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Glaciology

Glaciology Beth Peterson It's quiet on the glacier--and not the good kind of quiet. It's the long quiet--the quiet that splits you open, leaves you flayed. I try yelling. "Matt." "Adam." "Lydia." "Help." Nothing. Only low rumblings in the distance and the faint sound of water running, probably rainwater or melted snow, dripping through thin tears in the ice, pushing downward, drips becoming streams, streams becoming wide rivers of glacial runoff, pouring down the base of the mountain, splitting into the glacial valley, cascading into the Atlantic Ocean. When my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the crevasse, I size up the hole. I'm hanging midway between parallel walls of raw ice, thick and slanted and buckling in places. There's an overhang two stories above; I see the outline; shards of snow crack off it every few minutes, fall past me or onto my back and arms. Somewhere above the overhang, there's a shaft of sky. Beyond this, the only thing I can make out Glaciology 73 Beth Peterson clearly is a thin blue line, edging the glacial walls many stories below. Everything else is wet and dim, like the underbelly of a cement culvert in high tide. It http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative Ashland University

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Publisher
Ashland University
Copyright
Copyright © University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1548-3339
Publisher site
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Abstract

Beth Peterson It's quiet on the glacier--and not the good kind of quiet. It's the long quiet--the quiet that splits you open, leaves you flayed. I try yelling. "Matt." "Adam." "Lydia." "Help." Nothing. Only low rumblings in the distance and the faint sound of water running, probably rainwater or melted snow, dripping through thin tears in the ice, pushing downward, drips becoming streams, streams becoming wide rivers of glacial runoff, pouring down the base of the mountain, splitting into the glacial valley, cascading into the Atlantic Ocean. When my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the crevasse, I size up the hole. I'm hanging midway between parallel walls of raw ice, thick and slanted and buckling in places. There's an overhang two stories above; I see the outline; shards of snow crack off it every few minutes, fall past me or onto my back and arms. Somewhere above the overhang, there's a shaft of sky. Beyond this, the only thing I can make out Glaciology 73 Beth Peterson clearly is a thin blue line, edging the glacial walls many stories below. Everything else is wet and dim, like the underbelly of a cement culvert in high tide. It

Journal

River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction NarrativeAshland University

Published: Sep 21, 2013

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