Switchbacks
“We take the switchbacks because it’s better for the environment. Less erosion. Less impact on the mountain.”
I knew that part was important. True. The next part?
”And, besides, I guarantee it’s faster than just going straight up the face of the mountain to the summit. For sure.”
About that I wasn’t so sure. I hoped it was true and was betting my bluff would work.
Zach, one of the teenage campers, seeing that we were going to hike to the top, wanted to forego the trail and instead trailblaze directly from our overnight campsite to the summit of Taylor Mountain. As his camp counselor and the de facto authority figure and Mother Nature’s only available advocate, I saw it as my job to dissuade him.
He was not dissuaded.
I didn’t want to resort to threats or heavy-handed, authoritarian “JUST DO WHAT I SAY”-type stuff. Zach’s proposed route, I should mention, was not going to be dangerous at all. Still, I was hoping I could reason (see also: bluff) him into resigning himself to the switchbacks with the rest of us.
He didn’t buy it. “I bet my way’s faster,” he sneered.
In a moment of ecological and emotional (pride) weakness, I relented.
“Fine. Let’s race then. You, up the face. Me, on the switchbacks.”
His eyes lit up. The eyebrows of my fellow counselors rose. Part of their reaction was wondering what I was doing green-lighting this kid’s eco-unfriendly dash up the mountain. And the other part was sharing the feeling deep in my guts: doubt that I could actually reach the summit faster than the kid.
“I’ll wait for you up top,” I barked cockily as I jogged towards the trail.
He immediately followed, taking the straightest possible route.
In the best shape of my life and propelled by the highly-effective motivator that is “being right”, I kept a decent pace for the first half, maybe even two-thirds, zig-zagging up switchbacked side of the mountain that was going to lead me along the ridge. I kept a watchful eye on Zach’s progress. He wasn’t running but he was going fast. It wasn’t too steep yet where he was. I wagered he’d slow down once it got steeper. And by “wagered” I mean “prayed.”
My lungs started to flag. My pace started to drag. I was the one slowing down.
But I had to prove something to Zach. And to the other campers, to show them once and for all that doing the right thing is also the better choice1. I couldn’t let evil win. I couldn’t let the nature-destroying way be right. There was too much at stake. So I dug deep, pushed through, my lungs searing and my legs getting more and more leaden with each minor gain in altitude.
We were essentially neck and neck, as we reached the summit’s sprawl of boulders. I could see the look of steely determination and smirky satisfaction on his face while trying to veil the sheer exhausted desperation on mine. Even if I beat him, we would all know that I had had to run to pull it off, that I’d had to empty the tank. He knew it. I knew it.
On a technicality—he stopped before we were at the actual peak—I pronounced, with all the bluster and certainty I could muster, that I had won. He disputed. Most of the campers disputed. I was too gassed to say another word. I raised my arms in victory, then found a large and flat-ish boulder and collapsed onto it, trying (and failing) to regain my breath, trying (and just barely succeeding) to not throw up. I covered my head with my shirt, leaving a hole for my poor nose and mouth to keep attempting (and failing) to take in sufficient oxygen. I might’ve temporarily blacked out. I could hear Zach laughing with the other campers, a little breathless but insultingly unfazed compared to my desire to expire.
Eventually, one of the other counselors came over to check on me.
“You alright?”
“I could do it again right now,” my cottoned mouth lied. He handed me his water bottle and laughed. Then, trying not be heard, he leaned in and whispered, “…Zach won, right?”
I was in my idealist 20s at the time, so I was still under the naive assumption that doing the right thing was always for the best, in every way.