A completely new view of a familiar scene atop Matanuska Peak

I finally made it up to the top of 6,119-foot Matanuska Peak.

This might be a given for some people. There's a trail up there and the peak is pointy and sticks out on the horizon, towering over the town of Palmer, therefore it must be climbed. For me, the way up a mountain like that still seems almost impossible, particularly when I'm standing on flat ground looking up.

Driving the 10 minutes from the trailhead back to my house, I reflected on the many things that came together to make this happen.

When I first got into backpacking when I lived back east, it required a lot of driving. As a teenager I thought it was a lot of effort to pack my bag, load myself into the van and try not to eat all of my trail mix en route to the trailhead.

But in retrospect, the logistics of those school trips are sobering.

All of the responsibility fell on the adults. It was my job, along with my peers, to loudly complain and declare the need to use the bathroom five minutes into the trip. Someone didn't bring suitable pants, despite the repeated gear checks, and we had to stop at a sporting goods store. Another kid got homesick and disguised it with fake-actual-sick.

Still, I secretly enjoyed the schlep several hours north and back. The anticipation and nervousness on the way, and the tired triumph heading back home, were part of the ordeal of backpacking.

In Alaska, I still find myself disoriented by the accessibility of backpacking opportunities. On my way to a trailhead, I have this slight tinge of disappointment that the drive isn't longer. It seems to cut out part of the experience that I still associate with long backpacking trips.

On a practical level, a huge part of the reason I chose to make Alaska my home was accessibility of the mountains. I distinctly remember sitting atop Juneau's Mount Roberts during my first trip to Alaska, taking in the 360-degree view with mountains, water and ice as far as I could see, and breathing out, "New Hampshire, you've got nothing on this."

I'm not a peak-bagger by nature. I know people who will doggedly hike themselves into the ground by getting as high up as possible, knees be damned. For some, the goal is to stand atop the tallest thing possible.

For me, I love being outside and working, but I am all too keenly aware when I start pushing myself over an edge. This is a feature of self preservation as much as it's a personality flaw. I've frequently been close to achieving a goal — like reaching a mountaintop – only to say, you know what, I'm good.

Even for the hike up Mat Peak, we weren't dead set on reaching the top at the outset. Four of us decided to go for a quick overnight trip in our amazing backyard. We left late in the afternoon on a Saturday and made it up to the base of Mat Peak by early evening.

As we hiked, we casually discussed attempting the peak the next day. When we settled into camp, the plan coalesced. I went to sleep feeling the same sense of excitement and nervousness I had on those van rides to New Hampshire.

In the morning we packed lunches and started walking up. We didn't stop walking up. A defining feature of many Alaska trails is that they are straight to the point: no switchbacks, no meanders. If the goal is to make it to the peak, the trail expedites point A to point B so that my legs shake, but there is no time or distance lost on the way.

Toward the top of this particular climb, as talus underfoot wobbled and loose rock clattered below and behind me, I thought about the Matanuska Peak Challenge that takes place every summer. This year's race was particularly hot, and many runners were dehydrated by the time they reached the top of Mat Peak — still with one more lap up Lazy Mountain to go before heading down.

The word "crazy" went through my head more than once, and I took one careful and deliberate step at a time as I told myself not to fall off the mountain. Snow started to appear in the cracks between boulders. I didn't think about turning back this time. I wanted to be at the very top of this peak that I gawk at from the ground every day.

The amazing thing about getting to the top of a mountain is how quickly and dramatically the
entire view clarifies into a perspective I've never seen before. It's a tilt of my world to see completely new valleys and scenes.

The mountains behind Mat Peak reminded me of what I'd seen that first time in Juneau, going back and back until I couldn't see any more. Then, in front of me, I could see what was familiar, but from a completely new perspective — this time from the top looking all the way down, instead of from the Fred Meyer parking lot looking up.

It was windy and cold. It felt sharper in many ways, sitting in a cluster of boulders that form the jagged peak, with all that freezing air reminding me it was a different season up high than down in the Valley.

There is part of me that misses the long drive that creates a feeling of "away" when I head outside. But living here, where the mountains are so accessible, I am able to experience the contrast between what is everyday and what is completely new. Walking up into different perspectives makes me feel like I'm both away and at home at the same time. That novelty is part of what keeps me here, inspired to do more.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays thoughout Southcentral.