Sometimes you need to let life — and other hikers — just pass you by.

It was a crisp Sunday morning in the golden hills surrounding San Diego. Wispy white clouds hung low, cooling the earth. Soon, the scorching summer sun would burn it all away, and the hills would sizzle as lizards, birds, and hikers retreated in search of shade.

I had begun my hike in a hurry, then paused after spotting a blue silhouette walking toward me from the adjacent road. I saw a man, mid-to-late thirties, in a blue sun hoodie and trail runners, carrying a beaten trekking pole. Years of trail experience were etched into his legs and sun-worn face. In him, I saw a kindred spirit. More than a mere hiker, the man was an outdoorsman, who would probably pass everyone on the path ahead of him.

“Except me,” I thought. My face grew grave as the competitive spirit flared within me. For the past few weeks, I had been climbing this mountain in competition with myself, pushing harder and harder to carve out a faster time. I didn’t want the hiker to pass me and then throttle my pace if we began leapfrogging up the path.

With my hundred-foot head start, I zigzagged up the slope, pushing myself to put distance between us, but pacing myself so as to not overexert my legs. For ten minutes, I chugged along, passing saunterers and gawkers who were taking their time along the well-trodden path. Eventually, I came to a halt in order to give right of way to a woman heading down the trail with her dog. She was followed by two shirtless trail runners. As I waited, I saw the blue-shirted outdoorsman close the space between us and decided to let him pass me in case he was faster. As he did, I gave a friendly hello.

“Great pace, man,” he said between breaths.

There are few feelings better than a stranger complimenting your trail pace, and I let the praise wash over me with delight.

“Thank you,” I said earnestly.

As he passed, I followed behind, staying enough to keep him in my sights, but never close enough to signal that I wanted to pass. I admired his pace, and concluded that my uphill was slightly faster than his, while his flat was faster than mine. By the time we reached the peak, he was a good 30 seconds ahead of me, and I was glad that he had passed me. It refreshing to chase someone up the mountain. Besides, during the final ascent, a dull ache had crept into my muscles from repeated climbs up this route, and I had felt my edge over the trail slipping away. Just before I reached the peak, the outdoorsman and I passed each other again, each offering one final nod of approval.

He was not the only person on the trail that morning. As I approached the peak, I noticed several others, including a fit woman in her late thirties, wearing a blue tank with matching shorts — an outfit that indicated a regular correspondence with the gym. Her expression was grave, her eyes cool and impersonal. 

The rules of the trail may be unwritten and unposted, but they’re there all the same.

As I reached the peak, I checked my watch and found myself with a much better time than I had expected. After a minute of taking in the familiar vista below, I headed down the flat portion of the trail in an easy jog. Although I was dressed in typical hiking gear—a loose, long-sleeve button-up and gym shorts — I also wore a pair of trail runners and a hydration vest in case I wanted a harder workout. When the trail became steeper, I slowed to a steady hike. Then, as it flattened out again, I began a fast, controlled descent down the mountain. I usually prefer this downhill stride. Compared to a reckless run, it feels almost zen, like I’m dancing along the mountain as it carries me on its back.

I overtook a man wearing cargo shorts; he pulled over and nodded while letting me pass. Not far ahead of him, I saw the woman in gym wear and quickly caught up to her. As I did, I cleared my throat and dragged my feet, a hiker’s way of indicating that you’d like to pass. Oddly, she didn’t seem to notice. She wasn’t wearing headphones or earbuds, so I followed behind her, wondering if she was just waiting for an open spot to move aside. She never did.

“Pardon me, do you mind if I pass you?” I asked politely a few seconds later.

“Oh, let me speed up,” she mumbled without turning to face me, before galloping down the trail a good thirty paces, kicking up dust and rocks.

Given that she had started down the mountain a few minutes before I did and that I had been able to close that distance of, oh a thousand paces, I knew those thirty wouldn’t keep me from catching up to her again. Inconvenienced by her lack of courtesy, my soul heaved a mighty sigh. No more than 20 seconds later, I was back behind her. Still she refused to move over. Modesty, it seems, was not a part of her vocabulary. She wordlessly ran down the trail another 30 paces before slowing down.

This pattern continued a half-dozen times. She’d run ahead, I’d catch up, then she’d run ahead again. Tangled in this fever dream, I tried to make sense of her cause. I thought she might have feared for her safety, but in my experience, most women would rather have a strange guy walking ahead of them, not behind.

Unable to pass her, my mood soured as I continued to greet hikers heading up the mountain. Watching the rude woman scrape along the trail, I studied her footwork. It was muddy, and she trotted without grace and control. I could tell she wanted to break into a proper jog but was hindered by the loose rocks on the trail.

“Sorry Dorothy, you ain’t on a treadmill anymore,” I thought.

As the trail steepened into a narrow slope, I asked again whether I could pass, but she ignored me. Irritated that I couldn’t descend at a comfortable stride, I felt my legs beginning to stall. I was taking half steps now, but because of her poor footwork, the distance closed between us anyway, and I barreled down the mountain trampling on her shadow while she bounded down the mountain like a drunken steer.

Once the trail flattened, her drunken trot became a pitiable jog. Tired of butting up against her, I decided to get off the trail as quickly as possible and switched into a jog for the remaining half mile, hoping that she would recognize my speed and let me pass. But again, she refused to let me by, and sprinted down the path before settling into a jog again. Denied the most basic etiquette of hiking, I became apoplectic.

Like a terrier, I ran to stay behind her, never keeping more or less than ten feet between us; just far enough to indicate that I didn’t want to pass because I knew she wouldn’t let me, but just close enough to keep her from comfortably slowing down. Minutes passed by as I ran behind her in spite, until we finally arrived at the trailhead, and I slowed to a walk while she jogged on a hundred paces into the street before doing the same.

Driving away, I saw her one final time out of the corner of my eye. She stood behind her car, facing the open trunk, watching me like an entitled brat. I thought of every cruel thing I wanted to say to shame her and let her know that she was one of the rudest hikers I had ever had the misfortune of meeting on the trail. But then I thought, “Happiness is the best revenge.” It would be better to deny her the satisfaction of a confrontation. So I drove away without batting an eyelash at her.

As to why she refused to let me pass — beats me. Perhaps she thought she was faster than me and didn’t want to leapfrog. Perhaps she felt threatened by me, despite the fact we were constantly passing uphill hikers. Perhaps she’d been watching the Olympics and was imbued with a competitive spirit. I’ll let readers come to their own conclusions. Whatever her reasoning, I hope she’s satisfied with her pace running down the mountain. I am with mine.