Reflection at 3,500 feet
Living in Alaska has its advantages...and its disadvantages. Wildlife, pristine landscapes, and the allure of the Last Frontier—all advantages. But like most transplants that have moved to Alaska, family is far away. That became very apparent several years ago.
I try and talk to my parents at least once or twice a week. Typically, I give them a ring after work as I'm trying to meander through traffic on the Glenn Highway. 50,000 cars on a 2-lane highway all trying to make it home before the next episode of the Voice. Several years ago, however, I received a phone call from my mother on the way home that forever changed my family. My uncle, mom's brother, had fallen in his house and was in critical condition. This was one of those times living in Alaska that proved disadvantageous.
I didn't know what to do. Go home? Pray? There wasn't a right answer for me at the time—that is until my brother came up with an idea. He suggested that each of us kids and family members create a video from a place that meant something to us where we could wish our uncle the very best. Finally, I thought...this was something that I could do. Melodie, my wife, and I grabbed our camera and went to a spot that we thought would honor my uncle in the best way we could.
Arctic Valley road is about 10 miles from the city of Anchorage. It gains in elevation as it snakes through alder and cottonwood saplings. A dirt road maintained and patrolled by the Joint Base Elemendorf/Fort Richardson military personnel, this stretch of land is not for fancy cars or those that get car sick. Bumpy, dusty, and long, the end of Arctic Valley road, however, boasts incredible views of Turnagin Arm, Mt. Susitna, the Eagle River Valley, and Southcentral Alaska's oldest ski area. A ski tow built in the 1930's has now developed into one of Anchorage's quietest gems for alpine skiing. Opposite to the ski lifts atop of Mount Gordon Lyon are the eerie remnants of a military outpost built during the Cold War. Five Nike missile silos rest atop a vantage point that one can see for miles. It was this panoramic view of Southcentral Alaska that we wanted to shoot our video. My uncle got a chance to see a part of Alaska that he had never seen, the girl I was going to marry, and a spot geographically that would become an important part of my life.
Fast forward to the present. Two weeks ago, I received another such phone call. This time it was my aunt, my mom's sister.
Cancer has a way of temporarily paralyzing a family. It pervades thoughts and emotions, always continuing to shock the system. Breast cancer especially has a way to bite the nerves like an annoying mosquito chomping at your ankles. Our family is too familiar with that pesky mosquito, and man oh man do I wish I had a hand quick enough to slap it before it bites.
But one thing that my family is good at is deflecting negative energy into that of positive action. Call it positive deviance and no matter what, our family sticks together and provides a support network of love, hope, and inevitably the will and determination to fight.
I saw Mount Gordon Lyon calling my name to make another trek of solemn reflection and meditation. Armed this time with my camera, my dog, and a gut that now extends a little too much over my waistband, I knew that this hike was going to be painful. Because I chose the day that my aunt went into surgery, the pain was something that I wanted to feel—to feel alive, to feel something that in my own way could compare to what my aunt was going through. I needed my breath to be short, my calves to cramp at every step, and my quads turn to jello on the descent.
My hopes were high, about as high as the mountain I was about to arduously amble up.
I'm not going to lie...I wish I hiked up that mountain 4 years ago or at least 30 pounds lighter. At about 300 feet into my climb my calves decided to scream at me with violent profanities causing me to stop for a bit an look up at the summit with incredible disappointment. Was I going to make it?
To deflate my confidence even further, as I was resting, a man about 70 years old or so not only lapped me but for the rest of the hike up, I was eating his dust. Talk about embarrassing. My legs hurt, my breathing sounded like Darth Vader, and now my confidence was shot to shit. Coupled with my dog Umbro running up and down the mountain like a dainty mountain goat, I felt like giving up.
Then my phone vibrated (yep...still reception). I quickly checked the text message, and my mom said my aunt entered surgery. All of a sudden, everything that hindered my ascent became fuel to achieve this milestone, if not for me, but for her and my family.
When I reached the summit, I was tired but it felt good. Scrambling along the rocks, I found the spot where my wife and I recorded our video for my uncle. I set up my camera with my long exposure equipment and waited for the clouds to billow over the Chugach mountains. Umbro busily chased after the ground squirrels taunting him with their underground tunnels. And I sat. I sat for a while despite how windy it was (like 40 knots windy).
With the long exposure set up on my camera, a Lee Filter system with a Big Stopper, I was able to capture the movement of the clouds. Although I could only stop my camera down to a 30-second exposure at f22, it was windy enough to spread the cumulus clouds in a wispy motion. The photograph felt dramatic, felt hopeful, and also despite all the cragginess of the mountains, felt soft and caring. This was how I felt both times when such terrible news hit our family. Sitting on top of a mountain facing an entire mountain range, I felt that our family could achieve anything. That was what I wanted to experience when my aunt was in surgery and be able to tell her when she recovered.
Grabbing my things, it was time to head down the mountain. My leg vibrated a second time, although with my legs wobbling about, it was hard to tell it was my phone. My lovely, pregnant wife was asking me to pick up some ice cream on the way home. I couldn't be more happier. Well, maybe Umbro was happier.
At every snow patch, he would get a running start and then bound into the snow leaving a snow angel imprint more befitting of a dog. These photographs are the result of this trek.
Dedicated to my aunt—the toughest Gemini I know.