(Author's Note: Though the term "Mountain climbing" appears frequently throughout these and other journals, I only use it for lack of a better term.
Certainly I never -- will never -- hammer spikes into rocks, negotiate avalanches, or drag myself upward with pulleys, rope, crampons, and ice screws like real mountain climbers.
It is important to make this distinction:
Real mountain climbers, like John Krakauer would read these accounts and snicker that I even mention the word mountain and climbing on the same web page.

John Krakauer:
mountain climber/journalist/author

Real mountain climbers like Rob Hall and Scott Fischer plan for months, hike for weeks, and die in droves -- all for some inexplicable obsession to summit impressive mountains like Everest or K-2 or even the one right here in Alaska, the highest Mountain in North America (20,320 feet) Mt. McKinley.

Scott Fischer and members of his doomed
climbing team on Everest's famous "balcony."

Real mountain climbers like Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay would spit in my glass of milk, slap me in the ass, and tell me to, "Move along kid!"
Undeniably there is something deep inside me -- perhaps all of us -- that on a much smaller scale, is similar to these men. Getting to the peak of a mountain – no matter how small – brings forth a jubilation that cannot be defined in any other way than to simply stand on the peak yourself and look down.

I can't quite define it, only that it seems to be about adrenaline, and biology, and competition, and mortality, and an unquenchable thirst, and social disorientation, and probably a sackload of other things -- all blend together to form this exciting and potent cocktail called "Adventuring.")

Alaska Journal
Part 6: Denali – Day 3
Date: September 15

Right now I am writing in my blue journal on top of the world -- almost literally. Half-Ass and I just climbed a small mountain (or was it a large hill?) and I am still gasping.

It took us a few hours to get up here and the whole time I was climbing I had a view of Half-Ass's ass. That's because - despite a terrible accident he had in '97 (the one that cost him half of his ass and yards of intestines) – he's been climbing mountains in Alaska since the summer and is in excellent climbing shape.

I, on the other hand, have been eating burritos, drinking Moosehead and watching marathons of Law and Order ever since I got back from the Andes. So, no, I am not, if you must know, in good mountain climbing shape.

Naturally, Half-Ass reached summit before I arrived, and when I got there, I hadn't even set down my pack before he said he wanted to move upward to yet another peak (he's a peak addict). Even though I was still hypervomilating from the climb, I still had plenty of energy left in my reserve to laugh heartily at his suggestion.

"Which peak is that?" I asked already certain I wasn't going anywhere but down.

"That one," he says and points to this… this. . . thing; this wall of snow and rock; this obstacle to serenity.

"Old pal," I laughed again, "I'm done. The view is spectacular from right here."

He huffed, gave me the finger as to if to say, "You are one enormous pussy," and took off to the next peak.
And yes -- as I watch him (and his ass – an all too familiar sight) move forward and upward until he becomes a speck,
indiscernible from the other rock and mud specks that peppered the mountain -- I have regrets about not going with him.

Not going with him proves, with finality, that H.A has got more of that adventurer's spirit in him than I do. And that, in many ways, is a crushing blow to my ego. Of course he's got more Krakauer blood than 99% of the people I know. And that is why Half-Ass is moving up this mountain so quickly and with deep purpose and also why, I figure, no matter what physical stature I may eventually attain, I will have this same view of Half-Ass's, ass-half, for many mountains to come.
But in many other ways, I am pleased to be right where I am. And this is where I differ from Christopher McCandless, who took his obsession to the ultimate conclusion: I know when to stop torturing myself and enjoy a fucking blissful moment when it presents itself.

Instead, as I bask in this near-perfect spot on the almost-roof of the world, I pull out my blue journal and sire the words you are reading now.

The day began with coffee, bagels, and scrambled eggs at
camp, after which we packed the truck and drove to find a
place for a good day-hike. We drove into the park as far as
was permitted – informed by a ranger, operating out of a
small brown booth nestled against the road like an acorn, that "Cars were prohibited beyond this point" – and parked
in a small parking area.

The parking lot is at the foot of this mountain, (which has no name that I'm aware of so I take the liberty of naming it Mt. Kinda Cold – in honor of the chilly wind and thin air that I hadn't noticed until my sweat began to cool and my heart-rate slowed from hiking mode to inert mode) and when we got out of the car Half-Ass looked up and said, "This one will do," or something like that. Then we prepared ourselves for the climb by putting on our heavy duty boots and proper
clothing and filled our backpacks with water and a little food and such.

While we were doing this, another car pulled up and a family of touridiots got out and began making lunch on the tailgate of their vehicle while, simultaneously, a Japanese photographer started unloading his gear for some shots of the scenery.

Just as Half-Ass and I finished our preparations, two red foxes casually walked into the parking area and over to where the family was eating. While they ate their sandwiches, some crumbs fell onto the pavement. The
canines were interested in the morsels and approached the family. Then the foxes unabashedly ate the crumbs.

