A darn good place to be

When the days are clear and I find myself on the way to Anchorage, the view of Pioneer Peak and Twin Peaks from the flats is absolutely, ridiculously, spectacular. The abruptness with which those two mountains erupt some 6,000 feet upwards from the Valley floor is absurd, and I can’t recall seeing two finer looking mountains anywhere that I have traveled.

Growing up, it seemed to be some masochistic rite of passage to climb them (along with Matanuska Peak) and I vividly recall the fear I had when following the ridgeline up to the summit of Pioneer Peak. The Chugach Range seems to be entirely comprised of crumbly, untrustworthy rock and that, coupled with my propensity to fall down periodically without reason, made for some harrowing ascents. Additionally, our gear lists usually were rich in clothing made from cotton, and the small amounts of liquids and candy packed into our school backpacks provided little comfort. Since then, I have ascended a number of mountains across the planet, but whenever I come home I am astonished that it is these peaks on which locals cut their teeth.

I had the opportunity the other day to see ski guide/local legend Joe Stock give a talk to the Mountaineering Club of Alaska. He introduced a notion that he dubbed the “Alaska factor” (also the title of his excellent backcountry skiing guidebook) that basically notes that things are bigger here. More epic and extreme — whether we like it or not.

As I sit here writing this, the burly Valley winds are blowing hard, and as my house strains to stay upright I can almost feel it nodding in agreement. Alaska is not a land of moderation. When the wind blows, it blows hard enough to knock you down and throw empty garbage cans at you. When it rains, it goes on for days on end and a cold, gray chill seems to envelop the state. When it is sunny, the sun shines brighter than seemingly possible, and when the sun decides to go away there is no telling when we will see it next. Mountains are steeper, rivers are wilder, politicians are crazier. The list goes on.

This, of course, leads to some interesting things. It leads to people, for instance, like the aforementioned Mr. Stock, who revel in the hugeness that is Alaska and push things harder than they might if they lived elsewhere. The man has skied a chute on the north face of the West Twin Peak for goodness sake. That’s just crazy, and probably loads of fun if you have the skill to do it.

The mushers of the recently finished Iditarod are fine examples of this as well. Traveling nearly 1,000 miles while being pulled by dogs is probably enough to get you committed in certain places. I grew up thinking that this was a normal thing to do, but it really, really isn’t. It is awesome. It is bigger and longer and tougher than what people in most other places do for fun. Even the Iditarod-inspired Iron Dog is ridiculous in its fortitude.

And this, I believe, is one of the principal ideas that makes Alaska an incredible place to live. You don’t need excuses to go big or to tackle the bizarre. In certain cases, you don’t even need skill. You simply need to be willing to endure more, to push yourself closer to the edge of inappropriateness, a line undoubtedly determined by people not from Alaska. I love that about this place. What other people might view as reckless, most Alaskans see as normal, which, I believe, enables folks up here to squeeze a bit more out of life, to pack a little more into our laps around the sun.

We might complain about the extremes (seriously, when is this wind going to stop), but it is the extremes that make Alaska Alaska and those who live here Alaskan. I understand now that this mountain climbing rite of passage I unskillfully endured was an introduction to this idea — a welcoming of the notion that bigger can indeed be better, and that sometimes enduring extreme hardship can bring your body and mind to places unimaginable. And aside from the crazy politicians, that is a darn good place to be.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.