When photographing glaciers， the sense of time is on a different scale.

拍摄冰川时，时间标尺变得不同。

I was 15 years old when I saw my first glacier on a family trip to Glacier National Park， Montana， though I never really got close to one. My mother was convinced that around every corner and on every trail， a grizzly bear lay waiting to tear our great American vacation apart. This meant we didn’t ever venture terribly far from the car， and otherwise my only experience with a glacier was seeing a couple of them from quite a long distance away. I mostly just considered them beautiful snow fields tucked into the shadows of the mountain’s couloirs2.

十五岁时，我随家人一起去了蒙大拿州的冰川国家公园，那是我第一次见到冰川，尽管我始终未能靠近它们。我母亲确信，在每一个角落每一条小径，都有灰熊出没，伺机粉碎我们美好的美式假期。因此，我们不敢离车太远，而我与冰川的唯一交集，不过是远远望见那么两三座。我通常以为它们只是笼罩于山间雪沟阴影中的美丽雪原。

It was exactly 15 years later when I turned 30 that I saw my next glacier—except this time， the small plane I was traveling in was about to use it as a runway， sliding along the block of ice with skis where wheels would normally be. It was the Kahiltna Glacier in Denali National Park， Alaska， and I was here to photograph one of my first major assignments about a National Park Service search and rescue team. On this trip， there were no bears， just an endless vista of snow broken only by the occasional deep blue， mile deep crevasse3 you’d have to cross or go around， knowing that if you fell through it would be the last thing you do. The entire two weeks I was on the mountain， we lived on this glacier， more or less.

又过了整整15年，30岁时，我再次见到了冰川——只是这次，我乘坐的小型飞机即将以冰川为跑道，以滑雪板代替通常使用的机轮，在冰块上滑行。