I've always dreamed of climbing the great mountains of the world.

To stand at a peak and see the earth curving away from me into the clouds... to see the same sky but a different country under my feet; the same self, but a different wind pushing me further.

I also know that I am hella unequipped to do so — years of training, of preparation, and of planning go into the extreme summits. Someday, that might be me. But for now, I respect the mountains, and scramble up the small ones. Ogle the big ones. And on this particular day, charter a rickety bush plane and fly directly at the MASSIVE one.

Early on a fall morning, we rumbled down a broken chunk of road in the middle of Denali preserve. One of my calves went numb almost instantly (a nice little hole in the door of the plane, OH GOOD) and the engine under my ass was burning exactly one square foot of me. Exactly one square foot, and definitely not any more THANK YOU VERY MUCH. The sun was rising as we passed through the dirt foothills of the Kahiltna range (a post for another day) on the way towards the highest mountain peak in North America. This was a good sign... we got off the ground, the air was clear, and we could see the sun brightening over the glacier. My landing looked like it was close at hand.

So here's a thing I learned about Denali; she gives no fucks about what you want.

In fact, the mountain is so tall, it forms its own weather systems. You can have a clear sunny day, and there will be a fat cloud sitting rightthere, obscuring what is essentially the largest thing on that side of the planet. As we approached, the pilot pointed forwards, and simply said, "well, shit."

What you see there (or more accurately, don't) is a 20,000 foot tall mountain. Except that it was steadily disappearing — and the fog creeping down the Kahiltna glacier was taking my landing hopes with it. I will admit, there is a slight chance that a single sad tear found its way down my face. (Just the one, mind you, because I am A Tough Broad™) In all truthfulness, it was soul crushing. I just wanted to put my feet on history; feel the struggle to pull the air into my lungs and contemplate the utter smallness of my being. My pilot tried his best. He flipped off our tracker, turned off his radio, and he turned directly into the mountainside, just to show me how impossible the impossible was, without letting his boss know the danger he might be putting us in.

"Every fibre of my being knows that one of the deadliest mountains of the world is right in front of us. I'm sorry, but we just can't."

And so, despite a week of waiting for the right time to even get off the ground, Denali eluded me. It was a low point — I felt like I could just drop out of the plane and it would be fine; those puffy depths would catch me, cradle me, let me sink slowly into a dreamscape that I desperately longed for. It was the central point of me coming to Alaska, to taking the train into the preserve, to finding out what it would mean to me to stand on that great mountain.

But that's okay. We keep going.

The Kahiltna approach spread incredible scenery below me as we turned back. I watched the snow recede and the brilliant autumn colours — turning fast enough that they had changed since we left — through misty eyes. As I looked back towards the mountain, the glacier reappeared briefly. An incredible tangle of fractal-like swirls of ice, framing the perfect landing strip... and then it was gone. I think I learned gratitude that day. The mountain is still there. My dreams are still large. I experienced a sense of vastness and beauty, and many won't ever see it in the way I did again. The landscape is always changing. The weather is fickle. And I am alive.

I'll set foot on you yet.

 

All of these photos are my own, taken on my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them.