I waited months when I finally got the call from Alaska last March: The wild ice was on.
A high-pressure window of about two weeks of cold, clear weather had frozen Portage Lake, the terminus of the Portage Glacier, about 50 miles southeast of Anchorage, solid enough to skate on its wild — or natural — ice.
“Skating on Class A ice under a glacier is really a ‘take off work now and just go for it’ treat, even for us Alaskans,” said Paxson Woelber, who owns skate manufacturer Ermine Skate with based in Anchorage.
A few months earlier, I had purchased a pair of Ermine Nordic skates, long blades similar to the speed skates that attach to the bindings of cross-country ski boots. The compatibility allows skiers to get to the remote ice, then switch to blades to skate without changing boots and, as Mr. Woelber put it, “takes you off the rink.”
While figure skates and hockey skates are designed for flexibility, including changes of direction and tight turns, Nordic skates are designed for distance. Longer, faster blades require less effort to propel, and their stability makes them more tolerant of natural conditions such as rough or frozen ice.
But the problem with Nordic skating, or any kind of wild skating — which is defined as outdoors and on naturally formed ice, regardless of the style of skating used — is finding good ice. Wild ice seekers praise late fall and sometimes spring for freezing conditions without snowfall, which degrades the ice.
“That’s why it’s so magical: It’s fleeting,” said Laura Kottlowski, a former competitive figure skater based in Golden, Colo., whom I invited on my quest for wild ice. TikTok and Instagram videos of her jumping and spinning on high alpine lakes have gone viral, and Ms Kottlowski teaches a combination of winter mountaineering and ice skating as Learn to Skate Outside.
Wild Ice 101
I’ve been skating outside since my childhood, mostly on Midwestern lakes and ponds that I know well. But the kind of wilderness that Ms. Kottlowski and Mr. Woelber explore requires next-level knowledge of ice and safety gear.
Preparing to skate the wildest point of my life, I spent a few hours watching videos in an online wild ice course ($149) created by Luc Mehl, a water safety instructor who grew up in Alaska and traded backcountry skiing for skating several years ago as a way to avoid avalanche hazards. Based in Anchorage, he became known for his skating safety education and amazing social media videos of him and other skaters gliding on remote frozen lakes.
When I reached him by phone to discuss my skating plan, he was just returning from Lake Tustumena on the Kenai Peninsula, where, on an overnight trip, he had cross-country eight miles to the lake and then skated about 50 miles .
“Part of why skating is so rewarding is that it’s not a guaranteed thing,” Mr. Mehl said. “Because of its rarity, it feels special.”
He advised me to take my Ermine skates for a test run on Westchester Lagoon when I got to Anchorage. There, about a third of the skaters wore Nordic blades to zip around the large ice oval that had been cleared of snow with long straight runs.
Used to figure skates, I found the extended models fast but uncomfortable. I was able to stop a skier’s snowplow technique before attempting top speed. Long side-to-side strides sent me flying down the lake, leaning on the edges of the blades all the way to the corner, preparing for more distant ice.
Skating on a glacier
“The rinks have the atmosphere of a Costco,” Mr. Woelber said as he, Mr. Mehl and I set off with Mr. Woelbler’s fluffy Samoyed dog, Taiga, from Ermine’s lab to a simple office complex in South Anchorage for the Portage Lake the next morning.
There was nothing at Costco about the 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 clearest sections of ice mirrored the landscape with the addition of a few skaters in the distance.
After carefully hiking down a rocky slope and over some crusted ice near the shore in my cross-country boots, I strapped on my blades. Luke lent me a set of plastic-cased ice picks to wear as a necklace, which—if I fell through the ice—I could spread out and use to stab them, creating a grip to pull myself up. me out He also provided a pole with a sharp tip, known as an ice probe, to test the ice as we went along.
“Two hard stabs from the elbow,” he pointed, piercing the ice, “and I know he’ll hold me.”
On an ice scale of A to F, we skated what my guides estimated was pure, black grade A ice with patches of grade B that had the texture of an orange peel and some sections of frozen grade C snow. The cracks showed depths of ice between seven and nine inches. Mr. Mehl explained that four inches is safe. In the center of the lake, an iceberg was frozen in place, used as an ice slide by local children.
We connected the smoothest stretches as we headed towards the glacier, seamlessly connecting chunks of ice that so accurately mirrored a nearby mountain that the lake looked as if it had been surfaced by Zamboni.
Just around an inch of land at the edge of the lake, we faced the looming Portage Glacier, floating in giant milky blue blocks that towered nearly 10 stories above the frozen lake. After a long gap, we continued to its south face, gazing at a new shade of turquoise ice, shiny and bright in the sun.
As glaciers can calve at any time, we didn’t get closer than 200 feet from the face while nervously watching a hiker reach the icefall or terminus and snap a series of selfies.
On the way back, I tried to hide from the strong headwinds behind a fleece gaiter and worked much harder to walk. When I got to the shore, the parking lot was full of skaters, bikers and families with sleds.
Passing us, dozens of skaters were now making their way to the glacier, most on hockey skates, but a respectable 40 percent Scandinavians. One Nordic skating novice called it “terrifying.” His partner had learned a decade ago from Norwegian friends who, he said, “know how to winterize,” calling it a “game changer” in terms of speed, distance and convenience.
“I could never do all the turns,” he said with a laugh.
Ice like glass
The next day we had another, in skier’s terms, powder day — meaning perfect, tough resistance conditions — which prompted Mr. Mehl to suggest we try Kenai Lake, a long, deep, zig-zag body of water on the peninsula Kenai about 100 miles south of Anchorage, which he had heard was recently frozen over.
There, under a hanging glacier tucked into the side of a mountain and beyond moose tracks in the snow leading to the shore, was A-plus rated ice: smooth as a windless day on the water, with the surrounding peaks to be reflected on a green mirror-like surface.
“Yesterday, we had opinions,” said Mr. Mehl, equally excited by the circumstances. “Today, ice!”
We could see open water about 100 meters out, but stayed clear of it, testing the ice in occasional cracks. In some areas, the small waves looked like they were frozen in motion. Others rippled gently like sand dunes. As we explored it on a calm, windless day, the lake began to speak again with bubbles and water jets that Mr. Mehl said were not threatening, indicating the natural expansion and contraction of the ice. At other times, hairline cracks were lasered into the ice, and at least once the lake mimicked a cow mooing, adding aural wonder to our tour.
In October, Mr. Mehl began posting videos on social media of him skating on clean, wild ice on snow-free lakes around Anchorage. But if Kenai Lake was my last wild skate of 2023, at least I glided into the sunset on the ice.
Elaine Glusac is the Frugal Traveler columnist, focusing on budget-friendly travel and tips.
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