Nature Blog - Place Entry #4

Sunday February 21, 2009 3:30 pm

February has days that are cold, gray, uninviting, and uninspiring. That is just the way of winter, and if there weren't days and weeks and months of such weather, we would be much less excited for spring. Today, however, is a winter day that promised beauty and light, making the cold glorious and the snow sparkle again. Mount Timpanogos dominates the landscape on days like this, the snow so clean and smooth on its crests and dips and the sky so evenly blue that it looks like a painted backdrop. I spend the day on the set of a movie, every breath fresh and every line even because of my surroundings.

As I drive my familiar route up the canyon to Bridal Veil falls, I watch as the mountains become three-dimensional, a process that still captures my attention and fascination. I have to remind myself to watch the road too. I notice the ridges that give Timpanogos its defining shape, the crevasses etched into the side facing Utah Valley, the carved out peaks. I remember what my husband told me after one of his geology classes.

"Did you know that glaciers flow?" He was very excited.
"What?"
"Glaciers aren't true glaciers unless they flow."
"But aren't glaciers frozen water? How...?"
"The pressure and weight moves them forward. Like, think of a river. If all the water froze but it was still moving..."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, the image and his words suddenly making sense. "Wow, that would really carve out a path."
"Exactly!" He was really excited again. "That's why Timpanogos is so disinct. It was carved out by glaciers and there might still be one up there."
"Oh yeah," I said, "when you hike up to the top, you have to cross it. Or slide down it, or something. The glacier. Yeah, it's there."
"But it's not flowing anymore. At least, they don't think so. It might just be a snowfield."

I had never before questioned the existence of the "Timpanogos Glacier" that I'd always heard about, but I did a little research after that. I found several reports of crevices that had appeared and disappeared over the years, lending substance to the case for an actual glacier that is still moving. However, during the drought years, nearly all the snow melts and leaves the "glacier" almost completely dry, which means it's probably a snowfield or a rock glacier. One site summed it up nicely: "By most definitions, Timpanogos Glacier is not really a glacier at all, but rather a snowfield. However, it has been called a glacier by climbers at least since 1916, so rather than break with tradition we will continue to call it a glacier here."

All of this runs through my head as I continue up the canyon, noticing the sharp lines carved into the sides of Timp that are mostly lacking on Cascade. Mount Cascade's sides seem convex, whereas Mount Timpanogos looks more like a bowl, steep sides with a scooped out middle, then flowing outward and becoming more gentle foothills. I can almost see where the glaciers had, millions of years ago, crunched and skidded and cut their way down the mountain's sides, leaving scars and spines and trails of jagged rock behind. It is strange to think of how vastly different this landscape would have looked millions of years ago. Strange to think it is old when it just seems timeless.

Driving through the winding Provo Canyon reminds me of the time it took to create what I see now. One of the most fascinating things about Provo canyon is the way layers of time are etched into the walls and rocks. The canyon walls and mountain sides have clear horizontal lines, compression and compaction literally shaping what I see. The darker bands where rock layer comes in contact with rock layer are thin, almost delicate, sensitive to the slightest jolt and jiggle of the earth's movement. The snow still rests on the stone sides, collecting along those linear breaks to highlight the earth's history. Just before I go around the last bend before turning off the main road, I see, as if for the first time, a curve in the mountain's lines on my right, a gigantic dip that defines the entire surface of the cliff before me. It is a geologic fold, a bending and curving of the elements. I try to put into words what it looks like: like a ribbon, like a slingshot, like frosting slowly dipping down the side of a cake. Like it is alive. Like it can be grasped, handled, stretched. If I were a demi-being, a god, a force of nature, I would be able to hold it and feel its irresistable pull. I drive past it, under the shadows of geologic forces that have been at work since before I can comprehend.

With my newfound way of seeing, I watch the water tumble down the side of the canyon, icicles still growing like lichen, and I wonder why the canyon wall behind the waterfall isn't more eroded. The flow of water hasn't stopped for winter, though it is partially frozen, and the freezing and melting of the water would be incredibly erosive, and yet the mountain looks untouched. The natural spring from somewhere above my eye line must have affected the shape of Provo Canyon, yet I can't see its fingerprints in the scene before me. I wish the snow would melt so I could see the shape of the canyon wall better.

I realize, though, that what I see is the result of thousands of millions of years of erosion and gravity and plate tectonics. The whole canyon has been carved out by the small Provo River, and perhaps once upon a time, the spring produced another river that slowly carved its way out and down until it became Bridal Veil Falls. I couldn't judge by what I saw now. Too much had changed, and events beyond knowing could really only be guessed at. If I could catch a glimpse of Provo Canyon or Utah Valley ten million years before, I probably wouldn't recognize my home.


[Here are some of the sites I found that were more useful than others]
http://www.summitpost.org/article/186144/100-years-on-the-timpanogos-glacier.html
http://www.utahtrails.com/Backcountry%20pages/Timpanogos.html
http://geology.utah.gov/surveynotes/gladasked/gladglaciers.htm