Matanuska Peak - Achieving a Goal

Hey Tribe,

Have you ever finally accomplished a goal that had been looming over you and you weren’t completely confident you could actually achieve it?  The feeling is difficult to accurately describe, isn’t it?  Well, it happened to me this weekend as I checked another peak off the Must-Hike list! 

The magnificent Matanuska Peak is crazy steep, insanely beautiful, nearly always covered in snow, and can be seen from practically everywhere in the Valley, so, naturally, it was on the list.  It was on last year’s list too, but TheNurse and I could never find a decent day to tackle the peak – either it was rainy, or cloudy at the peak (no sense in climbing all the way up there to see fog), or snowy, so there simply never seemed to be a slightly decent day for the hike.  This summer, however, has been glorious for hiking, so TheNurse and I were easily able to choose a sunny Saturday to tackle the Dr. Seuss-like pointy peak of Matanuska.

The prominent mountain, once called Byers Peak, somehow had its name altered over the course of a decade to match the name of a glacier, a river, a variety of local businesses, and a geologic formation were Cretaceous fossils can be found: Matanuska.  Standing at 6,119ft, Matanuska Peak lords over the Matanuska-Susitna Valley; Pioneer Peak (6,398ft) is just to the south-east and the pair act like a royal king and queen of the valley.  Their presence can be felt from anywhere in the area and they command attention as shoppers traverse parking lots or motorists cruise the highway. 

Matanuska Peak far left and Pioneer Peak far right, as seen on my morning drive to work.

Depending on which trail a hiker chooses, the route is about 11 miles round trip.  Some people run up it (seriously, there’s a yearly race up and down the mighty mountain), but I knew I’d be slothing my way up and didn’t want to be in a rush, so I told TheNurse to be ready by 6:00am.  She mumbled something about being tired from her job in the operating room and wanting to sleep in, so I had compassion and told her I’d pick her up at 6:15am.  I’m a good friend like that.  All the information I had read about the hike said that it was a bad idea to bring dogs, because of rocks and sharp lichen that would cut paws and there was a general lack of drinking water.  So I experienced some inner debate: on one hand, I wanted to make it to the summit and didn’t want to have to turn back because of dog inconvenience and I didn’t want to risk Fly’s life from bleeding paws or a fall off of rocks, or dehydration, so I was not going to bring her – on the other hand I love having my ultimate hiking companion with me and there was a possibility of bear encounter, so I wanted to bring her.  In the end, I settled my self-debate by packing first aid supplies specific for bleeding, bottles of dog water, and decided that I would be ok with not summiting, that nobody else cared if I summited or not, and that having my main girl with me on a hike was better than any summit goal.  It turned out, I arrived at TheNurse’s house and found out she had decided to bring Kona, who came bounding up to the car, so I was in good company with my decision to bring Fly.

Mat Peak trail difficulty rating (screenshot from the previous link). 

Obligatory trailhead photo.

Sunshine streamed across the dew-laden grass and flowed through the birch trees, making the cool early morning a pleasure to experience.  The trail got right to business and we climbed through the not-yet warm forest of trees for a decent trek before bursting out onto a rolling grassy meadow.  Our destination looked so far away, but the trail to get there was gloriously inviting with an abundance of wildflowers perfuming the air and songbirds singing their morning melodies. 

Crazy happy face 

Though we could hear a creek to our right, we could not see it; the sound affirmed our ascent into the mountainous region, where snowfields were visible and from whence the creek originated.  We did come across a small stream that was easily jumped, and we spent a few minutes letting the pups drink their fill.  I was a bit worried about our water situation, even though both dogs were carrying their own 34oz of water in their dog packs.

Walking through wildflowers.

Getting water at every opportunity

Happy, pack-wearing pups!

Eventually, the trail gently climbed out of the trees and grasses and into the alpine.  I have to say, I think the alpine region is my favorite: the views are amazing, the flowers are tiny and saturated in color, and the hiking is usually a bit easier for me.

Heading for the tall peak!

Looking behind us, back down the trail.

We crossed the creek we had been hearing all morning and let the dogs revel in the cool wetness while TheNurse and I stood with wide eyes, gawking up at the steep slope we were about to ascend.  To take our minds off the intimidating peak, we refilled dog water bottles, though I was not worried about water anymore, knowing that Fly and Kona would be ok with our supply until we returned to this spot on the descent.

Sometimes you have to just sit in the water - peak slope behind Fly

Ready to cross and keep hiking!

  

Then, the real climb began.  Alaskan trails have a nasty habit of expediting a traveler’s route by getting straight to the point, with very little meandering or digression.  True, there were switchbacks, but they were miniscule, short, choppy, cruel things that still made us climb almost directly straight up the steep slope.  The ground was a mixture of tan dust and small aggregated gravel that slipped and slid unreliably under each carefully placed hiking boot’s step.  Many rest breaks were required.  Many.  The view down and away from the torturous peak, however, was marvelous and thus made the rest stops excusable. 

Headed up - actual summit not in sight from down here.

Fly waits for me to catch up on the switchback.

Practically straight up - TheNurse waits on the ridge.

