You Don't Need to Summit to Call It a Hike

There’s no humble way to say it: I was absolutely crushing the hike. Feet flying over open trail, I weaved my way in and out of casual walkers and the occasional leashed canine. The forest towered above as my track pitched upward, and I savored the extra burn while I pushed farther from the parking lot.

Mount Storm King on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula loomed above the deep blue waters of Lake Crescent, a silent watchman over some of our country’s wildest wilderness. It was also home to a short, steep route that offered incredible views and enough next-day soreness to feel like a real badge of honor.

I’d been preparing for a trail marathon, and the four-mile out-and-back was just another training day. That is, until I hit the saddle.  There in front of me rose a rocky scramble to a tiny summit clearing. A little to the left, however, existed nothing but open air down to the forest floor. My knee twitched. I felt the sweat dripping off my palms, and suddenly the world started to vibrate a little. My feet made the final call: we weren’t going anywhere.

I’d dealt with plenty of exposure both on skis and on belay, but this intermediate scramble had me shook. I sat down and watched as all the parties I had passed slowly plodded their way up the scramble without issue. I felt like crying. Instead, I buried my sorrows in the sandwich I’d pulled from my backpack. There was no way I could tell my friends—my mountain partners—about coming up so embarrassingly short.

Instead of turning tail and heading downhill, I sat with that thought for a bit. From the saddle, I could see the lake nestled between green peaks. Beyond, the Strait of Juan de Fuca flickered in the afternoon sun. I had made it to this beautiful perch in a place so many of us dream about for 364 days a year, so why was I so bummed?

Now I’m not saying those feelings aren’t valid, but I do think they are born from conditioning. Not reaching a summit or topping out carries a stigma, and it’s one we really, truly need to stop caring about. A hike is a hike is a hike. I felt it that day on the ledge, and it’s a lesson I’ve been working with ever since.

There have been a few summit pushes in that time, but also quite a few wanders to middle ground. All of them have gotten me outdoors and away from the computer that is otherwise tethered to my fingertips. I’m not going to deliver the “it’s the journey, not the destination” sermon, but not focusing on summits has helped me appreciate the experience of being outside. I’ve started listening more, not just to my surroundings, but to my body in general. Plus, the last time I checked, the backpack PB&J tastes pretty great, no matter where you stop on the trail.