In hiking, mountaineering, and other alpine pursuits, a false summit refers to a point initially perceived as the final destination or apex, but, having been reached, instead reveals a new vantage from which the true destination, further still, can be observed.
PRE-ORIENTED
From the beginning, I knew what I was at college to do. Academic success was everything. It was my means to stay gone. It was jet fuel for my ego. It was the bulk my identity. I was on a targeted mission to claim a spot in the upper-middle class, and everything aligned to that destination. No internal friction existed. I didn’t just need a diploma; I needed to distinguish myself. Good grades equaled an opportunity to secure a good job, and I would fight for the best possible chance. This was serious. I knew I only had one shot, and I would not squander it.
I set a straightforward target early on: I would aim for the highest academic honor possible, graduating Summa Cum Laude, i.e. achieving a 3.9+ cumulative GPA. Extremely ambitious but possible. I had no excuses. Things were straightforward and predictable now that I had 800 miles separating me from the distraction of navigating perpetual crisis. This was bliss. Unlimited quiet. Permission to rest. It was like a permanent weekend at Dad’s house, and I was profoundly grateful. With security, stability, and control of my own space established, all I had to do was learn.
THE FRESHMAN
Lofty academic aims aside, a full on nerd-bot approach proved unnecessary. I took things seriously, but found there was plenty of margin. It was college after all, not a monastery. Once assured that I could handle business in the classroom with time to spare, I let out the reigns and struck a balance between coursework and a social life. The two became my 1A and 1B, expressed more accurately as the loose ratio of 1(A)cademics to 1(B)eer. I found time to attend the house parties, make friends, and hold a few nice girl’s hands without losing sight of the bigger picture.
After first semester concluded, there was one proposition outside of academics that I was surprisingly keen on. It had become clear that almost all of my upperclassmen friends were part of the same organization, a fraternity, and, naturally, I wanted to be a part of it. These guys had the most confidence and charisma I had ever seen, and it seemed to flow from different sources depending on the brother in question: athletic prowess, acerbic wit, easy charm, raw intelligence, genuine kindness. They were a diverse group (in terms of interests, beliefs, and socioeconomic status at least), but tastes converged on hanging out, drinking beer, and throwing parties. I, too, enjoyed these pursuits. More than anything, though, they struck me as a genuinely tightknit group. These were not “brothers” in name only; they were a big, strange, loyal family, and I badly wanted what they had.
Freshman year became a blur of books, beer, and brotherhood. I pledged the fraternity second semester, which was also when I earned my worst grades in college. This became a bit of a running joke as the performance was still pretty damn good: three “A”’s and one lousy whore of a “B+”. Nerd-bot indeed. With results to measure against, my academic goal actually seemed possible. Things were going well. I had my 1A and 1B, but another critical decision lay ahead. Thus far, I had taken an equal distribution of English Literature and Economics courses, deeply enjoying both, but I could not fence-sit forever: I needed to declare one subject as my major.
SOPHOMORE
The choice between English and Economics felt like choosing between my left half and my right. I was torn then, and, to be honest, I am still torn fifteen years later. The creative versus the practical. The intangible versus the quantifiable. One discipline that fed me and one that could feed me. Ultimately, I saw economics as a sure path to gainful employment, a necessity of my sustained escape. The way forward with English was unclear, and any risk of failure in the near term was not tolerable. Admittedly, the dual-major option existed, but that would increase the difficulty of my overall goal: graduating with an eye-catching GPA. Thumbing my nose at Frost, I opted for the pragmatic path. I wed Economics but kept English as a mistress, loving both, but feeling most alive in dalliance.
Econ came easily. Concepts seemed to upload directly into my brain like training programs in the Matrix. At the undergraduate level, the mathematics involved did not extend beyond calculus and linear algebra; the crux came in understanding incentives and cause and effect. How do individuals, businesses, and governments use their limited resources and why? What is optimal for various parties? I was fascinated. Fundamental ideas like opportunity cost (the best alternative you must forgo to get something), marginal utility (the incremental value gained from each additional unit) and, of course, the sunk cost fallacy (reluctance to abandon a course of action even if it beneficial to do so) lodged themselves permanently into my mind available to call upon for countless decisions throughout my life.
