One writer's tale of a weekend expedition to Maine that brought her and her partner closer together.
My boyfriend, Gates, was sullen in the other room, staring at a screen of thermal pants. We had just looked up the weather forecast for our weekend expedition to Maine, planned months ago, and it revealed that Saturday would be a high of six below zero, with a wind chill that would feel more like negative 20. I had been considering my clothing since November, putting essential items on my Christmas list. The weekend prior I’d gone to REI for an education on emergency bivvies and headlamps.
. But when I met Gates, I’d been in New York City for nine years. My tests of physical strength mostly happened in spin class. When he and I started hiking together, I was always less ambitious—ambivalent about going a certain distance or reaching a summit. We established a routine where he would propose a route and I would reluctantly agree to it. I remember shuffling my way up Mount Eddy in Northern California in July, when the heat had stripped our surroundings of greenery.
Gates and I both fell, over and over. Sometimes it wasn’t even on a downhill. I would just be standing, looking at the view, and suddenly a ski would slip out from under me. Gates was a gracious cheerleader, repeating “you got this!” as I tottered to my feet. In past relationships, I would have been embarrassed by my ineptitude, but Gates’s willingness to try, try again made me feel emboldened. , we drove three hours north to the trailhead.