When I suggested a hike as our Saturday activity, I had no idea of the trap I'd walked into.
"Sure," said Andrew casually over a plate of chicken fried steak at Jackie's Place. "We can hike Flat Top, but there may be snow at the very top."
In anticipation of the variable conditions, we stopped at REI to buy hiking boots. In usual form, I prevaricated for 20 minutes between "day hikers" and more sturdy boots. The sturdy ones would take awhile to break in, but they felt more reassuring. The day hikers were a better deal. The sturdy ones looked nicer.
"We aren't exactly climbing Mt. McKinley," Andrew urged impatiently in favor of the cheap ones (he - of course - had found his boots in 5 minutes).
I submitted, made my purchase, and one pair of modest hiking boots later, we arrived at the base of Flat Top Mountain, located in the mountainous Chugach State Park, slightly east of Anchorage.
"Is it that one," I asked, struggling with the zipper on my windbreaker and motioning to a semi-flat mountain in the near distance?
"No, it's that one," Andrew scoffed, pointing to a snow covered, cloud obscured, enormous mountain. I sensed his thinly veiled glee in light of my pathetic guess.
"Oh," I quipped, feigning confidence. No big deal. Really.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I knew I was in trouble after 3 minutes of hiking. Maybe 4 minutes. You know that gentle glide upwards at the beginning of a hike? It was no where to be found. There was a vertical trail, beginning with stairs, that sprung up like a middle finger from the Chugach parking lot.
To make matters worse, I quickly realized that my boyfriend was a mountain goat. A very self-satisfied mountain goat.
It reminded me of hiking with my parents as a young child: I would race up the mountain proclaiming the ease of this minor feat regardless of my internal anguish, all the while they huffed painfully 15 yards behind me. Only this time, Andrew was the asshole and I was my parents.
"Is there an altitude change," I sputtered?
"Nope," Andrew smiled.
I could feel the breakfast omelette looming in my chest.
To my relief, park services had graciously erected wooden stairs in the steepest portion of the trail, about a mile and a half up. I was about to make mention of their glory, at least in my prayers if not aloud, when Andrew laughed:
"God. I can't believe they put in STAIRS here. It's so annoying! Is it even necessary?"
I indicated my disagreement with hysterical coughing. In the course of our hike, my once dwindling runny nose had evolved to class 5 influenza. I blew my nose into my glove in disgust.
At first, the once-helpful wooden stairs were barely coated in a lick of ice. It may have been the perfect storm for an inaugural broken bone, but I didn't fear for my life. Now half way up, glancing behind my shoulder, I suddenly felt the weight of Flat Top. We were seriously high up, almost 3,000 feet in the air, the snow was accumulating and I was one clumsy footfall away from disaster.
"Do they close this trail in the winter," I gasped?
"Nope." Andrew's tone had turned supportive, in light of my genuine fear. Nevertheless, I could barely hear him, 20 yards in front of me.
Upon reaching the second saddle, my mouth dropped. We were literally in the clouds. It was freezing and all icy glaze had turned to powder. Our "trail" was now reduced to a series of deep footprints in the snow. I could tell by Andrew's body language that the "moderate hike" was still on course.
I enviously glanced over at a few people idling on logs at the summit. What WERE they doing? Oh... great.
"Andrew, those people are putting ice-pick-thingys on their hiking boots," I whined nervously!
"It's unnecessary," he mumbled under his breath, trying not to offend the well-equipt mountaineers.
This too reminded me of a former experience in my life:
My sister Alia and I were visiting our cousins on Guernsey Island, in the British Channel Islands, when they had convinced us to go swimming in the Celtic Sea. Worried that it would be freezing, my sister and I questioned whether our skimpy French bikinis would be adequate.
"Oh no," our cousins assured us. "Everyone goes swimming in just their swimsuits!"
However upon arriving at the beach, we were indeed the only two in swimsuits. Instead, everyone stared at us drop-jawed, as they donned full-body wetsuits and face masks.
"Are you SURE we don't need those ice pick things," I begged Andrew? "I see people with poles!"
He assured me that our new hiking boots would suffice.
Needless to say, 40 treacherous minutes later while surrounded by heavy snow and patches of slippery, worn ice, I was unconvinced. And finally, almost 20 vertical yards from Flat Top, I relented. I let the mountain win. I was just too scared, the snow was too thick.
Andrew finished the hike without me. While he was glad to have completed it, he comforted me by saying that I "had made the right decision." In accordance, multiple hikers warned us in passing that the top was dangerous.
On the course of our descent, we ran into a woman I had observed at the second saddle applying cramp-ons and holding ski poles.
"How is it up there," she asked breathlessly?
"A little hairy at the top," Andrew replied. "More difficult to get down than up."
She looked back at him with surprise.
"You made it ALL the way? In just hiking boots?!"
"Not me," I admitted. "I almost got there, but couldn't go any further. It wasn't worth the potential injury. I just moved here from Manhattan..." I smiled sheepishly.
"Hey," she responded earnestly, "it's just as hard to get near the top and realize you need to stop. Maybe harder than getting to the top because pride is very powerful. So in my mind, you made it to the top."
She smiled back at me, red curly hair flying in her face and creeping out of her snow hat.
Her response made me warm. Alaskans may be a little crazy calling a vertical death climb a "moderate hike," but they are good people. I would have never gotten parental encouragement from a stranger in New York.
And so, in summary, I am very happy to be here.
Especially HERE - uninjured, on the couch, at my computer, in a well-heated home :)
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