Page 30 of Aim for Love

She makes a face and looks away. I’m worried I annoyed her with my inability to keep my thoughts to myself. Myworriesto myself.

“It’s not that,” she says. “I might not be axe-throwing if it wasn’t for Nora and Sophie, or I might notstillbe axe-throwing if not for you. But I like that. I like getting the chance to do something I wouldn’t normally do because of the people I can do it with. It’s sort of a luxury to keep going back over and over. My friends in Denver would give up after one try. And I’d decide I was bad at it and never go back again.”

“You could spend a lot of time only doing things once,” I observe. Most of the people who come on our adventure tours do that. They try things once, decide they know enough about it, and probably spend the rest of their lives talking about that one time they did it.

“I’m kind of tired of that shallow life,” Mollie says, so quietly I almost can’t hear her over the rain. “I could stand to go deep on a few more things.”

And then it starts pouring. I don’t think the afternoon shower will last long, but it’s turned the air chilly and Mollie and I are both wearing summer clothes—padded shorts and light jerseys. I can’t believe I didn’t pack rain jackets. Of course it’s going to rain in Telluride in the afternoon. But they weren’t in my pack.

I offer her my arm to nestle under for warmth and she does without hesitation. We stand under the trees, shivering and looking out at the puddles forming, and I wonder if she feels the same way I do: that we’re lucky.

Last night, I started reading a book about the art of letting go. It says that knowing you can’t hold onto something can make it seem even more precious—and that in itself is a good reason to be willing to let go. Holding on can be a hindrance, the book claims.

Even though it’s not going to last, in this moment, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere except right here with Mollie. She’s putting out heat next to me, which probably means she’s freezing, but she’s smiling out at the weather. And she’s holding onto me.

Maybe, if this were forever, it wouldn’t feel as good to me.

This is somethingI'mnot good at: enjoying a moment that won’t come again. Damn if I’m not going to try.

The Trouble Trio are trying to convince Mollie not to be nervous about the overnight stay in the woods.

“Well, when was the last timeyouspent the night on the ground?” She finally asks, logically. “In bear country?”

“Oh come on, we don’t have to worry about bears.” Standing safely in the lobby of the adventure center, one of the guys looks completely confident in his incorrect statement.

“We are definitely camping in bear country,” I volunteer. “That’s why we’re bringing a bear can.”

“A bear can?” repeats Sophie, sounding doubtful.

The guy trying to score with Mollie puffs up. “They’re more scared of us than we are of them.”

“That might be true, but when there’s food involved, it changes the equation,” I say. I’ve given this spiel a hundred times. I look around to ensure everyone else in the lobby is listening. I’ve caught their attention by talking about bears, an animal most of them would have never seen outside a zoo. “Themost important thing is to keep the bears from associating food with humans. That is dangerous for both us and them.”

I sit them all down in front of the laptop I set up in the lobby and have them watch one of the educational videos my friend Valentine made. It teaches about bear safety, and since it’s fast-paced and cut for social media, it’s fun to watch.

It’s only an overnight trip. We’ll drive deep enough into the mountains not to hear highway traffic and then walk a few miles, in a loop that will bring us directly back to the car the next day. We’ll see an alpine lake and a waterfall on the trip, as an incentive. But it’s an easy trail with mild elevation gain and we’ll be back tomorrow.

Still, Scott and I prepare like we’re going to war.

Besides the bear can, the most important thing I’m bringing on this trip is pain meds. I know from experience there’s going to be a lot of complaining about the weight of the backpacks and the miles we’re putting in—even though we set a slow pace.

I look over at Scott, who rattles a bottle he’s putting in his bag at me. I grin and rattle mine back.

I’d like to catch a moment or two alone with Mollie this trip. Maybe take her up above the waterfall, where we don’t usually take the group for fear of eroding the trail with too many feet. I haven’t talked to Scott about it, worried he’ll tease me for breaking the rules. I’ve warned him before to put distance between himself and women on these trips, where they might feel the forced proximity like a threat. It would be fair for him to remind me of that advice.

Mollie had asked me if we could share a tent and I had to tell her I didn’t think it was a good idea. But I liked that she’d asked.

When we head out, everyone is in a cheerful mood. Sophie, Nora, and the 20-something Trouble Trio whose names seem interchangeable are rowdy in the back of the van we drive to the trailhead.

Within two hours into the back country hike, there are complaints. They’re the usual ones about the weight of the bags, even though Scott and I are carrying more than our share of the weight for the trip. And there are doubts about the elevation gain, which is gradual but steady. I remind everyone of the beautiful lake we’ll see later today. “It’s an alpine lake. It’s above tree line.”

When no one is looking, I check in with Mollie. She’s been quiet so far on the hike. “Feeling OK? No hot spots in your shoes? How’s the bag fitting?”

She shakes her head, eyes on her feet. “I’m OK. Ready to get there.”

“We have another couple of hours,” I warn her. “Let me know if you need a break.”

She nods. She acts determined to tough it out, which worries me. Complainers are annoying, but at least they’re not going to suffer in silence. The quiet ones are the ones who let blisters form that prevent them from walking or sneak food into their tent that attracts wildlife.

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