This is a bad thing. Over and over again, in all the literature
and bulletins and postings; and all the rangers and other
park officials, warn you not to feed the animals.

When I pointed out to Half-Ass that the foxes were eating the touridiot's droppings, it infuriated him.

Then – as if he had become a fierce native warrior – he
ferociously charged the family. This startled the red hounds
and they bolted upward, toward the base of the first embankment of the mountain we were about to climb. Then Half-Ass charged up the of the foothills after the foxes screaming "Yaah, yeeyaah," like he was scaring off horses.

Confused and a little embarrassed, I timidly followed him up Mt. Kinda Cold.

The family and the photographer started screaming at him, "What the hell are you doing?? Leave the animals alone!!"

Half-Ass – face: red, posture: agitated -- ignored them and continued pushing the foxes further up the foothill. They didn't seem entirely frightened of Half-Ass (intrigued is more like it) and so they didn't just go bolting up the hill to get away, rather they moved in zig-zags.

Half-Ass zigged right behind them, and I, as usual, zagged behind Half Ass.

I knew what this looked like to the tourists and the photographer. "Who is that lunatic chasing animals into the
mountains and what's with that other guy following behind?"

"HEY, HEY, HEY, HEY!" they all yelled -- the man and woman waving their hands like semaphore lamps and the photographer holding his tripod overhead like a warrior wielding his club during a battle cry -- "You're not supposed to mess with the animals! We're gonna call the ranger if you don't stop!"

Half-Ass stopped in his tracks and turned around. He did look like a lunatic. His hair was knotted and unkempt, his beard was flying around his face, and he was furious.

"Fuck you!" he yelled back, "You're the ones that are feeding them! I'm just trying to scare them away from here so you don't get them killed!"

And then he turned and went up the hill again. This time not running or shouting, just hiking. I followed him silently.

About a half hour later, we came to a vertical stone formation and Half-Ass wanted us to climb.

"I have a great Idea," I said, looking at the 40 foot vertical pillar of stone that was clearly out of my climbing league. "How about you climb it, and I rest up so that when you fall off and die, I can drag your mangled body to the hospital?"

He chuckled and went up.

I chuckled and sat down.

I reached into my pack, pulled out Krakauer's "Into the Wild" and waited for H.A. to scale the beast in both directions.
Then something strange and sort of magical happened: While Half-Ass was clinging for his life on the face of the
pillar, and my nose was buried in Krakauer, I sensed that someone or something had approached me. I looked up
from my book and saw a fox staring at me from a rock shelf
below where Half-Ass desperately clung. The fox just stood
their staring at me. Slowly I reached for my pack; slowly I
pulled the camera out; slowly I unsheathed it from the case,
and then I snapped a picture.

When Half-Ass returned from his jaunt, to once again join
me for the climb, so too did the other fox appear and join
his companion. Clearly it was the same to foxes. When Half-
Ass and I started going upward they eagerly followed.

At first I thought it was a fluke: They stayed close as we
climbed, darting in circles around us; playing tag with each
other; coming close for a whiff of the ape in us; stopping
when we stopped; moving when we moved.

Suddenly we noticed someone was yelling at us from above. There was another person on the mountain and he was
coming down. At first we couldn't make out what he was saying but could tell by the tone that he was angry about
something

As he got closer we could hear him AND see him. He was
wearing the dark green pants and coat with a badge on the lapel that could only mean one thing: Ranger. Clearly he was pointing and yelling at us.

But why is the Ranger mad? The touridiots couldn't have fetched him because he was coming down from the top of the hill.

"THERE ARE NO DOGS ALLOWED ON THE MOUNTAIN," he shouted through his cupped hands.

Half-Ass - not being someone intimidated by a badge of any kind, and inspired (shall we say) by his last conflict with the touridiots and not in the least bit intimidated -- screamed upward,
"They're foxes you idiot, not dogs!"

The Ranger said nothing after that. He just veered left and down the north side of the hill.

I had become convinced that not only were the foxes being hospitable hosts – inviting us onto their beautiful mountain -but that they actually liked us; that we four were friends
hiking and laughing, sharing a common bond (hatred of touridiot's, love of natural wonder).

And so it continued, until the terrain of the mountain became splotchy, and we entered the snowline where the
foxes stopped and watched, sadly I hoped, with their ears pointing to the sky as we pushed onward without them.

And that brings us to the present moment. Half-Ass is an upwardly-moving, dark spot against an enormous, spotted-white comforter behind me. .

… and before me the red, brown, and yellow dunes of the
Denali vastland stretch to a massive, snowy mountain range
that barrels into the tundra like giant, bleached, ocean
waves spilling onto a Martian beach.

When you look upon these mountains, you realize that humans are not the boss of this planet. We are more like her
disrespectful, bratty son.