Just before I touch the floatplane down on the mirrored glacial lake in the towering Chugach Mountains, the boundary between sky and water disappears. Moments earlier I had my last visual reference (or LVR — pilots love acronyms): the last point at which I had depth perception and could tell what was land and water, and what was sky. The reflection in the lake is so perfect that it becomes impossible to discern the surface.
Even in a gusty, windy landing, a pilot can at least tell his height above the ground and when the wheels or floats will touch. Not so on glassy water. Everything feels secure and peaceful when there’s not a breath of wind to ripple the surface or stir the needles of the golden larches. But the stillness is exactly what makes it dangerous.
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