English was a challenging but worthwhile minor. A dense, classic text is like a gold mine. You might have to swing a pickaxe or plant dynamite, but you are bound to walk away with some very valuable nuggets. Good authors provide uncanny psychological profiles and windows into complex relationships and motivations, which, if explored, develop real-life insight. Through prolonged and continuous digestion of rich texts, I fine-tuned my own human pattern recognition. I could take the measure of a person much faster because I had already met a version of them on the page. I did not hold myself above such scrutiny and constantly deployed these mental models against my own behavior. English gave me what I didn’t know I wanted: a better understanding of others and a better understanding of myself.
JUNIOR
Junior year was busy but also my favorite. With the major decision made, my education could progress, and I happily twined knowledge from my two academic disciplines. Meanwhile, the driving force of my 1B had taken shape. By that point, I was living in the fraternity house, a glorious bastion of masculinity if not hygiene. The lot of us met weekly as a full group of fifty for Chapter Meetings during which fraternity business was hashed out. Communication was direct, acerbic, and hilarious. Familiarity and affection allowed for the sort of scintillating verbal abuse that might cause strangers to come to blows. I relished these meetings. Among many things, they taught me how to earn and maintain respect. I had gradually taken on more responsibility within the organization since becoming a brother, and, now, when I spoke in our meetings, people tended to listen.
The following semester, I was elected president of the fraternity. It was one of the most demanding things I did in college, but I felt called to do it. I was indebted to the institution that had given me no less than a surrogate family. Although overseeing a squadron of testosterone addled exuberants kept me up nights, I managed to find a balance. Thankfully, I had my classes on autopilot by that point. I could determine exactly what an “A” required and plot the most efficient course. Overall, life was good. Everything made sense. My 1A was solid, I had realized my full potential with the 1B, a relationship had solidified with my college girlfriend. There were no decisions left to make, just execution, like shifting into fourth on a backroad.
When the year wrapped up, I did a little GPA math. If I notched a 4.0 first semester senior year, I could theoretically crack the elusive 3.9 cumulative GPA, but only if I took a full courseload second semester plus an additional, superfluous class and again delivered a 4.0. This plan was certifiable to even consider, especially for the typical burned out college senior content to focus on their senior thesis and otherwise coast to the finish line. The reasonable route called out its siren song: “Why try so hard? Take blow-off classes. It’s senior year. Relax. You’ve earned it. Magna Cum Laude honors is respectable. Have some fun.” It sounded good. Logical. Yes! Yes, Sirens! I will! Wheel out the kegs! Pour the whiskey! But backing down didn’t sit right. It never does. Another voice nagged at me. I’d heard it before, and again it spoke a single, irresistible phrase: “To have come so far only to end the campaign in cowardice?”
SENIOR
To the astonishment and displeasure of my fellow seniors, I doubled down in an outrageous bid for academic glory. They knew they’d lost a drinking buddy. I tip my cap to that young version of myself. He had so much to prove and the balls to try. Curiously, the moment I made the decision to take the hard path and honor the goal I set for myself, everything became clear. I saw the path. The weighty crown of fraternity leadership passed on to my successor, and, unburdened, I focused my full faculties on the daunting courseload in front of me.
Meanwhile, the all-important on-campus recruiting events approached. Delicious jobs for all us hungry peasants. The most coveted opportunity available to the Economics majors (and perhaps the campus as a whole) was an analyst position with one of the “Big Four” management consulting firms. The fucking big boys. They offered the best money, best opportunity, best everything. Only one slot was up for grabs, and I fully intended to grab it. I tuned up my resume, drafted a cover letter, and threw my hat into the ring.
I got an interview. Goddamn right, I thought. When the day arrived, I was fully zen. It sounds arrogant, but I felt so strongly that if I wasn’t the genuine article then no one was. I knew smooth talkers with mediocre grades and nerds who couldn’t make eye contact with a lamppost, but I didn’t know one motherfucker in the department like me. I had the knowledge and the poise. My confidence level was absurdly high, but it still had roots in reality.
