It’s true. My first time successfully surfing was at 4,000 feet in the White Mountains of New Hampshire - clutching onto a tree for dear life as an entire chunk of earth broke away from the rock and started sliding down the mountain face.

–

Perhaps we should have seen this coming. Our three hour drive from Boston often meant that we would be hiking in darkness on the first night out, and expected the interesting scenarios this often presented. Most memorably, a previous hike up the nearby Mount Mousilauke almost turned us both off from the White Mountains forever. The route, inexplicably recommended to me by my physical therapist on my last day of hamstring rehab, was essentially 3000 feet straight up a trail virtually devoid of flat footing. The light from our headlamps rarely had the chance to gaze questioningly at the infinite dark rocky staircase above, instead focusing on the minefield of sharp, slippery rocks at our feet. Without a doubt, it was the longest mile and a half I have ever travelled.

Aside from planning to summit the next morning (another three miles) and then return home, we had no particular time constraints. However, the steepness of the trail, and the density of the forest left no options for pitching a tent just anywhere. We would have to make it to the campsite. And had it not been for the despondent young man literally wailing about his life with a woman his parents would never accept, we would have missed the turnoff in the darkness.

–

In case you didn’t know, 80% chance of rain in the northeast roughly translates to: raining 80% of the day. This certainly proved true as the hike began in the waning sunlight of uneasy skies. A mere ten minutes from the car, I was already cursing my optimism and debating whether or not it was worth putting on my raincoat. I was soaked already.

Although the rain stopped twenty minutes later, as the trail wound its way upwards through birch and maple trees, the drops of water did not. They dripped steadily from the tips of every leaf, dropping on my arms, my face, and down the back of my neck. The ground was soaked, the trees shiny and greener than ever, and the ambient sound of the faux rain kept us company in the otherwise silent and impending darkness.

More rain came and went, and the trail steepened. Soon there were patches of dirty snow, piled up like little sand dunes, collecting pine needles for no particular reason. Aside from our silent questions about the unexpectedness of snow in late May, we had no particular hesitations. Then trail itself disappeared beneath small mountains of crunchy white crystals.

–

For a relationship that is literally always on the same page, hiking seems to throw us off. At the end of each day, our feelings, experience, and mood matches one another perfectly. But all the little moments along the way are vastly different. Sometimes, I am silent. I walk along quietly, as though completely alone. I don’t necessarily want to be alone, but I know there are precious few chances in life to experience this type of quiet.

In my experience, this is when women start worrying. Why isn’t he saying anything? Is he unhappy? Was it something I said?

I assume she has these thoughts, but I say nothing. Sometimes, that is when I am most quiet, when I know someone wants me to speak. Partially, it’s the subtle pressure to say the exact right thing - to start a conversation that will last for hours. Mostly though, I never speak just to fill the void. I let others do that. Then, I reciprocate with more silence.

–

The snow under our feet looked and sounded like giant grains of salt, but it felt like walking through tall grass at the edge of a swamp - you could plunge into an unseen gap at any moment. Sometimes you would drop in a only few inches, filling your boot with snow on the upstroke. Each quick save felt like a tiny victory in an otherwise sea of defeat. The defeats were less common, but neither of us remember it that way.

They always seemed to come when you least expected, after the inevitable pessimism had been washed away by the stubborn insistence that everything works out in the end. Usually the first thing I noticed was a 2×4 scraping hard along the length of my shin. At least it meant we hadn’t accidentally drifted away from the trail. The plank walkways, which had always been a hikers beacon, were now my worst enemy. A long white carpet of land mines hidden beneath the only road in or out.

The more determined I became, the harder I was tested. Soon, falling in up to my hip was no longer uncommon. No matter how much I hoped, it was always my right leg taking the plunge, pinning the left underneath me like a flamingo. The only way out was to reverse the fall. My left knee creaked and ached more with every extraction, cursing me for my 45 pound backpack, and blaming me for the ligament surgery seven years earlier. 

What seemed like hours must not have been. It was still light out. Barely.

–

Watching an elderly retired couple eating lunch in a restaurant, you understand. No one expects them to have anything to say to each other anymore. We forget about our last daylong car ride or hike with a lover. I now understand that when you spend every waking hour together, you run out of things to say pretty quickly. There isn’t anything the other person doesn’t already know.

I know she needs consistency. Unconditional love and support without judgement. What she never had growing up.

She knows that I keep things from her - but only when she needs me the most.

–

We are about to put on our headlamps when, suddenly, it is light again. The rain and sleet are gone. The increasingly thickening forest had obscured the distant blue skies, orange sunset, and storybook rainbow. Now that we have emerged, they illuminate a beautiful valley which spills out of the mountains into an infinite ocean of shimmering green treetops.

