Through the LENS: a perspective of heart…

The grueling course climbs 3,022 feet above sea level, followed by a fast and dangerous descent. The 3.1-mile race has an average slope of 34 degrees and is 60 degrees at its steepest. The first organized race was held in 1915, making it one of the oldest foot races in the country.

http://www.seward.com/events/signature-events/mount-marathon-race/

In Alaska, the Mount Marathon Race is a celebrated tradition on July 4th. It’s an event that you’re likely to attend at least once in your life, whether to participate or to witness the exhilarating start and finish of the races, which are categorized by age and gender.

I have never taken part in this race, nor have I harbored any grand illusions of being able to do so. However, I did have the chance to hike that very trail.

On a beautiful Alaskan summer morning, our family set out early to meet a church group camping near Mount Marathon in Seward. We chose not to camp ourselves, as we lacked the proper equipment, and instead decided to spend the day there.

We, along with my two children, aged six and eight, arrived quite early, before anyone else had woken up. I recall feeling somewhat embarrassed for getting there so early; my intention was to arrive around 10 am, but clearly, that didn’t happen.

At some point in the morning, a small group decided to hike Mount Marathon, my husband and I exchanged glances. We were silently determining who would have the opportunity to go. We had an agreement that one of us would stay at the camp with the kids, while the other had the chance to hike. I stood my ground, and ultimately, I was the one who got to join the group consisting of about six women (including myself) and one man.

I had no idea what awaited me. Later that day, there were moments when I regretted being so assertive. It took us about 30 minutes to drive to the trailhead. I had no real expectations; I had hiked other trails, but this one was different. As we started the ascent, the steepness became apparent almost immediately. Initially in the middle of the group, I gradually fell behind as others overtook me. My arthritic knees necessitated frequent stops.

Upon reaching the tree line, we were all in need of a break, especially me. Acknowledging that the hike was more than I could manage, I opted to stay behind and wait for the others to return from the summit so I could accompany them on the way down. The descent promised to be a unique challenge, evident from our vantage point. The slope was steep, blanketed in loose shale. The technique to navigate it involved a “run/bounce” approach. This was new to me, as no one had mentioned it before I took a firm position on me being the one to hike instead of him.

Everyone advised against my waiting because of safety concerns; bears were frequently seen above the tree line, and being alone could attract any hungry predators. The sole man, Don, who had accompanied us declared he would return with me. After a brief discussion, we agreed on this course of action. One of the women gave us directions to an easy wooded trail once we reached the bottom of the shale section. Together, Don and I traversed approximately 100 yards laterally to the steep shale slope and commenced our descent.

Just so you know, the treeline on the mountain is quite elevated. Looking down the steep descent, I realized I had no desire to go through with it. My face must have mirrored Don’s own concern, clearly conveying my reluctance. It was then he stated firmly, “We have to try.” His words didn’t exactly inspire confidence, yet I decided to move forward and stepped onto the shale. Instantly, I almost slipped, but instinctively, I performed a “run/bounce” technique; without it, I would’ve tumbled down the slope. I later learned that each year, numerous participants suffer severe injuries in this very spot.

The duration of that section is unclear, but it seemed to pass swiftly. At that time, my knees were often swollen from bone-on-bone arthritis. You may wonder why I chose to hike under those conditions. Well, I was not aware of the hike’s difficulty level, but I was an active coach, and our family regularly embarked on mild to moderate hikes. I, quickly, found that side-stepping using a “run/bounce” technique made things easier. Losing focus meant starting to slide and stumble, which could quickly turn disastrous. How I managed, I’m not certain. Perhaps it was a miracle, and that’s what I believe occurred.

Believe it or not, the initial part of the descent turned out to be the easiest stretch we faced that day, apart from the climb to the tree line. Don and I eventually reached flat terrain but were confronted with a sheer drop-off. We were certain that wasn’t our path downward. Moreover, the entrance to the next trail segment, which was supposed to be an easy one, eluded us both.

Exhausted, we nonetheless decided to tackle the descent of the outer cliff. It was more akin to a desperate cling to life than a controlled climb down. He led the way but almost lost his footing. To be clear, a fall would have been fatal for either of us; this was no laughing matter. I had often pondered my reactions in such perilous situations; indeed, it’s true that the instinct to survive is powerful. It surged within us, prompting cooperation. One would advance a little, securing handholds and footholds, then call out precise directions to the other. As fatigue set in, we took turns leading. At one juncture, my foot gave way, and I tumbled past Don. Without hesitation, he caught my arm, and I grasped his. We paused, regained our composure, and exchanged a knowing glance. I had narrowly escaped a plunge from the cliff’s sharpest edge. Driven once more by our survival instinct, we proceeded, even more cautiously than before.

Clearly, we had made it. Once we reached the bottom and the danger was behind us, the emotions started to pour out. I couldn’t control mine, yet he remained composed; his eyes were tearless, but his expression mirrored the emotions I was experiencing.

We spotted the vehicles and started walking toward them. Both of us were limping, with scrapes, dirt, and sweat marking our clothes and skin. I did not look behind us until we reached the cars; then I turned around. I had not brought my camera, a little sad because who was going to believe us without pictures? I could never have managed with my camera in tow. Yet, the scene is indelibly etched in my memory. I gazed upward, again and again. It was the most precipitous cliff I had ever encountered. As I shook my head in disbelief, I pondered how people could possibly race down this segment. It simply defied logic.

Lacking the keys, I settled on the ground, resting against a tire. Roughly 30 minutes later, the sounds of our companions reached us. They weren’t descending the cliff; instead, their voices came from deeper within the woods, to the right of the cliff. A sinking feeling hit me—had we overlooked something? Shortly, the women emerged from the trees heading our way. One inquired if we had been waiting long, presuming it had been hours. We indicated it hadn’t been that long. Don queried about the path they took around the cliff. Their response was laughter, puzzled by why he would ask such a thing.

When they finally realized what Don and I had accomplished by descending the sheer cliff face, they were astounded. Many participants in the 4th of July race commented that only the brave or the foolhardy choose that route. There were repeated inquiries about whether we were serious.

During the ride back to the campsite, I came to realize the multitude of miracles that had occurred that day, likely far more than I’ll ever comprehend. I am thankful that I went, despite the potential for a different outcome. I am just as thankful for Don. Above all, I am conscious that G-d had his hand over us throughout the entire time.

This is the first time I’ve put this account in writing, although I’ve shared the events of that day with a few individuals. Upon returning to camp, I recounted my experience, giving Don the opportunity to chime in whenever he wished, for those who were interested.

Reflecting on the past, I now understand that luck played a minimal role in the events of that day. Will I ever comprehend the reasons behind everything that happened? Perhaps not, but what I am certain of is that I was rescued once more. That alone is miraculous; and if the reasons remain unknown, I am at peace with that.

“As Always”: I’m eager to hear your views on “Was is it a miracle, or merely luck?” and your personal experience. Feel free to leave a comment, send an email or reach out to me on Facebook.

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I appreciate you taking time to visit and share a moment with me. Until next time, see you then!

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