False Summits

12 May, 2026

(This is a piece I wrote that will be part of a larger collection. Hopefully. I know there's no way to get feedback from people here but hey, enjoy!)

I almost made it.

He almost loved me.

She almost stayed.

They almost seemed to care.

It occurs to me, as I watch a triple-wicked candle flicker back and forth its haunting dance reflected across the encasing glass, that there are an awful lot of “almosts” I spend entirely too much time lamenting. Most recently? Humphreys’.

It’s nightshift. We’re nearing the 2300 mark which is mostly insignificant unless you’re picked to float to a different unit or you’re an eight-hour nursing assistant reluctantly shuffling in to commit to his watch. Or if you’re quizzing your coworker on her life in Arizona before you fly Westwardly to climb mountains. She’s telling me most of my plans sound kosher and safe, except for one. What does she know of safe, as it pertains to me? I wonder.

“Not in February, Sam.” (Fuck. I hate being called Sam. But she’s so kind.) “Not even experienced hikers attempt Humphreys’ in February. The wind speeds and the low visibility, honestly it just isn’t safe for anyone.”

There’s only a handful of individuals who understand what she’s just done, and none of them are close enough to have witnessed it. I’ve spent fourteen years pacing those halls. I’ve worn a distinct path, verbally pacing as I typically do, through the conscious awareness of my long-time colleagues. And one thing they all know too well? I am stubborn.

“Ok.” I feign resignation. It won’t matter once I prove, yet again, that I’m an Impossible Thing.

Only…

I don’t.

I almost do.

“There’s a false summit right above the treeline, and a few more after that.” The cashier mentions offhandedly as he hands me a bag and my receipt.

A false summit is a high point along a trail on a mountain that seems as if it is the very tip top, but in fact the path continues and the climb is not finished. In Yosemite, I didn’t have the language to label these, but the gut-wrenching reality of miles to go didn’t need a name.

All I knew then was a leaden disappointment saturating the soles of my shoes, adding pound after pound with each, “Almost…”

All I knew then was that tears and sweat taste the same when you’ve ascended 300 more feet of elevation just to be met with, “Almost…”

All I knew then was that the views at the summit everyone promised were enough for me to endanger my life, even in the face of my pride, with every “Almost…”

So it was on Humphreys’ that I tread across ice slick trails, unmarked except for the mud of those who ventured before me, with the warning of the “false summit” waiting to greet me. Only six months before, the August sunshine in Yosemite threatened to bake me from the inside out.
Human pop-tart in an open-air toaster.

Not Humphreys’. Here, I was lucky to get a peek of warmth through the heavy cloud cover. The air around me hung heavy, as pale and lifeless as the snow blanketing the mountain. Without the luxury of needing only one hand to stabilize myself, I had to stash my phone away and hope I was following the correct muddy slashes up just past the trees. Occasionally, I’d find a spot where the trees pulled away from one another to offer a stunning view off the side and down into the forested Arizona landscape. Lava flows and highways. Buttes and gas stations.

And then, all at once, after what seemed like ten lifetimes, there it was. All I had to do was scramble up sheets of thick ice, without footholds, only crampons I prayed would prove themselves sturdy and worth the shipping fee.

The treeline.

It was as if her very words were the incantation whipping the air around me into life, stinging my eyes as it screamed into my face, “February.” I could no longer tell what was ice and what was blank space. Have you ever seen the cartoon where they throw themselves into an empty dimension where bodies drift aimlessly and nothing feels real?
Such is Humphreys’ in February.

I could barely see the dirt of the ridgeline where here and there the snow had been blasted away by the cruel and unrelenting gales of wind. The view of Arizona dissolved around me as I found myself wandering within the very clouds. There wasn’t much debate to be had. I had to turn around.

Almost...

…there’s still more to see.

This promise is whispered somewhere between the fir trees and the stones. But I hear it as plainly as if it had been shouted within a library. I understand it with a knowing that feels visceral. Feels ancient. Feels inherited.

There’s still more path to travel.

The road has not ended.

The possibilities for expansion lie ahead.

The opportunity to do more remains.

Because I accepted “Almost…”, there will be many tomorrows where I am able to venture into, “…show me more.”

Every almost love.

Every almost win.

Every almost career.

Every almost story I can tell from the vault that holds my 39 years of life.

As I turned and retreated from that false summit, I noted the peculiar swell in my chest. Not dejected, not disappointed, but excited for what is yet to come: paths without conclusions and a lifetime of false summits that hold the promises of endless valley views and cloud kissed winds.

“So how did it go?” She asks.

It’s been two weeks.

And I can’t hide my smile, my pride, fulfilled and content at last with “Almost…”