My father was an avid hiker and camper, so I spent many a summer weekend during my youth exploring the mountains just north of Yellowstone National Park, and, later, after my father moved to the Denver area, in the Colorado Rockies.
Some fantastic trips, to be sure, but there are also memories which are less than pleasant.
When I was around middle school age, my brother, two years older and (at that time) taller, loved to make life on the trail a living Hell for his younger sibling.
My father and brother were much better hikers than I was, and it was often tough for me to keep up. Hikes became marches, and the “Are we they yet?” mantra was my constant cry.
I learned, though, that once we got past the seemingly endless trek through the woods, and we got above tree line, that there was reason for renewed hope.
When I could see the summit of the mountain we were climbing, and I could see the finish line, I could then will myself to the top. Fifty steps, rest. Fifty steps, rest.
One switchback at a time.
If I could see the final destination, I felt I could get there.
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