This Mountain Almost Killed Me, But It Taught Me a Lesson First
A Few Hours of Suffering led to a Lifetime of Perspective
One mountain. Two miles. 2,000 feet of vertical hell. And one very bruised ego.
What was supposed to be a fun hike turned into a full-blown existential crisis.
I’ve written about the beautiful landscape of Alaska before. I took a trip there for the very first time this year with my Mom. The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane was the air. Crisp, cool—like taking a deep breath after chewing mint gum and drinking ice water. It felt almost intoxicating, like I was getting high just by breathing. I remember pointing it out right away, completely in awe.
One of the days on the trip, we set out to Girdwood where we were going to climb the peak at Alyeska Ski Resort.
I sized up the climb ahead of me, completely sure I was ready. I had been working out. I felt young, loose, and ready to conquer this thing. Spoiler: I was completely, embarrassingly wrong.
Brian originally planned for us to take the North Face Trail—a steep, advanced route straight up the side of the mountain. I probably should’ve checked the website’s description before agreeing.
The 2.2 mile steep, advanced trail starts right from the hotel. Featuring a mix of road and single-track with switchbacks, the North Face trail ascends the 2,000 vertical foot slope of this classic ski terrain. Hikers, who make it to the top, can take a complimentary descending ride on the aerial tram.
Brian’s been in Alaska for most of his adult life, he’s been there, done that when it comes to tackling peaks. This was like a little mole hill for him. His wife, however, had warned me: "The path he likes to take is steep and tiresome."
I had no fear. I had been working out. I was ready. I was going to run up that mountain like an absolute beast.
Then we got to the trailhead.
Closed Due to Potential Rock Slide
Great.
A huge boulder that we later saw on our journey had fallen down onto the trail making it unsafe for hikers to continue up. Blessings in disguise, I suppose.
So, we had to settle for taking the switchbacks that were a bit longer but less steep when trekking up the mountain. Brian was reassuring, “Ah don’t worry these will be much easier than North Face. You’ll have no problem.”
So, up we went.
At first, the trail was gentle, winding through grass that barely reached my ankles. It reminded me of elementary school, running up snow piles in the winter, playing King of the Hill.
Back then, being at the top of a 10-foot mound felt like conquering the world. If only I had known that feeling would return decades later—except with way more sweat and existential questioning.
It didn’t take long for my bravado to disappear.
My legs burned. My breath turned shallow. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. While I was struggling up this relatively undemanding terrain, Brian trotted beside me, hands in his pockets, barely out of breath. He was casually telling me stories about his time in Alaska, climbing other peaks, and pointing out areas he’d been on this trail to take pictures for races that he photographs.
After about 1/3 the way up, as the periphery of my vision slowly started to darken, I called out:
“Hey Brian….I think…I need a break.”
We stopped at a flat spot where I sat down, heaving. “I’m definitely going to throw up.” I thought.
We weren’t high enough up for the elevation to have any effect. But of course, I blamed it anyway. “I think my body isn’t used to the thin air yet or something,” I said between breaths. Brian, being both kind and incredibly patient, humored me in his response. “Yeah, it can take a bit for your body to adjust”.
As I sat there (dying), Brian continued to tell stories. We were on the side of what seemed to be a main trail that had a sign on it signaling it’s the path trail runners would take as they ascended the mountain.
After about 5 minutes, while still in a barely conscious state, a young girl appeared.
She was in a full jog.
Wearing a backpack.
Breathing like she was out for a leisurely stroll.
She flew by me, without breaking a stride, but not before giving me a look that definitely said, “Ha, what a loser.”
Or at least that’s how it felt.
Brian and I exchanged a look, both having the same thought.
“All right, let’s get back to it”
I hauled myself back onto my aching legs and kept going. I’d love to say it got easier, but it didn’t. The terrain turned rocky and slippery, every step adding ten more pounds to my legs.
I took frequent breaks to “admire the scenery” (a.k.a - not pass out). Brian, ever patient, stuck with me.
As we made it up to the last 1/4th of the climb, it suddenly occurred to me that I was literally climbing a mountain.
Not many people can say that.
We use that phrase as a way to describe the process of overcoming a significant challenge or working towards a difficult goal in life. But here I was, feet literally on the side of this massive rock jutting out from the Earth, making my way up.
And suddenly, I understood exactly what it meant.
When I start something new, I dive in headfirst. Full steam ahead. Let’s go, let’s grind, let’s make this happen. But that energy never lasts. Eventually, I hit the hard part—the struggle, the burnout. And usually, that’s where I stop. I take a break… and never start again.
But on this mountain, the only way to finish was to keep going.
No shortcuts. No easy way out. Just one foot in front of the other.
Fueled entirely by stubborn pride (and the lingering shame of being dusted by a teenage trail runner), I pushed through the final stretch.
Pathetically proud male ego for the win, am I right?
As we neared the top, Brian slowed his pace to walk beside me. He put his arm around my shoulder.
“You made it! You climbed your first mountain.”
That moment required a picture. Here’s what I sent to all my friends:
And here’s how I actually felt:
I had never been more physically proud of myself. (Especially considering I had a hip replacement at 15—a story for another day.) But more than that, I was proud of my mental fortitude.
We all go through hard things. But we don’t always realize just how much we’re capable of.
As humans, we naturally seek comfort. It’s in our DNA. We avoid difficulty, avoid risk. And it makes sense—our ancestors weren’t out here climbing mountains for fun.
That’s what this climb taught me—life works the same way. The only way forward is through. Here’s what I took away from this experience:
What this climb taught me about life:
You will always overestimate how ready you are.
The only way forward is through.
Momentum is everything. Stopping is easy—starting again is brutal.
The mountain doesn’t care how tired you are. Keep moving anyway.
99% of success looks effortless from the outside. But behind the scenes? You’re exhausted, beaten down, just trying to keep moving forward.
The feeling of accomplishment, though? That part is real. And it’s worth every struggle along the way.
So go climb that mountain.
With love, gratitude, and a newfound appreciation for flat landscapes,
Brady
I recently did a tough hike on a trip to Arizona. The last bit was particularly hard and very uphill. I actually had a few of the same takeaways as you, but I think the biggest thing for me is that I was reminded that the view is always worth the struggle. Reaching the top was awesome.