The High Point of Highpointing
By Gentry Patterson
Three months ago I was straining against my seatbelt, peering over my right shoulder to get a good look at the sun through the back windshield of Tom’s Subaru. It was big, orange, and well on its way to the horizon. Squinting, I frowned and turned back around.
“Update me.”
I watched over his shoulder as Brian looked down at his phone and swiped left to pull up the Google Maps interface, a tiny blue triangle representing our expedition party on the screen. In big green letters below the map, the intel I was looking for. Eight minutes.
Brian turned in his seat to face me. “Looks like we’re almost there.”
A few minutes later, at the direction of the GPS, Tom pulled the car over and parked in the grass just off the side of the highway, easing to a stop in front of a tiny metal sign reading “Jerimoth Hill.” Behind the long shadow of the little sign, we could see a footpath leading into the woods.
The mighty summit of Jerimoth Hill
I leaped out of the car and sprinted down the trail, making it to a small clearing around an unassuming, knee-high rock just in time to snap a few selfies in the remaining dusk.
A few minutes later Brian and Tom walked up, looking around curiously for the “High Point.” I pointed at the unimpressive boulder between the three pine trees in front of me. In the fading twilight, I saw Tom raise his eyebrows.
“Oh, neat,” mustered a mildly interested Brian. I couldn’t help but chuckle at their reactions.
For me, this was a major event. Jerimoth Hill, a half-buried block of limestone nestled atop a gentle slope in western Rhode Island, is the highest geographic point in the state. This was my 26th High Point, a significant road mark on my now three-year-long journey to visit every such point in the United States.
Standing over the little boulder in the pines, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Another one off the list. I’m over halfway now, I thought to myself. I’m really doing it.
With a grin, I nodded at my friends. “There’s cold beer waiting on us in Providence. What do you say we hit the road?”
It was unanimous. We headed back to the car.
Driving into the city, watching the headlights of cars pass us on the highway, I reflected on my progress. Twenty-six! I smiled again to myself. Twenty-six High Points. Is this where I expected to be in my twenty-sixth year around the sun?
The coincidence of timing amused me and prompted a deeper reflection. Where had I expected to be at the age of 26? Maybe a doctor, or a famous scientist? A world-renowned author, explorer, or artist? As a teenager, I never had trouble imagining futures for myself. I was an 18-year-old with a diploma and a college scholarship in hand. I believed that 10,000 bright and shiny potential futures lay ahead of me.
The only problem was choosing. That’s the catch when you think you have 10,000 futures. Ultimately, you only get to pick one.
In my mind, I always imagined this choice as a pivotal moment. The Big Decision. A “push all your chips onto the table,” all-or-nothing moment where you decide, once and for all, who you’re going to be.
With all those futures on the table, I wonder if my 18-year-old self would have been surprised to find out that I wound up on a rock in the woods in Rhode Island.
The fact is, I had no idea which future I wanted, and I wasn’t about to take a one in ten thousand chance of choosing correctly. What if I chose incorrectly? The thought filled me with existential terror.
So in the face of an impossible choice, I did the only thing that seemed logical. I dedicated myself to preserving options.
I thought to myself, as long as I’m keeping all of those 10,000 futures open as a possibility, I have time to gather information. I can learn what’s out there. I can kick the can down the road, and make the choice when I’m ready. When I’m prepared. Maybe I can take some of the risk out of the equation.
In college, I took interdisciplinary courses, where I could learn about as many subjects as possible. I bounced around several majors, before finally settling on Computer Science. It wasn’t my favorite subject, but I didn’t have a favorite subject, and Computer Science grads seemed to be getting plenty of job offers. In another word: options.
Post-grad I similarly bounced around. I tried archaeology, ecology, and real estate, all with some success. But I always felt the clock ticking, louder every year, and as I reached my mid-twenties, the evidence abounded on Facebook and in run-ins at the bar with old friends that many of my peers had already made their “choice.”
I found my high school buddy’s picture holding his freshly minted medical degree. I found a wedding invitation, or two, or three. I found my peers in all sorts of professional jobs and cities and graduate programs around the country.
And I found myself in Rhode Island.
It probably isn’t where 18-year-old me expected to wind up. But that’s okay. Because 18-year-old me had it wrong.
As it turns out, there is no “Big Choice.” There are just choices. Choices that eliminate some options and bring about others. What 18-year-old me failed to realize is that as time progresses, options fall away regardless of what you do. It’s an inevitability. But new options arrive in their stead.
It’s a process that takes place until you’re 80 or whatever and you wake up and realize that’s it, you lived it. There are no more potential futures—just the one life that you wound up living, and 9,999 potential pasts.
Somewhere along the line, I made a choice to visit the highest point of every state. It’s certainly not the only choice I’ve made for my life, nor did it feel like a particularly important choice when I made it. It was low stakes. No one would care if I made it to all fifty or not, maybe not even myself. It was a silly goal. It certainly didn’t feel like “The Big Choice.”
Yet, riding in that car, reliving the moments spent standing on the boulder in the woods, traveling through new lands and meeting new people, and drinking beer with good friends, I couldn’t help but feel peace. Jerimoth Hill may have been a mere 800 feet above sea level, but standing on that rock I was on top of the world.
I don’t know who I’ll end up becoming by the time I’m 80, or what choices I’ll have to face between now and then. All I know is that I’m not afraid to choose a good life spent with good people. Choosing to be a “High Pointer” has already afforded me a lifetime of adventure and memories with friends and loved ones.
The future is bright. I choose to live it.
Gentry Patterson is an American writer and cartographer living in Birmingham, Alabama. He loves to be outside and enjoys spending time with a good book. He leads the Dead Foot Book Club.
