On our first date in 2018, my now-wife said she wanted someone adventurous who loved nature. I was an insecure indoor nerd who loved air conditioning and video games. Naturally, I told her I was an avid hiker and camper.
I thought the lie would get me through drinks. I did not anticipate having to maintain it at altitude.
Seven years later, we’ve been married for three years and own $4,000 worth of ultralight gear. That is a considerable investment in being uncomfortable with slightly less weight on my back. Our living room has framed photographs of us on mountain peaks I reached while dry-heaving. They look lovely from the couch.
Every vacation is a four-day backcountry trek. Four days of cold rocks, mosquitoes, and dehydrated food eaten out of a foil pouch. I pretend to be having the time of my life while quietly missing every ordinary indoor convenience I have ever taken for granted.
I hate dirt. I hate bugs. I hate being cold. These are fairly significant obstacles to enjoying a hobby built around sleeping in dirt, near bugs, while cold. Yet here I am, equipped for it.
The worst part isn’t even the hiking. It’s the campfire afterward, when she looks at me with so much love and talks about how rare it is to find someone who shares her passion. She’s happy. We’re doing something she loves, together. And I’m sitting there knowing that the enthusiasm she remembers from our first date was an attempt to keep that date going.
I understand that I could tell her. I also feel about six years late to the conversation. There is now specialized equipment involved, along with a marriage and a small collection of photographic evidence against me.
So she looks across the campfire at her adventurous husband, and I look back in my expensive outdoor clothing. Somewhere at home, there is air conditioning and a video game I could be playing. Instead, I appear to have committed to dying on a mountain because I couldn’t risk saying I preferred staying inside.
