become a technical descent requiring rappels to reach the glacier.
“As guides, we’re always thinking about plans A, B, C and D and making decisions on the fly. But in some cases, the decision is simple – not to go. The seasons are getting shorter, and some areas have higher hazards. It’s grim,” Stevens says. “I guess it’s not changing what I do, but it’s changing where and when I do it.”
Speaking to people like Stevens and Mark Ednie, you get the sense that travelling across glaciers these days is as much physical as it is nostalgic. It strikes at something existential to mountain people: the disconcerting notion of an alpine without glaciers.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s alarming, but it’s also scientifically fascinating to imagine what we would have seen hundreds of years ago and what we will see in the future,” says Ednie. “I have two young daughters, and I want to make sure they see some of these places before they’re gone.”
Written by Andrew Findlay – @afindlayjournalist