cecil’s mark.

a song to set the scene // passion by milky chance

She looms over Cooper Landing, tall and formidable.

Taunting us with her views, she teases us with a good time, trapping unsuspecting innocents within her ragged landscape.

We curse ourselves whenever we’re foolish enough to be tempted back, yet eagerly insist upon conquering her every year once summer rolls onto the Peninsula.

Haunting and present is Cecil Rhode Mountain.

Drive through Cooper Landing, and I guarantee you cannot miss her.

Proudly placed in full view, Cecil’s statuesque peak is the pinnacle of my hiking season.

I can only hike her once a year though, she’s that fatiguing.

Driving up a steep unmarked dirt road, parking at a ROAD CLOSED gate, and finding a not noticeable trailhead always makes me question whether or not Cecil wants us there in the first place.

She is, after all, rather hard to find.

Climbing through thicc brush and over freshly fallen trees, we begin wondering if we are too early in the season to hike her.

Are we the first ones this year?

Our doubts are quickly answered when we come across the first (of many) snow patches.

Interrupting our follow of the trail, the snow doesn’t validate our too-early attempt at summiting, but rather confirms our timing, as we see fellow footprints meandering through the snow field.

And so we continue on.

Toeing our way through the exceptionally toasty snow (did I mention it was our first extraordinary summer’s day?), we inch our way up the mountain.

Looking to our left, we climb higher and higher over the striking glacial blue of the Kenai River winding its way through Cooper Landing.

To our right is an endless expanse of mountains, whose fellow snow capped peaks shine brightly back at us.

Above us, the sun beats down, reflecting off the snow and onto our poor un-sunscreened bodies; and below us, our hiking boots make slow and steady improvements up, up, up Cecil.

It’s a hike you curse when you’re on it. The kind of journey that always makes you question why you’d risk climbing something so damn steep.

Your knees hurt, your thighs hurt, your breath hurts, it all aches and groans and pops and moans.

But it’s also the kind of hike that takes your breath away, with unmatched views that are breathtaking and endless.

And to think that our bodies and their one-foot-in-front-of-the-other movements can conquer such a peak?

It’s a feeling like no other.

Which is why we return to her slopes year after year.

And on this particular, unseasonably hot 70 degree day in Alaska, Cecil leaves her mark in another way.

Remember those snow patches, and their red-hot reflective rays?

Did ya read the tiny detail about our un-sunscreened skin?

Well, late winter snow + AK sun = you guessed it: sunburned.

Who knew Cecil could leave her mark in more ways than one.

in my backyard.

You know what they say: hours of waiting leads to seconds of panic.

At least, that’s what our captain told us about king salmon fishing.

There we were, out in Resurrection Bay, trolling for winter kings.

It was a last minute invite, and after an overnight in an old brothel, my gem and I made our way to the docks early the next morning and boarded our vessel for the day.

If you’ve never fished in Seward, it is historically laced with poor weather.

At least, that’s the impression my past experiences have left on me: wind, rain, choppy seas, and questioning whether or not to call the Coast Guard.

Today though, was an entirely different experience.

The seas were flat. The wind was nil. The sun was shining, and it was the prettiest day to be out on the ocean.

But the words of our captain echoed in my ears: hours of waiting leads to seconds of panic.

And that’s precisely how things went: beginning with many hours of waiting.

Now, out of all the days to be on the ocean staring at a fishing pole waiting for that line to come off the down rigger, triggering a rush to reel as quickly as possible, today was a damn near perfect day to be out on the water.

We were entertained by otters, porpoises (porposi?), dall sheep precariously climbing the cliffside, and a few rockfish and cod to fill up the cooler.

But for many hours, there was not a single king in sight.

Until…

Fish on!

Pulling me out of my dazed and sunny stupor, I bolted to the pole and started reeling. Keeping our deckhand’s instructions in mind, I reeled with the precision of an expert fisherwoman and within minutes, my hog was in the net.

I say “hog” because it was the biggest catch of the day.

Because you can bet there were more kings that were caught. Within minutes, the bite was on and we proceeded to reel in a total of four fabulous kings.

Just like that, hours of waiting led to seconds of panic and subsequent joy over our haul.

It’s the kind of story you tell about patience paying off.

Because you see, fishing isn’t always about the catch. Even though that’s what drives us to get on a boat at 5 in the morning, and often times in inclement weather, fishing is oftentimes simply about the journey.

It’s the “hours of waiting” that are sometimes the most memorable: the conversation, the scenery, and the power naps on the deck.

Sure, we were lucky to score, but I would’ve been pleased with my rare and remarkable boat ride, regardless of weather a king made it in.

Fishing is about getting out and away for the day, “reeling” it back to one’s roots and satisfying that hunter gatherer in all of us.

For me, it’s about disconnecting and celebrating the thing that so many people save for their entire lives.

Which I am lucky enough to experience, in my own backyard.