Saturday, 6 April 2019 // At 10AM, we drove up the mountain toward the Flattop trailhead. The higher we drove, the whiter the ground became. Months of winter had us dressed for the occasion. In Alaska, it’s always safe to assume it’s going to be colder than you expect.
Start of the hike. Pictured: Jesse Rosenstein (@jrosenstein). Leicaflex
We parked, oriented ourselves, and set foot. The valley before the mountain was mottled with patches of snow. Above and beyond the valley, the craggy peaks of Little O’Malley jutted out aggressively, taunting us. The valley was vast and offered a panoramic view of mountains I would never know the names of. The textures of spring striped the mountain faces.
After trekking through the valley, we made our ascent upward via the most direct route to the peaks, which involved hiking up a massive snowpack. We spent an hour or two trudging up the steep mountain face. One thing I’ve learned about hiking in Alaska is that it can feel like you’ve been hiking for an eternity while simultaneously having made no progress. This feeling is compounded when you’re surrounded by the endless whiteness of snow, and when the peak appears to be just right in front of you but somehow seems to keep advancing further and further away.
The higher up the mountain we got, the more useless our legs became, and the more the clouds enveloped the space around us. We soon became enshrouded in whiteness. We were the only two beings alive, practically non-existent outside of this – as isolated as two periods on an otherwise blank page. We kept moving upward as flecks of snow melted on our faces.
Slowly the illusion of singularity wore off, as the clouds passed by us. We began to catch glimpses of the ridgeline above us, and of the valley below. Seeing the earth underneath you after a tough hike is one of the most rewarding feelings there is, and can provide all the encouragement needed to make it to the top.
Finally, it appeared as though we were at the brink of the ridge. At this altitude, the snow was very hardened and ice-like. The last 30-feet to the ridge were guided by deep imprints in the snow from a previous hiker, and it looked like a cinch. My hiking partner followed in the footsteps with ease. I followed behind him confidently, until I reached the fifth boot-hole, which gave way and sent me sliding ten-feet down the mountain.
It was at this moment that I realized how easily I could have picked up speed and slid even further down. I suddenly felt as though I was on a giant waterslide with no water at the bottom, and I wanted to get off as soon as possible. Like the ground beneath me, I froze. The snow had hardened so gradually on our ascent, that I hadn’t noticed, and now I needed to devise a way to get to the top without sliding down the mountain.
Luckily, there was snowless ground 50-feet to the left of me – I would just have to get there carefully. I made my way to the snow-free dirt by digging into the snow one foothold at a time. There were some areas in the snow where I had to kick in with my boot multiple times for it to give in just a little bit, but every centimeter counted if it meant not sliding down the mountain. I crawled leftward like this for a good twenty to thirty minutes. In hindsight, it was pretty ridiculous, but in the moment I was truly terrified.
The jagged peaks of “Little” O’Malley. Leicaflex
Finally, I made it to the rocky edge and rejoined my friend on the ridge. Although I was now more alert and wary of the snow, the rest of the hike was a leisurely stroll. The peaks of the craggiest mountain viewable from Anchorage stood in front of us like obelisks.
The lone hiker. Leicaflex
Near the top, we ran into a lone hiker. He was more prepared than us, wearing mountaineering boots with metal spikes, and carrying an ice axe. He joined us to get closer to the jagged peak of O’Malley. The closer we got, the snowier and sketchier it became. I decided to stay back as they ventured even closer to the peak – I was still a little traumatized from my little snow adventure.
I sat down to meditate.
The feeling of stillness that can be felt while sitting alone at the top of a snowy mountain is maybe the goal of meditation after all.
Jesse and the lone hiker approaching me after venturing closer to the peaks. Fuji Pro 400, Fuji G690
Jesse posing for the gram. Fuji Pro 400, Fuji G690