On August 28, 2009, I was at a low point in life.
New to Tucson, I had no friends I could count on. My awkward roommate literally dashed into her room every time she saw me in the kitchen.
Neither was I loving school from my two weeks of exposure. People I met were unnecessarily intense and always wore a worrying frown on their forehead that shaped like the word "loan."
To make things worse, I had no car, bike, or rickshaw to escape the suffocating reality and the scalding desert heat. I walked everywhere, fighting old blisters and adding new bruises on my feet. I dangled grocery bags along my arms like an overbearing Christmas tree.
It was at such a time that I unknowingly made one of the most important decisions in my life. I found in an old e-mail an announcement of a Mt. Lemmon trip.
I did not know the place. I did not know the group that was organizing the trip. I did not know what to expect.
But I wanted to get out of my room and meet people.
I wanted to see the possibility of being loving and being loved.
That was a hot, uninteresting Friday afternoon. Staring at the e-mail, I quickly weighed my options: to be killed by an unknown monster in the forest, or to be killed by boredom and the living and breathing freak people around me. I chose to die in honor and nobility.
In twenty minutes, I got changed, packed lightly, and ran to meet the driver.
Camping?
First time ever.
Just to illustrate how impulsive my decision was, here is a re-enactment of my mountaineering outfit on that day: a cross-back beach dress, high heeled flip-flop, and a baby doll cropped jacket.
My luggage contained three important personal items: a toothbrush, a towel, and a criminal law textbook.
Looking back, I was blissfully--or hopelessly--ignorant.
I hiked fashionably, with my heels tapping against rough stones and constantly trapped in soft pine needles.
I also realized that I should not have expected room services in a cabin. As a result of my oversight, I had to cuddle up in my thin towel that was losing threads on the edges and barely covered my upper body, and adjust my neck to rest uncomfortably against the bulky criminal law book. Needless to say, I was wide awake at night and emerged the next morning with dark eye circles and a stiff neck.
But all the embarrassment and humiliation seemed to pay off in an unexpected way. Thanks to my last minute decision to embrace the wilderness, I met a guy who had served as my driver, seeing-eye dog, hiking stick, and meal table mate throughout the trip.
What surprised me was that he was not judgmental and did not immediately jump to the conclusion that I was mentally retarded and unfit for life.
Well, that was probably because he had seen the worse of me even before we landed on the camp ground: I fell asleep in his beloved car, drooling, snoring, and swinging like a pendulum in the back seat as the car sped along the windy mountain roads.
On the night hike, he kindly allowed me to grab his right sleeve as I felt my way in the dark. Meanwhile, he crowded his left hand with a ridiculously powerful flashlight, a no-big-deal laser pointer, and a star-detecting device that looked like a radio and apparently did not work.
He tried to explain that his name was "coke in an hour" and unfortunately dropped the ex word on a number of occasions.
It was also crystal clear that he avoided saying my name at all costs, either because he couldn't pronounce it or because he didn't remember.
When he learned that I rolled in my shower towel, he opened the trunk of his unremarkable golf to reveal a full set of camping essentials.
I also saw him as a better self. I gobbled down my meal in seconds and then had plenty of time to watch him elegantly nibble carrots and chips. He talked about his college and childhood friends for hours, and I was both mesmerized and ashamed that I had no similar stories to reciprocate.
I liked to appreciate his chiseled profile and secretly hoped that he was not Jewish.
All in all, this person is potentially taken, startling outgoing, and has all the life skills that I don't have and all the pointless gadgets that I would love to dispose of one day, if I get a chance.
One thing for sure, he could be a good friend material. A very good friend.
Two years later, I went back to Mt. Lemmon. This time, I dressed much more appropriately and actually brought a sleeping bag. I looked around and found many familiar faces.
I came back with a mission. I wanted to make things right this time.
I attempted an hour-long hiking trip and survived. I gave myself a big pat on the shoulder. I had fulfilled my yearly quota of outdoorsiness.
I managed to drive home thanks to GPS and a forever patient and vigilant passenger. I couldn't believe that I had stayed awake for the entire time instead of plummeting the vehicle down the cliff.
People congratulated me on my engagement and prayed for my sanity in the coming months. I like people when they are genuine and caring. I used to know so many people who are not, and maybe I was one among them. That was why I did not like myself for so long.
And I probably overcompensated, too--to the point that I am going to marry this driver, seeing-eye dog, hiking stick, meal table mate, and my best friend in the years to come. This is what camping has done to me.
Happy anniversary love.
Thank you for taking me through such a life-changing journey with you.
Thank you for consistently loving me, calling me a funny girl, and making things work.
Thank you for turning all my wrongs into memories of beautiful mistakes.
Thank you for showing me how I can earn happiness by taking a little risk.
Thank you for sticking with me so that I can revisit the old camp ground, redeem myself, and bring our story to a full circle.
