Building an audio system reminds me of climbing a mountain. You hit a plateau that feels like the summit. Then you turn a corner and realize there's more above you, and you have to choose whether to keep going.
Terri and I love to hike. Most weekends we find a trail that climbs from the valley up to some ridge or saddle, and the rhythm of that climb is one of the small joys of our lives. You sweat your way up to a level spot, you stop to drink water, and the view opens up around you. For a few minutes you stand there feeling like you've arrived. The valley below is small. The peaks across the way look reachable. You can almost convince yourself that this is the top.
Then you walk a hundred yards further and the trail rises again. There's another shelf above you, another vista, another set of peaks behind the ones you thought were the highest.
Building a high-end audio system can feel very much the same. You finally get the DAC right, or the speakers are dialed in, or the room treatment is finished. For a few weeks, sometimes a few months, you sit in the listening seat, revelling in the fact you've cracked it. The sound is great. You're done. Then one night, something on a familiar recording surprises you. Or you visit a friend's place and hear what's possible at another level. The trail continues.
There's another ridge to climb.
The climb is the point. The destination doesn't actually exist — not in any final way — and that's not a frustration. It's the gift.
Every plateau on this trail comes with a real, legitimate view. You earned it. The music sounds better than it did. You hear things you couldn't hear before. Then you keep walking, because there's more, and because the walking itself turns out to be most of what we love about this.
Some of us have been on this trail for decades and we wouldn't trade the trail for the summit even if someone offered it to us.
The summit isn't the prize. The next ridge always is.
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