Vertical shafts lead deep inside the glacier. At one point, there is rock, but nobody has gone that far yet.

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Walking inside a glacier was considered taboo for a long time – it was simply too dangerous. Today, still, it is not exactly a popular activity. Polish researchers made their first observations in 1990, when they explored the inside of glaciers in Spitzbergen [Norway] that posed a manageable risk. The climate of the Arctic winter is ideal; the persistent cold penetrates into the glacier and makes everything freeze. The winters in latitudes around Switzerland are a lot less predictable: temperature fluctuations can happen even at high altitudes, resulting in the accumulation of glacial water. This is part of the reason why there has been very little ice cave exploration in the Alps.



After these first explorations, other international teams followed suit and started to dig into glaciers in the Arctic and the Himalayas. But no matter how spectacular their observations were, they met with scant interest from the world of science. Instead, ice cave research was regarded an adventure. The Scottish glaciologist Doug Benn is a man who certainly does not agree with this. He has studied glacial lakes in the Himalayas for many years and has always wondered why they continually drained. Benn found the answers to his questions underground, when he realised that the water was doing exactly what it was doing inside rocks: making its way through the weak points of the glacier. However, while it takes millions of years inside a rock, it happens relatively quickly in the ice. In the space of a single summer, drainage channels can form, before closing again in the winter.



Of course, many questions remain, but finding the answers is becoming an increasingly pressing issue. If glaciers continue to melt in the coming years, immense quantities of water will be released. Bursting glacial lakes and tidal waves thundering down into valleys below can pose a threat to entire regions. “Entering a glacier is the only way to understand these complex processes. It gives us the opportunity to discard and reconsider simplified theories of the water supply,” Benn says. “Most glaciologists still consider it far too crazy, even though most accidents happen with tourists walking along the snout of a glacier, where masses of ice come thundering down, especially in the summer.” In winter, the ice is relatively stable.



Suddenly, we see a fly frozen in the ground. This discovery is not only a reminder that once a glacier has captured something, it does not give it away readily; it is also an indication that the flat ground we are standing on is actually frozen stagnant water. We are now 70 metres below the surface. The lower we go, the higher the tension. What would happen if – for whatever reason – one of the narrow corridors behind us collapsed is unthinkable. We would most likely end up like the fly. However, the ice is as bombproof as a brick wall, and it does not give the impression that it wants to trap us. “The biggest danger is the water anyway,” Hervé says. He seems to notice that our silence is not solely down to fatigue. “You can also find water down here in winter. We are lucky this year: due to the dry autumn, the water has trickled farther down. A sudden rise in the water level would be dangerous.” There is no indication that this could happen. It seems as if everything stands still: the water, the ice, time. If we didn’t know any better, we would think this was some form of eternity.



This is where we stop our first excursion, even though we are still far from the lowest point. We could continue for another 150 metres over some more stages. Neither Fred nor Hervé have ever been beyond this point, which means it would also be new ground for them. However, the long return leg would keep us busy for the rest of the day, and when we get back to the surface, the sun has long disappeared behind the mountains. The flat glows in the faint light of the stars.







