The Glacier (Part One)
The Glacier (Part One)
A story of a dying world, collective guilt, and a better future — in three parts.
The following short story, divided into three parts, follows the story of Lucija as she observes, over decades, the slow death of the fictional Mount Treglav glacier.
In part one, Lucija, merely a child, visits the lake at the foot of the glacier with her grandfather. In part two, she returns with her husband, and in part three, she visits, for the last time in her life, with her son and his children.
This is a story about a changing earth, the terrible loss we all carry, and, in the end, hope for a better future.
The narrow grey tongue snakes down the steep incline, paving its way from just below the range’s highest peak, where it covers the easternmost shoulder, and into the high meadow, nourishing Lake Bohan. The small, greenish pool lies nestled in the mountains’ close embrace, a jewel among barren desolation, forming a popular camping destination, attracting people beyond the region and the rare visitor from afar. A dozen colorful tents stand dispersed on its shores, their thin plastic walls flapping in the soft August breeze. Sizzling barbecues and children’s laughter pierce the Alpine stillness. Ahead — much to Tomo’s annoyance — a drone buzzes and whines, its owner carefully maneuvering through the high winds.
Lucija, sitting on a mossy boulder, dips her toes into the crystal-clear water. She cries out in pain, surprised by the freezing cold.
Tomo laughs. “Told you, dear. That lake never warms.” He points up. “It’s fed right from the glacier. Or it was, at least. Now, it’s mainly the rains that fill it.”
Lucija isn’t deterred. She submerges her lower calves and then bravely lifts herself from the boulder to stand on the lake’s bottom. The water comes up to her knees, and she breathes hard, giggling all the while.
“Careful out there!”
She ignores her grandfather's warning and wades along the shoreline. She can barely feel anything below her knees now and marvels at the sight of her feet on the slippery, rounded rocks. They seem to belong to someone else — a person older and braver than her. Curious small fish examine her toes, and, for a moment, she's scared they’ll bite her. Distracted, her right foot drops into a narrow depression. She loses her balance and, with nothing to hold on to, plunges into the water.
The cold is magnificent. Immediately, the world ceases to matter, and all that is, all that ever will be, is that biting, breathtaking onslaught of tiny needles on skin. There's no breath, no movement, no time; for a moment, all that exists is pure sensation.
Something in her awakens. Her arms and legs flail, her body waging war against the lake's icy calling. She breaks through the surface and gasps, sucking in huge gulps of air as she tries to stay afloat. Her heart beats furiously, the cold water contracting her veins and sending adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream.
She feels a strong, familiar hand grip her arm. It pulls her up, and she sees Tomo’s face, his kind eyes filled with concern.
“Are you alright?” His voice is urgent.
Lucija nods, shivering and coughing up water. She notices people watching from the shoreline and feels embarrassed. The drone circles them like an angry wasp.
Tomo helps her to the shore, and, minutes later, she sits wrapped in blankets, watching the blue sky and the clouds that linger around Mount Treglav's glassy peak like lazy little sheep. She laughs, feeling a strange wave of joy wash over her.
“What's so funny?”
She turns to him. The sun is slowly warming her up, but she's still shaking. “Nothing, dida. I just feel so alive.”
They get the gas cooker going, and she watches tiny bubbles plop and disappear on the water's surface. She desperately wants to make a campfire, like the others did, but Tomo refuses, arguing that they'd destroyed enough already. He doesn’t explain what he means, and she doesn’t push the matter.
“Can I put it in now?”
“Yes, two should be enough.”
She drops the tea bags into the boiling water and notices how fast the color spreads. In a moment, water becomes tea, and the sweet smell of berries wafts into the tent.
Tomo unwraps the bureks and puts the tinfoil into a designated paper bag.
“When out in nature, you must always follow the golden rules,” he'd said on their hike up. “Minimize your impact, be mindful of your surroundings, and leave nothing behind. Nothing, you hear?” She'd nodded at the time but hadn't understood. Nature is great and big, right? Why should they have to be so careful?
He hands her a large piece, and she tears into it, surprised by her appetite. She misses the meat she's used to — in her family, no dish goes without — but savors the burek's fatty dough and diced potatoes.
As they eat and drink, the silence is only broken by occasional birdsong and the rustling of shrubbery in the wind. Lucija watches a family on the opposite shore playing frisbee in the dying light, their faint cries carrying across the lake.
“I used to come here with your baka,” Tomo says, breaking the quiet. “We'd stay for days, just reading, hiking in the mountains, and, uh… other things. Oh, she loved it here. She could sit for hours by the lake, watching the sun rise and set.”
Lucija has never met her grandmother, but she's often heard how much alike they are. She'd seen a picture of her as a child once, and it had been like looking into a mirror.
“It was a different time back then,” Tomo continues. “There were no drones, no loud music, no phones. People came here to find peace.”
Lucija nods, feeling a curious sense of nostalgia for a time she's never known. She wonders what it would be like to see the lake without tents, without people. Just her, and someone she loved perhaps, lying in the grass and watching the stars.
“Look at the glacier,” Tomo says, his eyes intense. “It's nothing now, almost gone. You should have seen it thirty or forty years ago. It covered that entire range over there, as broad as the mountains themselves and perfectly white, almost blinding when the sun hit it right.”
“Did you ever climb to the top, dida?”
He laughs. “Oh, yes. And it almost cost me my life. I'd borrowed some old crampons, a bivvy sack, and an ice pick from my brother and went up on the glacier, alone. Fell into a narrow crevasse halfway up and almost didn't make it out. It was freezing, I remember, and I had to decide whether I should push on or turn around. The day was getting late.”
“And what did you do?”
“I continued, of course. A couple of hours later, I reached the summit and yelled at the top of my lungs. Felt like the king of the world. I'm telling you, dear, nothing beats that feeling of challenging yourself and making it to the other side. I’ve never felt so alive, before or after.”
He stares into the distance, his gaze full of memories, happiness, and a deep sadness for what he’s lost. “The descent was even harder, mind you. It always is. I went down the southern side, opposite from what you see now. It got dark, and I had to camp out on a narrow ledge, freezing my ass off. In the morning, I made the descent and hiked into the village, feeling like the greatest man that's ever lived. Told everyone about it, and maybe half of them believed me.”
“I believe you, dida.”
“Thanks, dear. I know you do.”
“Will you go up again?”
A sad smile crosses his face, warm and cold at the same time. “Oh no, dear. I'm too old. This lake is my final stop now. When you're older, you can do it and wave to me from the summit. I'll be here, lying in the sun, with my feet in the water and a cold beer in my hand.”
Lucija shuffles closer and hugs her grandpa's arm. “I will do that, dida. I swear it! As soon as Mom and Dad let me.”
“I know you will. I hope I'll be there to see it.”
Thanks for reading. Part two is available here:
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If you want to check out more of my dystopian fiction, read Cuba 2099, a vision of Cuban life in the far future; after warming and beyond industrial civilization:
Or, The Silence of the World, the disturbing diary of the last man on earth:
Great story as always! I have purchased your fiction books but I haven’t read them yet! I’m excited to get to them though.
I am a podcaster with two podcasts a week. One of which is a storytelling and poetry show where I read fictional stories and poems for people. The name of the podcast is Crann Bethadh Stories and Poetry and I post an episode every Friday. This is such a good climate story that I would like to read it and the subsequent chapters to my audience, what few they are so far. Up until now, I have been drawing from writers on Medium.com becuse I couldn't find any storytellers on Substack but you have changed that here. I am willing to support your work if you plan on writing more stories like this. Let me know what you think.