Mt. Marathon

Overlooking Seward, Alaska is Marathon Mountain which stands at 3022 feet (that is exactly 921.1056 metres for all my sheep-shaggin' wanker friends). Every year on the 4th of July (that's Independence Day for all my sheep-shaggin' wanker friends) a multitude of people scramble up and down the mountain. It is one of Seward's largest events. Well, that, but also The Polar Bear Jump which occurs in January- where people dress up in crazy costumes like ballpark chickens and jump off the fishing docks into the near-frozen sea. But January is pretty damn cold in Alaska whether you are in a giant wet chicken suit or not. So the marathon usually fills more hotels.

Let me start by saying that this was by far the dumbest thing I have done all season. Boomer, the liberated garden gnome, needed to cement down a travel experience so that he would have something to write home about. So, in our infinite wisdom, four of us decided to take the "difficult" approach up Mt. Marathon. The route runs along the spine of the mountain and leaves plenty of opportunity to trek through shale and scree, slide ass-first down muddy trails through alder brush, or otherwise fall ass-over-elbow down the side of a mountain. My legs started to cramp up about three quarters of the way up. They were Jello by the time we reached the summit. A few hundred feet from the summit I found myself frozen to a piece of rock with indecision and raw fear. My knees were wobbling and I was in a position where I could see no way to climb further up nor down. Then I made the fool's mistake of looking down. And while I am looking down I hear Jake yell something like, "Dude! You'd be fucked seven ways from Sunday if you slipped up here." Thanks Jake.

We couldn't climb down the mountain the same way we climbed up and I often found myself recalling the words of Patrick Hughes' when he offers More Advice For Children in his Diary Of Indignities:

"Now that you've climbed up there, it's a lot higher than it looks, isn't it? Dumbass."



We took the wrong route down the mountain and found ourselves overlooking several drop-offs that were several hundred feet. So we had no choice but to turn back and summit the mountain again. My leg cramps would only allow me to climb about 50 feet before my legs would buckle and I would be forced to my knees. It is an awful feeling when you are a few thousand feet from where you want to be.

The gnome was fearless and tireless. And now that we are in the comforts of homemade chicken soup and homebrewed Scottish ale he says that he has no regrets. Wouldn't do it again any time soon... But the gnome must roam.