Waist-deep soaked, cradled by a dozen arms, the last glacier offers to mankind’s final few crackling gasps and shuddering groans. “What will I do without you?” I plead. Bowed heads in remorse, there’s no one to answer. I take to knees, brush through waves. Shards of ice pile together gently rocking, days of canyon-carving and shore-shaping past. “We can still make this work. We can still make this work.”