In Alaska: the rare sensation of 'wild' skating
I had been waiting for months when I finally got the call from Alaska last March: wild ice was happening.
A period of high pressure lasting about two weeks with cold and clear weather had frozen Portage Lake, the river's terminus Portage Glacierabout 50 miles southeast of Anchorage, and it was firm enough to skate on its wild – or natural – ice.
“Skating on A-class ice under a glacier is truly a 'just get started' treat, even for us Alaskans,” says Paxson Woelber, owner of the Anchorage-based skate manufacturer. Ermelijn Schaats.
A few months earlier I had purchased a pair of Hermine Nordic skates, long skates that resemble speed skates and attach to the bindings of cross-country ski boots. The compatibility allows skiers to go to remote ice, then switch to skates without changing boots and, as Mr. Woelber put it, “take you off the rink.”
While figure skates and hockey skates are designed for agility, including changes in direction and tight turns, Nordic skates are designed for distance. The longer, faster blades require less effort to propel, and their stability makes them more tolerant of natural conditions such as bumpy or weedy ice.
But the problem with cross-country skiing or any form of wild skating – which is defined as outdoors and on naturally formed ice, regardless of the skating style used – is finding good ice. Wild ice seekers prize late fall and sometimes spring for freezing temperatures without snowfall, which degrades the ice.
“That's why it's so magical: It's fleeting,” says Laura Kottlowski, a former figure skater from Golden, Colorado, who I called in my search for wild ice. TikTok And Instagram videos of her jumping and spinning on high-alpine lakes have gone viral, and Ms. Kottlowski teaches her combination of winter mountaineering and ice skating as Learn to skate outside.
Wild ice cream 101
I've been skating outdoors since I was a kid, mostly on lakes and ponds in the Midwest that I know well. But the kind of wilderness Ms. Kottlowski and Mr. Woelber explore requires next-level knowledge of ice and safety equipment.
While preparing to skate the wildest place of my life, I spent a few hours watching videos in a online class on Wild Ice ($149) created by Luc Mehl, a fast-water safety instructor who grew up in Alaska and several years ago traded backcountry skiing for skating to avoid avalanche danger. Based in Anchorage, he has become known for his skate safety training and stunning social media videos of him and other skaters gliding across remote frozen lakes.
When I reached him by phone to discuss my skating plan, he had just returned from Tustumena Lake on the Kenai Peninsula, where he had cross-country skied eight miles during an overnight trip to reach the lake and then hiked some 50 miles skated.
“Part of the reason why skating is so rewarding is that it's not a guarantee,” Mr. Mehl said. “Its rarity makes it feel special.”
He advised me to give my Ermine skates a test drive Westchester Lagoon when I reached Anchorage. There, about a third of the skaters wore Nordic skates to circumnavigate the large ice oval that was cleared of snow with long straight stretches.
Used to figure skating, I found the extended models fast but clumsy. I mastered a skier's snowplow technique of stopping before attempting top speed. Long strides from side to side sent me flying across the pond, leaning on the edges of the blades in the corner in preparation for more distant ice.
Skating to a glacier
“Indoor skating rinks have the atmosphere of a Costco,” Mr. Woelber said as he, Mr. Mehl and I headed out with Mr. Woelbler's fluffy Samoyed dog, Taiga, from Hermine's workshop in a modest office complex in South Anchorage to Portage Lake. next morning.
There was nothing Costco about Portage, a roughly five-mile-long lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, separated by glacier-filled valleys in the Chugach National Forest. In the bright sun, the brightest patches of ice reflected the landscape, with a few skaters in the distance.
After carefully walking down a rocky slope and over some crusty ice on the coast in my cross-country ski boots, I clicked into my boots. Luc lent me a set of plastic casings ice picks to wear like a chain, which – if I fell through the ice – I could deploy and use to pierce it, creating a hold to pull myself out. He also provided a pole with a sharp point, known as an ice probe, to test the ice along the way.
“Two strong jabs from the elbow,” he demonstrated by poking the ice, “and I know he'll hold me.”
On an ice scale of A to F, we skated on what my guides said was clear, black A-quality ice with B-quality spots that had the texture of an orange peel, and a few C-quality patches of frozen snow. Cracks showed ice depths between seven and nine centimeters; Mr. Mehl explained that four inches is safe. An iceberg was frozen in the middle of the lake, which was used as an ice slide by local children.
We connected the smoothest stretches as we slalomed toward the glacier, connecting pristine chunks of ice that so accurately reflected a nearby mountain that the lake looked as if it had been surfaced by a Zamboni.
We walked along a stretch of land on the other side of the lake and looked out at the looming Portage Glacier, suspended in gigantic milk-blue blocks that rose almost ten stories above the frozen lake. After much yawning, we continued to the south side, staring at a new shade of turquoise ice, shiny and dimpled by the sun.
Because glaciers can calve in any season, we got no closer than 200 feet from the face as we nervously watched a hiker reach the icefall or glacier terminus and take a series of selfies.
On the way back I tried to hide from the strong headwind behind a fleece cover and had to work much harder to be able to walk. When I reached the shore, the parking lot was full of skaters, fat-tire bikers, and families with sleds.
As we passed, dozens of skaters were now making their way to the glacier, most on hockey skates, but a respectable 40 percent on Nordics. One Nordic skate novice called it “terrifying.” His companion had learned a decade ago from Norwegian friends who, she said, “know how to winter” and called it a “game changer” in terms of speed, distance and ease.
“I could never make all the turns,” she said, laughing.
Ice like glass
The next day we had another, in skier's terms, powder day – meaning perfect, hard-to-resist conditions – which prompted Mr. Mehl to suggest we test Kenai Lake, a long, deep, zigzagging body of water the Kenai Peninsula, about 100 miles south of Anchorage, where he had heard was newly frozen.
There, beneath a hanging glacier, tucked into a mountainside and behind the moose tracks in the snow leading to the coast, lay A-plus class ice: smooth as a windless day on the water, with the surrounding peaks reflected in a sea green, mirror-like surface.
“Yesterday we got opinions,” said Mr. Mehl, equally enthusiastic about the circumstances. “Today, ice cream!”
We could see open water about 100 yards away, but we stayed away from it and occasionally tested the ice for cracks. In some areas, small waves appeared as if they were frozen in motion. Others undulated gently like sand dunes. As we explored it on a calm, windless day, the lake began to talk back in rippling and watery belches that Mr. Mehl said were non-threatening, indicating the natural expansion and contraction of the ice. Other times, hairline cracks shot through the ice with a laser-like sound and at least once the lake imitated a lowing cow, adding an aural wonder to our tour.
In October, Mr. Mehl began posting on social media videos of skating on clear, wild ice on snow-free lakes around Anchorage. But if Kenai Lake was my last wild skate of 2023, at least I was sliding into the sunset on peak ice.
Elaine Glusac is the Frugal Traveler columnist focusing on budget-friendly tips and travel.
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