The Swan Lake fire burns on the other side of the Kenai Peninsula, turning our skies a smoky shade of gray. Unseasonably hot dry temperatures make Seward, Alaska feel like an arid dusty land, not the rainforest we call home.
Nothing feels right.
I should be cold at night, not sweating under a single sheet. All the layers I carry around in my car remain in the backseat, as tank tops and shorts remain comfortable even after the sun dips behind the mountains. My garden cries for water without our normal days of heavy precipitation.
You know something is wrong when all across town you hear, "I hope it rains."
And the fire keeps burning, one of many in the state. With no rain in the forecast for the next seven days. Only sunshine and high seventies, which for us might as well be a hundred degrees with how close we sit under the sun.
And on the 4th of July, Olive and I, glutton for punishment, plan to participate, once again, in the Mt. Marathon race--three miles and 3,222 feet elevation gain, on a pitch so steep our heels barely touch as we clamber up the ridgeline.
(Tonight's view of Mt. Marathon, we climb up the ridgeline on the left.)
This is the year Olive will most likely surpass my time to the midway, and though as a junior competitor she only climbs half the mountain, the lower portion holds the most technical challenges. During the junior race 7 to 17-year-old boys and girls all race together, a wide variety of body sizes and abilities scramble up the mountain. My heart speeds up just thinking about it-- even though Olive continues to prove her agility, strength, and confidence.
(The three adjectives she chose for herself on a recent coloring sheet: brave, bold, fearless.)
'Are you doing the race?' Elias asks everyone we meet regardless of age or body type.
Hell no. Not me. No way, people often say.
"Me neither," he says. "I don't want to do that crazy race."
(Which means he kind of does.)
And it is crazy. A route that involves climbing up cliffs or roots, a dusty trudge through salmonberry bushes and alder, a scree slope with hard jagged rocks mixed into the 'softer" shale, a descent down a creek bed with small waterfalls, and it all begins and ends with a half-mile run down Jefferson and 4th Ave as thousands of people cheer.
I both love and hate this race.
During one training run I spent the whole first half of the climb swearing I'd never commit to it again. Maybe I'll get hurt and wont have to compete, I thought. Midway up, I easily passed three twenty-ish young men,(granted they were tourists dressed in jeans and flat-soled shoes), and suddenly felt invincible.
Look at me, a middle-aged woman schooling those boys!
My mind flips between confidence and despair multiple times during each trip up to race point and back down to town.
On one descent from midway I gave Olive and her buddy Quinn a head start but then couldn't catch them and the nine-year-old girl in me cried fowl as the Mom in me raised my glass to her abilities.
On another suffering crawl up, I passed a young threesome sitting on an overlook about three quarters of the way up, who tried unsuccessfully to hide the joint they passed between them, we talked about the weather, the upcoming race, the beauty of the pre-smoke view.
(Photo from earlier this Spring before it became too hot to bring a phone.)
They stood to descend while I continued on up to the top. I caught up to them on the way down by the first technical climb over a small waterfall.
"Wow, you're an animal," the young man said when I ran past. More familiar with the trail from my home court advantage and more clear headed to trust my steps, I smiled and scrambled down the rocks as if injected with a shot of adrenaline.
His word animal stayed with me when my calf screamed at me on another more recent climb, somewhere in the bushes, with no choice but to keep going up till midway when I could crossover to the trail down. Unsure if a severe cramp or a tear caused the pain, I just knew I couldn't push off or put weight on my left leg and had to step with my right, drag my left, step with right, drag my left...
Instead of feeling invincible, I felt defeated.
I feared my injured calf cast me out of the race. You're an animal, I thought, as I cautiously scrambled down where normally I ran, bones, muscles, nerves, fat, skin, all working or not working together. You're an animal, I remembered, when I jumped ahead in my brain to all my "what if" worries: Stay in your body and navigate the terrain.
Stay in your body and navigate the terrain.
I didn't rip my calf muscle as feared, just strained it, and after resting and icing for a few days, I climbed Mt. Marathon again yesterday, slower than normal between the smoke, heat and sore muscle, but I steadily rose to Race Point and ran down.
Now, I just feel lucky that I can still compete on Thursday, regardless of this strange arid weather. My parents flew to town for the race. My in-laws drove down from Palmer. Friends will cheer my name. And though I don't expect to beat my previous times but do hope to qualify again for next year, my plan is to just stay in my body and navigate the terrain.
My plan is to remember that no matter what happens, I am an animal.
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