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I pulled into the trailhead parking lot and almost laughed at its utter barren-ness. All summer long this lot is packed with day hikers and sightseers who can get atop a significant overlook in a few hours and still be back in time to dress up for dinner downtown. But it was definitely not summer anymore. The termination dust had come and gone several times, and over the weekend it seemed to have retreated to the four thousand foot line. It was perfect. Not only would the muck along the trail that parallels the river be frozen, but the surrounding peaks seemed even more imposing than usual as the rocks protruded from the snowy background all the way to the top. The vast array of salt and peppered peaks towering four and five thousand feet above brought to mind any number of panoramic postcards from around the world. This one, however, was in my back yard.
I grabbed my pack and zipped up tight, wondering just how many degrees cooler it would be on the top of my ultimate goal, O'Malley Peak. Away from the safety of the truck, I began to consider the possibility that the bears hadn't turned in for the winter yet. Before I had time to even start my bear chants, I stumbled onto the other animal that sits higher on the proverbial food chain than I. Four giant creatures stood grazing in the wide open valley of Powerline Pass. The two Bull Moose had beautiful antlers, making their cartoon like appearance even more pronounced. I knew these animals were very real though, and I altered my path to give them plenty of room.
The first ridge line I needed to cross loomed up ahead; the barren Alder patches brown and grey against the green blueberry bushes marked where I didn't want to hike. To get caught in an Alaskan Alder thicket is a special kind of hiker's purgatory. Slowly I pressed up a decent incline, high-stepping over bushes at first, then finally coming across a trail switching back and forth over the ridge. On top, the bushes turned to rock and the rock very quickly to snow. Only a few inches deep, yet the first steps through the elegant white powder each year always hold a special meaning. Buried deep within every northerner's mind is a slideshow of snow scenes: sledding, skiing, snow shoeing, skating, snow ball fights, and snowmen. No matter how many times I've scraped my windows, almost crashed my car, or shoveled my drive, the snow's first embrace only brings joy. With the possible exception of that sudden erratic tug at the end of a fishing pole, no pleasure transcends and binds the young and the old like snow.
In front of me lay a broad plateau, three or four times as long as it was wide. A very pleasant walk ensued as I traversed what is known as the Football Field. The ridge line to my right rose and fell in several beautiful peaks of snow and rock, while the ridge to my left curved gently up and over to a steep cliff down on the far side. At the end of the Field, O'Malley Peak rose dramatically to the sky, not unlike the goal post or maybe the seats and roof of a half-covered stadium. More than once I wondered if this was a good idea or not.
The southeasterly wind had seemingly subsided as I traversed the northern base of Little O'Malley and False Peak, but as I approached the base of big O'Malley the gusts picked up. After a snack break to ensure my blood sugar was up to the task, I began my final ascent.
Roughly a thousand feet of loose rock, snow, and hand over hand bouldering lay between me and my goal: five thousand one hundred feet O'Malley Peak; the tallest peak easily seen from my stomping grounds of South Anchorage. I started up, negotiating the steep slope as gracefully as I could but huffing, puffing and sliding more often than not. Like a dragon protecting his lair, the wind blew harder and harder from directly over the top of the peak. It whirled and swirled and made the pitch that much more treacherous. I contemplated leaving my backpack so the wind wouldn't have as much surface area to contact, but I knew if I got blown off the slope I would want my survival gear with me.
Finally I crested what I thought would be the top, and I was rewarded with a huge flat outcropping that offered a panoramic view of Anchorage, the surrounding peaks, and the wicked trail I'd just come up. I was elated. I sat down, drank some Gatorade, and admired the view.
After a few minutes though, something seemed amiss. When I looked straight down, I saw a large sink hole with steep sides that my map said was Deep Lake. The only problem was that it was off to the right when it should have been straight down from O'Malley Peak. After consulting my trusty GPS, I discovered I was only at four thousand seven hundred feet. I still had four hundred feet to go.
After looking around more, I realized that what I thought was Hidden Lake Peak was actually O'Malley, and I still had some trekking to do. However, I was tired, cold, and the peak looked un-climbable from this side without ropes. I knew as a solo hiker that risks needed to be carefully considered, there was no one around to call for help when I broke my leg or fell unconscious. Did I really need to touch the top to claim success?
I agonized over that question. I'm not a diehard "peak bagger" as those who will do whatever it takes to reach the top are called. Yet I do like to achieve the goal I set out for, and the view from the top is, well, the best. So my dilemma remained. How much was I willing to risk making it to the top?
I scoured my map; I paced back and forth on the outcropping looking for the access route. I knew that it was there, this was hardly a remote peak. But I saw no obvious path and the wind was beginning to bring a low cloud cover from the south. I needed to make a decision.
I grabbed my backpack and decided I would give it one shot. The slope I had come up continued to the right of the steep rocks I was sure I couldn't get up. I would crest the ridge there and see if the back side of O'Malley was as treacherous as the front. If so, I'd call it a day and head for home.
So off I went, holding carefully to the big rocks and trying to keep the wind from pushing me over. Just cresting the ridge was awe inspiring. Another entire valley opened up behind O'Malley. I could see Powerline Pass, Hidden Lake, The Ramp, The Wedge, all sorts of places that I'd been before but never seen from a bird's eye view. To my delight, there was a well-worn path up the back side of the mountain and I was able to quite easily reach the five thousand one hundred foot mark.
Yet the question remained: would it have been a failure had I not made it? Would I have enjoyed the moose, the snow, the views, or the exercise any less? Would my interaction with the mountain have been any less profound? Of course not. Would my pictures from the ledge have been inauthentic? I don't think so. So I was left with the notion, as I made my way back down, that the last four hundred feet were not about experience but ego. I could not in good conscience tell J.R. that I had made O'Malley without reaching the peak, nor could I be proud of myself in accomplishing the goal. One must always be conscious of one's motivations when battling Mother Nature.
Yet, in everyday life how often does ego make us press on, despite the obvious risks? How many times have I not asked for help, bull-headedly stuck to my plan even though I knew it wasn't the best, or simply refused to say I'm sorry? Unfortunately, more times than I'd like to count. Proverbs tells us that "pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before stumbling. (Proverbs 16:18). Nowhere does stumbling to destruction take on a clearer meaning than when trying to impose one's will on a five thousand one hundred foot peak in the magnificence of Alaska.
Half way down, the snow began to fall as those clouds finally made it over my head. Down the mountain and across the river I passed the first sign on the trailhead pointing hikers in the right direction. The burn in my legs and the soreness in my back reminded me that there was no way I could hike that again today. But the memories from above the tree line reminded me that there was no way I could stay away too long.
It had been a wonderful day, a glorious last hike before crampons and snowshoes were required. And, after all the mountain had shared with me that day, those last four hundred feet felt a little selfish now.
| A former Air Force fighter pilot, Matt lived all over the US. In Alaska, he finally found a home where he could pursue his love for family, the outdoors, and flying all in the same place. Now flying for a major airline, Matt spends his off time being out-fished by his wife and trying to reveal to his three kids the wonderment of God through the miracle of His creation. This picture of Matt with a Lake Creek rainbow trout that he caught with a fly he tied. The picture is taken by Dave Dillman in August of 2006. |
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