A cold wind comes off the Gulf and hits first at the harbor—sharp, bracing, honest. You step out of Harbor 360 with a steaming cup in hand and the town still half-asleep; mountains loom to the north, their ridgelines carved by ice. By mid-morning you’re strapped into insulated coveralls, helmet fog clearing, and the snowmobile shudders into life, its rumble cutting through the hush. Ahead, a trail of spruce and snow leads toward Exit Glacier, white and opaque except where the ice shows blue and dangerous. The guide points to a notch on the ridge, counts the knots in a sailor’s cadence, and you move out—one machine, then another—across terrain that refuses to be ordinary.