I prepped the night before and the morning of, just like I would for an important test, then suited up, showed up, and performed. When the business development office secretary called me back after the first round and inquired conspiratorially “They want to bring you back for a second round. Can you come back as soon as possible? You’re the only one they’re asking!” I answered in the affirmative, hung up, and fist-pumped hard like Tiger on Sunday while whisper-screaming: “Fuckin’ come on Bayyyybayyyy!!! Come on!!! Fuck Yeah!!! Yes!!! Yes!!!”
The second round interview flowed like water. I knew it was mine to lose. A few days later I received a call from the hiring partner offering me the position. An offer package arrived a few days later. I was floored. The base pay was insane. There was a signing bonus. Five-weeks paid vacation. I was drunk on realized ambition. Then, I was legitimately drunk on whatever we had on hand (shitty light beer most likely). I had done what I needed to do, and now I had my chance. Everything worked out. My ego boomed a happy, naive refrain from my dopamine-flooded brain: “The system actually works! Life is fair after all! Meritocracy! The American Dream! Rags to riches!” The world does have a tendency to seem fair when you are winning.
A few weeks after I received my offer, the firm invited all prospective hires to the office where we would begin our careers if we decided to join the firm. The event was called Explore Your Offer (EYO) and consisted of a never-ending, technicolor, love bomb barrage of gifts, spectacle, and ego-stroking. This was the final push to get us all to accept our offers, as if anyone really needed it. They had us all in the bag, this was just the clincher.
The experience was overwhelming. We met on the highest floor of the tallest building in the city. The reception was opulent. Everyone was perfectly dressed, perfectly articulate, perfectly poised. Despite the heady swirl of prestige and potential permeating the room full of magnates and young talent, I didn’t feel out of place. In fact, it felt right. I belonged there. I knew it. My mind whispered reassurances as I shook the hand of another millionaire: “You’ve worked your entire life to be in this room. You proved out. You get to be one of them. You did it, Charlie. You won. Enjoy it.”
I have considered this off and on for fifteen years, and, wishing otherwise, I believe that evening was the best night of my life. Having been wined and dined past midnight alongside half-a-dozen other whip smart twenty-two year old world-beaters, I wandered back to my hotel swaying from the celebration. Rain beaded on the shoulders of my good grey suit as waves of catharsis crashed within. This was it. I had my golden ticket. I saw my whole life laid out ahead of me: a man who escaped his past, who could be loved, who was not fundamentally damaged. I would wipe it all away. I would make partner. I would make millions. I would rise. Looking up at the towering building whose heights held my deepest hopes, I laughed through happy tears. It was a triumph of perfect ignorance.
ACCOLADES
I returned to campus possessed by quiet certainty. I had a fat fucking bird in the hand now, but a significant one remained in the bush: Summa. I wanted it, and I wanted it bad. The job was one thing, but I sensed this was the bigger prize. The very fact that there was no logical reason to try so damn hard made it apparent that this was something that came from deep within. I guess the sparkly, fuck-off job wasn’t the the entire point after all. Summa belonged to a different category that I could not quite put my finger on at the time. It was about establishing my own definition. I wanted this accomplishment cemented inside me forever as a compass point, a pure truth I could orient myself to in times of doubt or darkness.
Somehow, I pulled it off. The buzzer beater went in. I turned in back-to-back 4.0 semesters. All of my four-year wagers hit at once and an embarrassment of recognition flowed to me. I was Summa Cum Laude. Third in my class of 457. First in my major awarded the Senior Project Prize in Economics for best thesis. They threw in Phi Beta Kappa, too, like a set of steak knives and asked me to introduce the college president at a speaking engagement, join panels, and do media for the school. I felt like a big fish in a medium pond for a couple of heady months, equal parts humbled and bewildered, and existed in a dreamy state of disbelief.
In a blink, graduation day arrived. It was outside and it was hot. Despite what the brochure covers would have you to believe, it was a sea of lily-white skin sizzling under strong May sun. Everyone was rosy cheeked and red-nosed for pictures. My body baked under my black gown waiting for my name to be called but my mind was miles away. For me, the college chapter had ended weeks before the ceremony; I began shifting focus to the next challenge the moment I saw my final grades. When the master of ceremonies finally announced my full name followed by Summa Cum Laude, I crossed the stage to applause, wax wings glistening in the sun, thinking of a towering building and what I would have to do to reach the top.
Onward. Always.
Half Good Hiker