I know her well enough to know that we aren’t on the same page right now. Her eyes are already looking downward, searching for the path.

“But did you see the sunset…?”

“Uh-huh.”

To her it was a glance, but I wanted it to be a moment. Emerging from the trees like that, into a world of warmth and beauty. It was that perfect scene from a movie, too perfect to have actually happened.

But so was the next scene, for different reasons all together.

–

I hear the door close downstairs. She is quiet. Then suddenly, sobbing - wailing like someone just died. When she tells me, I wonder if she notices my reaction. How could I not judge her - all this for a bad haircut? It’s one of those things she knows I’ll never be able to understand.

But the message is clear. After two and a half years. After six straight weeks spending no more than an hour or two apart. I smile. There are still things I don’t know about her after all. 

–

I hold my hand up, signaling for her to wait while I find a safe path down the patch of steep, wet, and barren rock. Skirting around the edge, I grab a small tree for support. The stress is too much, and silently, the tree and everything that supports it begins to slide straight down the side of the mountain.

Now I must decide. Do I keep looking back at the woman I am about to marry, eyes deadlocked, as we silently and helplessly plead to one another for something, anything - a solution to this impending disaster? Or do I break the gaze that might grant me a few extra seconds of silent goodbye and handle this alone?

I split the difference and whirl around ready to leap from this snow-less avalanche. In the time it takes for my brain to process the unfamiliar scene unfolding, my windless sailboat runs aground. I look back at her. Four feet to the right, the rock slip-and-slide continues on for another hundred feet.

–

With me, she feels safe, and protected. Safe enough to do something like this. 

–  

As the sun sets for good, we plunge back into the forest, the cascading slippery rock steps behind us. It is dark again. She is shaking. I ask if she is okay. She yells: “I’m fine. Keep going.” She is not fine. 

I approach her carefully, then abruptly grab her by the shoulders. We are on flat land again, only a few minutes removed from my impromptu dirt surf. She struggles, but I force off her pack and wrap my arms around her. She is shaking more violently. Sobbing. I squeeze tighter.

I reach for her left hand, fingering the engagement ring. “Do you know what this means? It means I will protect you….always.”

Her cries soften, then stop.

–

In a measure of senseless pride, I hold off donning my headlamp, but silently insist she do the opposite.

Eventually I relent. but within fifteen minutes, mine is already sputtering. I say nothing, and quicken the pace. I am able to get by on the leftovers from her brilliant white light, stumbling when my body becomes the moon to her LED sunlight. I am my own, irritating eclipse.

But I know she does not want to lead. She knows I am stronger than her physically, and, although she never says it, mentally. My childhood wasn’t quite like hers, but it did require one thing - patience. And now I’m losing it.

I quell the escalating misery and stop for batteries. Our only spare set. I should have stopped earlier, after all, a twisted ankle at this moment would set us both into emergency panic mode. But neither of us wants to stop. We just want to get there. On the outside, I appear strong, but she understands what it means when I quicken the pace. One of us has to be strong, and she’s glad it’s me.

I am silent now.  The only words are spoken when one of us falls. “You okay?”

Finally, I want to speak. To distract her. To comfort her. But again, I don’t. This time for a different reason - she’ll see right through it. And she doesn’t want her weakness to be the underlying topic of conversation right now. She’s almost in survival mode.

–

I’m stunned for a few seconds, frozen like a flamingo. Again. This time my boot fills up with ice water. I take a few more steps and it happens - again. It’s still jarring - despite my expectations.

Is this what it was like for her as a child? Constantly torn between the hope of unseen support and the next inevitable disappointment?

I kid myself that there was nothing special about my childhood. There was. Nobody screwed it up.

–

When you realize your light can’t illuminate everything, you stop shining it outward. You point it at your feet and withdraw into your own little world. If you don’t speak, you may be able to eek out a few hundred more feet. Every sentence on the tips of your tongues sounds like it will be an admission of defeat. “Do you…?” “Should we…?” “What if…?”

–

Then, heads down and silent, minds quiet and empty, I see a signpost in the corner of my eye. Glad to have spotted it, but not amazed - I am well past the point where anything would surprise me. I say nothing and turn abruptly down a wet rocky trail. She follows, trying meekly to question our bearings, then silent again. But now, I can feel her smiling behind me.

The campground has a shelter. It’s the only vacant one I’ve ever seen in my life. Although we don’t speak, the silence is broken.

Standing there smiling, for the first time today, we are finally on the same page.