By the time my legs had completely turned into jelly and I abandoned hope of ever being able to use them in the future, the steep terrain changed from dusty gravel and tundra to that of boulders and talus.  The angle of the slope seemed to get more acute, if that was even possible, and the mountain seemed to mock our pitiful attempt to summit.  Here, the trail practically disappeared.  It became a free-for-all boulder scramble, where each large rock that I hefted myself up and over seemed like a praiseworthy accomplishment.  Rock, after rock, after unending rock; not only were they covered in rough black lichen that scraped at my palms, but the cruel rocks moved unpredictably, causing us to be constantly off balance and in fear of tumbling down the 5,000ft of slope.  We tried to not climb directly in a line, so the loose rocks that did dislodge would not kill the unfortunate companion below the leader.  Kona was not as considerate and would kick or jump off rocks which would then invariably plummet directly toward us, adding to our struggle experience.

The talus

She's good on the rocks.

Not a shabby view. 

Looking at what we've accomplished thus far.

The most magnificent photo of Kona I have ever captured.

Markers acted like a connect the dots trail climb - we would look up, find a marker, climb to it, repeat.

We had one serious scare.  When we reached the top snowfield that fed the creek we had crossed and was now so far below us, naturally Fly and Kona headed for it and merrily gulped mouthfuls of snow and rolled and frolicked about in the cool remains of winter.  The incline was steep and the snow was rotten, so it did not hold Kona’s weight: she began to slide, face first, quickly down toward the edge of the rocky cliff.  Try as she might, she could not get traction, and ineffectively scrabbled at the mushy snow.  TheNurse, seeing her fur baby in imminent danger, let out a horrified scream and uselessly called for the desperate Newfoundland - I could see that it would only cause Kona to panic, so I unkindly told her to hush.  Immediately and without hesitation, TheNurse was able to swallow both her half uttered syllable and her outward terror; Kona focused her movements in order to rotate so she was glissading bottom first toward the precipice, allowing her claws to gain purchase in the soggy snow, and arrest her slide.  Shakily, we were all reunited and took a moment’s rest to recover from the experience and file a “DO NOT LET THE DOGS NEAR SLOPE SNOW EVER AGAIN” mental note.

Steep snow

Keep them on the rocks.

Then, the climbing resumed.  It was difficult to determine where the summit was, because of the sharp angle, all we could see whilst looking upward were unending rocks, until, suddenly, there weren’t any more rocks and we were standing on the narrow summit!  It was one of the most dramatic summits I have ever experienced - second only to the very pointy Wolverine Peak.  I actually cried with joy (and relief) as I hugged TheNurse and exclaimed, “We did it!”

Our happy group.

Reaching the peak was something I had desired for a long time.  6,119ft is very intimidating from my view of it while standing at the end of my driveway; it was intimidating from halfway up it; it was possible I would have to turn back because of injury or inaccessibility for Fly.  I wanted it, desperately, but wasn’t certain I would be able to achieve it - so to finally gain my goal was such a sweet, emotional, personal accomplishment.

It isn't the summit unless there's a flag!  Tiny American flag anchored by some rocks.

Standing up at the top, with the sides of the mountain dramatically dropping away in all directions was vertigo inducing and I had to sit down almost immediately, not from exhaustion, but truly because the height made me dizzy.  Mountains layered behind mountains into eternity on three sides of us and the Mat-Su valley spread out before us on the fourth side, like a familiar quilt wrapped at my tired feet.

Mountains as far as the eye can see.

Fly checks out the valley view.

TheNurse

Post summit snack celebrations and photo-ops, we began our descent more out of necessity rather than desire: there isn’t a lot of space at the top of the enormous mountain and we needed to make room for the hikers who were just then crawling their way up the last few boulders.  We congratulated them, assured them it was indeed the summit, and then carefully picked our way down the rocks we had so recently struggled to ascend.  Navigating down the rocks proved equally challenging and while Fly was able nimbly to hop from boulder to boulder as I gingerly lowered myself to sitting positions on each rock to step down to the next one, poor Kona suddenly remembered she was afraid of heights.  TheNurse patiently directed the hesitant dog down each rock, giving positive affirmations at every move.  It was slow going.

Fly watches other hikers crawling up the rocks.

She's good at rock hopping.

Though, occasionally she wanted me to lift her down off a boulder.

We take a break.

Having them carry their own treats, water, and bowls was awesome!

Reaching the tundra and moving away from the talus was like being set free from a prison and we laughed with glee at what we thought was easier traveling – only then to remember (and experience, yet again) the vindictive gravel/dust combination that caused us several falls and back-wrenching slips as we made our way back down to the stream.

Fly must bark at the climbers above us now.

Looking back at what we just descended.

Rejuvenated by the stream and the remainder of our moose sausage and smoked sharp cheese snack, we merrily traipsed our way through the rolling alpine slope that was carpeted with dogwood flowers.

Happy to be cool once again!

Young bull moose.

Kona took a turn as leader, but stopped in the shade and wouldn't proceed.

Fly lead us the rest of the way through the meadow.

The day had grown hot at the lower elevations and we were all relieved to reach the tiny stream that delineated the open meadow from the woods.  Once in the woods, it was a cooler journey back along the trail.  Fly alerted us to the passing presence of a bear that had intersected our trail not too long before we had arrived – the grasses were still slightly bent and the bear scent was powerful to Fly’s genetically attuned nose.  Her reaction to the scent was unmistakable and I was once again reminded why I love her breed. 

The face you make when you have brain freeze.

Sweet, cooling water.

She's a keeper.

The rest of the hike was uneventful and we gratefully, though not very gracefully, flopped into my car, congratulating each other once again on our triumph.