Morning

I know a mountain is in front of me only because of what I can’t see. It is a moonless morning and in the place where the peak should be is a black, crag-shaped hole in the heavens, empty of the white points of starlight that puncture the plumb-colored sky behind it. One light moves in the void though, it’s my partner Charlie’s headlamp, dipping and bobbing as he makes his way up the trail ahead of me.
The temperature is in the upper 20s and the snow is old and crusty, perfect for kicking in steps. Our progress is slow but steady; he’ll be at the top in 20 minutes, I’ll be there in 25.
On the summit, the wind finds its way into my jacket and chills my sweaty skin. To the east the sky is brightening over a series of peaks that seem to go on forever. It’s easy to imagine I’m deep in the heart of a remote mountain range, but I only have to turn around to see the truth, that I’m within a few miles of half the population of Alaska. Below, rolling west toward the sea is a carpet of city lights and, if I listen closely, the faint sound of automobile traffic and a barking dog rises to my ear.
Then the wind comes up, the sounds of the city die away and I turn my back to face the rising sun. Like the walls of a great fortress, the peaks of the Chugach Range separate Anchorage from a close and very real wilderness. These mountains are home to wolves, moose, Dall sheep and bear—both black and brown, among other wild creatures. And there are rocky spires, glaciers, high lakes and hanging valleys that beckon further exploration.
Not today though: Charlie and I turn and begin to descend. In a half an hour we’ll be at our cars and soon after, under the fluorescent lights of our respective offices. Not a pleasant prospect, but tolerable given the way we started our day.