If I’d been thinking, the fog would have been appropriate. But I wasn’t, then. She has that effect on me, sometimes.
The lady and I were in Revelstoke last weekend, taking a trip up the mountain. The weather wasn’t stellar- fine, warm enough, but a little damp. Waiting in line in the car to get into the path up the mountain, we wondered if it was going to rain.
It didn’t until we drove to the first stop, where we could see out over the town. I was thankful for an umbrella I had in my trunk completely by accident. We weren’t dressed for an actual hike, more a touristy one.
We drove on, and the rain came and went, the path winding higher and higher up the mountain. We stopped periodically to take in the view, and enjoy the moments.
Talking about relationships is weird for me. My own history with women has made me twitchy about it. I wonder if it’s a dream, and worry that talking about it will make it disappear. I worry about saying too much, or too little. But it’s real good. She’s amazing. Smart, thoughtful, gorgeous, and puts up with my awful jokes. What more matters, really?
The idea of it being a dream, that’s how the fog fit. Would I watch her go into the mist and disappear, go from my life completely when the sun came out? No, that’s absurd. But emotion, uncertainty, makes absurd possible, even amidst a mountain of evidence otherwise. Love is weird that way.
We elected to walk the last trail to a summit, a decision we soon regretted when the rain kept coming, and it started to get colder. I was grateful for the accidental umbrella, but just as much for the company. I couldn’t imagine sharing that with anyone but her. She saw my goodness, my struggles, conversations and thoughts deep into evening and night, and accepted me, encouraged me, challenged me. That’s an amazing thing.
I didn’t think much of the rain and cold as we walked. She was there, and that was enough to push me to climb higher, farther, walk on to the highest peak.