By Courtney Lowery, Saturday, July 1, 2006
When I first re-met my boyfriend Jacob (I say re-met because we first met when I was 13. He was the cutest boy at the Centerville track meet and I'd crushed on him ever since), he asked me to a film festival. It progressed quite classically from there: A few dates in public places then the true test, a hike.
In the Rockies, the dating dance is a little different than in most places. One of the first things you do with a prospective mate is go hiking, biking, kayaking, rafting, fishing ... you get the idea.
My friend Tam says an outdoor activity "is one up from meeting for coffee, but below going to dinner."
Not only does it give you a chance to get to know each other without having to stare across a table, wondering if that spinach from lunch is stuck in your teeth, but it also gives you a chance to see if you're compatible recreationists. This is perhaps the true harbinger of a successful relationship here in the West.
Last week, I went to a wedding in Billings. One of the neighbor boys I grew up with was marrying a nice, and very active, young woman from there. The tables at the reception were decorated with river rocks and the party favors were little bags of rock-looking jellybeans tied to carabineers.
Strewn about the Elks Lodge were pictures of Marc and Kathy on rafts, in climbing helmets and atop backcountry skis. When it came time for the toast, the best man, Marc's brother Eric, stood up to say a few words. He said he couldn't think of a better match for his brother. (I'm paraphrasing here. It was an open bar and I wasn't about to set my vodka/tonic down to take notes). Eric said any woman who could love to ski, hike, climb and raft as much as his brother could was a perfect match.
It's true that around here, how two people work together while hiking, biking or kayaking can be a big indicator of the relationship as a whole -- or your possible relationship, as it were.
Tam, who is now happily married, devised a simple test with her friend Tammy when she lived in Idaho.
"Failure of the test," she says, is while hiking with a prospective mate, "seeing someone's ass disappear over the hill a quarter mile ahead of you."
She says, "It came down to what was more important: hiking as fast as you could or getting to know the person you're on a date with."
When giving a male co-worker advice this week, Tam said, "Demonstrate that you have the capability to HANG OUT"
Jacob got this test about a year ago when I went to visit him in Glacier National Park, where he was working as a backcountry ranger.
Since we were still kind of new, I was a little nervous about how I would perform. I'm a fast hiker, with short, but powerful legs and decent lungs. But, I have a different philosophy on hiking than perhaps Jacob does.
Hiking is my best form of meditation. I like to stay on trail, take my time and look at what is happening around me. I stop for water and look at flowers. I stop for food and look at trees. I stop for food again and take in a view. You get the idea.
Jacob, on the other hand, has a fantastic exploratory take on the backcountry. His insatiable curiosity about the world is one of the things I love most about him. It's also one of the things that make my legs hurt the worst when we're hiking. He wants to see what's up there, and what's down there and what the valley might look like from the top of that incredibly steep, scree-lined peak.
This particular trip, we climbed Chief Mountain -- a spectacular, sacred peak at the east border of the park. I hung in as we climbed the aforementioned scree -- scree I thought would never end. I bushwhacked out with him in shorts, emerging with bloodied shins and gaping holes in my thighs from the branches I'd hit. But I sucked it up. I wanted him to see that I was tough enough to hang with him -- that I wasn't one of those whiny girlfriends who minded small things like blood and bruises.
But, it all bottled up and exploded on our hike out. We'd been hiking for a while and I was getting tired. I asked if we could stop for a slurp of water. He suggested we keep going to the fence line and stop there. So, I trodded on. But, after a few minutes, I started my irrational seething. "I'm just going to go at my own pace and if doesn't wait for me, it will be a sign," I thought. (By the way, this all happened before I heard of Tam's rule, so really, the reaction is universal.)
He didn't slow up. I slowed down even more to up the ante in my make believe bet with him. He still didn't flinch. By the time he got to the fence line, I was a good half-mile back. He sat down, grabbed his water bottle and took off his pack. I was furious now, hiking faster to catch up.
Once I got to where he was sitting, I kicked him in the leg.
Yes, I kicked him.
I don't know what came over me. I haven't kicked anyone since Mark Larson called me a water buffalo in the fourth grade.
I said, "If you wanted to hike alone, I would have stayed HOME!"
It's been legend ever since.
I was convinced it all meant we weren't meant to be. (That was me being irrational again. I have a tendency to do that from time to time -- especially when tired, bloody and hungry.) But, the truth is, it's not that he didn't notice I was falling behind. He just wanted to get to the fence line faster -- knowing I needed water and a rest. So he was being empathetic. I just didn't see that, and he didn't communicate it very well. Just because we didn't hike at the same pace didn't mean we didn't belong together -- in the backcountry or not. Outdoor recreation is more than just a shared hobby in a relationship. It's deeper than that -- deeper than just being able to keep up with each other.
One of the first things Jacob and I talked about on our first few dates was how much we loved Montana. We have similar stories. We both grew up in small communities in central Montana. After college, I went to Omaha for a job. He went to Indiana for grad school. We both came back to Montana the same week. Neither of us could stand to be away from this geography. Both of us made a conscious choice to move back.
On our first hike together (our third date), as we neared the top of Sawmill Gulch outside of Missoula, we sat down in the grass to take in the view. He put his arm around me and we both just sighed. He later told me how great it was to finally be able to share this with someone and know she appreciated it as much as he did.
That was the day I started dreaming about out lives together. I'd known since I met him at that track meet that he could be the one for me. (And dreamed about it all through high school). But, that day looking over Missoula, I knew that I finally found someone I could turn to and sigh -- and have him understand exactly what I meant. It happened while we were hiking, yes, but the connection was so much more than just sharing a hobby. That's when I knew we really were meant to be together.
This weekend, Jacob and I are backpacking into the same area in Glacier. He's forewarned me that he wants to go off trail on the trip out. I've agreed.
Wish me luck. Or better yet, wish Jacob's leg luck.
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