I have pictures of this place. Stacks of pictures. All with a story of some sort.
A woman walks down the sandy beach. She wears a long bright red wool jacket with a tan silky scarf. She's caught mid-gentle stride. In front of her lays the yawning blue Mendenhall Glacier. It glorifies itself with its own placid lake, making a mirror image of itself. Still. Somehow, Mendenhall manages to be humble, caught in the reflection of its own awe and breadth. The woman and the glacier. There is a history there. Deep Geological history meets my own shallowness.
Two bicycles lay on either side of a muddied trail. There is a heavy blanket of moss and low lying bushes. In the background Mt. McGinnis and Mt. Bullard tower over and crowd in the candy blue of Mendenhall Glacier. Somewhere outside of the picture two friends speak of an up and coming wedding, the twists and turns of life - how it's always changing. A cool winterly breeze, stuck in summertime June, flaps alder and cotton wood leaves, just now mustering up their green luster.
A two year old child stands bundled up like a marshmallow during a February falling evening. He stands on Mendenhall's frozen lake. Behind him dreams Mendenhall, smiling blue with white icing topping. The child looks happy, but out of place. In the distance, the twin towers stand erect and foreboding with its craggy gray faces. As the child's mother took his picture, people shout rambunctiously, sledding down the steep small hill nearby. Someone sings happy birthday to themselves.
These are just pictures. The place is much more.
A woman walks down the sandy beach. She wears a long bright red wool jacket with a tan silky scarf. She's caught mid-gentle stride. In front of her lays the yawning blue Mendenhall Glacier. It glorifies itself with its own placid lake, making a mirror image of itself. Still. Somehow, Mendenhall manages to be humble, caught in the reflection of its own awe and breadth. The woman and the glacier. There is a history there. Deep Geological history meets my own shallowness.
Two bicycles lay on either side of a muddied trail. There is a heavy blanket of moss and low lying bushes. In the background Mt. McGinnis and Mt. Bullard tower over and crowd in the candy blue of Mendenhall Glacier. Somewhere outside of the picture two friends speak of an up and coming wedding, the twists and turns of life - how it's always changing. A cool winterly breeze, stuck in summertime June, flaps alder and cotton wood leaves, just now mustering up their green luster.
A two year old child stands bundled up like a marshmallow during a February falling evening. He stands on Mendenhall's frozen lake. Behind him dreams Mendenhall, smiling blue with white icing topping. The child looks happy, but out of place. In the distance, the twin towers stand erect and foreboding with its craggy gray faces. As the child's mother took his picture, people shout rambunctiously, sledding down the steep small hill nearby. Someone sings happy birthday to themselves.
These are just pictures. The place is much more.
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