FINDING RELIEF THREE HOURS EAST

It’s no secret I’ve been struggling with my mental health lately. First, anxiety took centre stage, then depression decided to be the scene stealer. Wow, I’ve had some dark times this month although it’s also been dotted with decent days. Much of my mood depends on how I sleep—how often I awaken in the night, how long it takes to get back to sleep (if that happens at all) and the substance of my dreams which can leave me wiped out. Positive self-talk and a berry scone treat are rarely enough to shake off a severe case of the blues. 

 

I awoke Saturday feeling mildly off. Relatively speaking, that meant there was potential for it to be a better day. I’d managed enough sleep without disturbing dreams. Moments of doom popped into my head, but I had enough energy to bat them away. I quickly readied to leave my home and attempt a writing session at a café, no scone required. I wasn’t very productive, but I was out and about, a few pages of editing exceeding anything I’d done for days. Progress improved during a two-hour session in the central library’s reading room where silence is the strictly adhered to expectation save for the clod who forgets to turn off their cellphone ringer. I got through the afternoon by taking in early sightings of fall foliage during a bike ride through some of Vancouver’s pricier neighbourhoods where no one seems to rake their own leaves. A mediocre romance novel got me through the rest of the day. 

 

Whew. There was a good chance Sunday would be a momentum extender.

 

When I’m not travelling farther afield, I set one sunny day in late September or early October in pursuit of the golden larches. This is a type of pine tree whose needles turn a bright yellow for a brief window of time in the fall. As I’m heading to Colorado for a monthlong stay with my partner, Evan, Sunday was the only remaining day with sunshine in the forecast—partly sunny, as good as it was going to get—so it was either hike it or wait another year. I was determined to go no matter what curve balls (or low balls) came my way during the sleeping hours.

 

It wasn’t a great sleep but it wasn’t horrendous either. Worried I would have parking issues on a prime viewing day that landed on a weekend, I’d set my alarm for 5 a.m. but, like almost every morning with an anticipated early awakening, I was wide awake an hour early and, after a failed negotiation to sneak in a power nap, I showered a half hour later and hit the road at the time my alarm had been scheduled to go off. I drove the Trans-Canada Highway in darkness, caught a decent sunrise and pulled into the parking lot at E.C. Manning Provincial Park nearly three hours later with two-thirds of the spaces still open. So much worrying for naught. 

 

Let the rush mentality leave my mind and body. 

 

My dashboard indicated it was 0° Celsius and, while I was dressed in layers, I opted for my winter coat and gloves instead of my fall jacket before squeezing into my hiking boots and setting out. While sitting on my back bumper getting ready, I heard a loud talker nearby, rambling on about hiking in Patagonia without what seemed like the requisite hiking poles. A surge of grumpiness attempted to overtake my body. This was worse than a phone ringing at the library. For me, solo hikes are about quietness and a state of inner peace. Gosh, did I ever need a dose of that. No problem. I would delay my start five minutes to create plenty of distance between myself and Patagonia Man. 

 

Just beyond the parking lot and at the foot of Mount Frosty is Lightning Lake where the early sunlight offered gorgeous reflections of the landscape in the water. Lingering was easy. I snapped two dozen photos before I even hit the trailhead.  

 

Altogether the Mount Frosty hike is 21 kilometres, out-and-back. It would be my fifth time doing it in six years although only the second time when the golden larches were (hopefully) in their prime. 

 

The skies quickly leaned closer to partly cloudy than partly sunny as I set out but this was a chance to adopt a cup half full mindset. Let bluer patches emerge as the temperatures warmed as well. 

 

In the first ten minutes of the ascent, I exchanged hellos as I passed couples who stopped to readjust their backpacks and then a group of five who had brought a miniature schnauzer along. 

 

“A schnauzer!” I exclaimed. “I’ve had three. Good hiking buddies.” 

 

This was me being chatty, something I rarely do with strangers being as I’m an extreme introvert. But I’ve found that people are friendly on trails, especially before noon. We share this love of nature and the urge to immerse within it early in the day. I found myself greeting people and having little conversations with those I encountered even into the afternoon. It helped that I knew each chat would be brief, limited to the time it takes to pass one another. Hiking remains the preeminent activity. A couple of minutes after passing the schnauzer group, I heard them laughing. The reflex response was to cringe and to want to distance myself to return to peace and solitude, but then I caught myself. Let them feel joy. Laugh on. 

 

In only a dozen minutes, my mood had significantly elevated. I would be on the trail for another six and a half hours. The golden larches were still to come. So was the scramble up to one peak and then a sometimes precarious walk along a narrow, half-kilometre mountaintop trail to the final summit of Mount Frosty where I would have the view to myself (not including a mooching chipmunk). Depression would not manage to catch up with me. This is why I hike. I can’t help but feel what John Denver referred to as a “Rocky Mountain High.” It applies to almost any hike, Rocky Mountains or elsewhere, ascent or not. 

 

This got me thinking about my recent struggles and the number of times I’ve thought of going to Emergency to get checked into the psych ward for a return stay. Such a drab, chaotic place. Wouldn’t it only make me more depressed? My first admission had been a huge shock, the erratic behaviour of others and constant alerts on the speaker system ironically putting me into survival mode after I’d been suicidal. First things first…get me out of here. The memories have been enough of a deterrent to seeking readmission. 

Psych ward reality was such a contrast to insane asylum imagery I’d seen on TV. No pristine white manor. No immaculate lawn. No butterfly nets for capturing surely traumatized monarchs. (Do they still make butterfly nets and, if so, why? PETA should take up the cause!)

 

As I hiked onward and upward, I thought about what kind of psychiatric setting would be right for me. Sure, a single room was essential for safety and peace of mind and actual, consistent therapy seemed like a basic (although I hadn’t received much of that during my hospital stays). But what seemed even more necessary was a setting that allowed daily hikes. Yes, a dozen minutes in nature would do, but I’d always press for more. Let it be in blue or gray skies, rain or shine, in peace and quiet or even with loud-talking Patagonia Man at my back. Even without therapy or other supports, there is something resoundingly restorative about hiking. There doesn’t have to be golden larches or 360-degree mountaintop views but I’ll take that as a bonus when I can get it. 

 

I shall hike on.             

PLAYING THE AGE CARD WHILE HIKING

First view from Killing Time
mountain bike trail

Sometimes we make assumptions, we jump to conclusions, we are triggered over what may be innocuous. This happens more frequently when a comment or action seems to touch on our identity. I’ve had many occasions where, rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve taken a perceived shunning as homophobia when, well, maybe I just forgot to put on deodorant. 

 

Did I forget?! I can see myself applying the stick to my underarms but perhaps that was yesterday. Time blurs. Routines sometimes come with blips. As I get older, I’m not as sure of my memory, even regarding what I did five minutes ago. 

 

And, yes, age is the subject of yesterday’s incident that had me feeling too sensitive…and humored at the same time.

 

I consider myself a hiker, but I’ve only done a handful of outings during the past six months. Most of my hiking is in the mountains and I hike far less when trails are covered in snow and ice. It’s not so much the snow and ice—adding crampons to my hiking boots produces miraculous results—it’s the fact the trails are covered. On the hikes I did, the route was less clear in patches where there was only one person’s tracks to follow or, in a couple of cases, the tracks veered onto a trail I wasn’t taking and I had nothing to give me an assured sense I was still on a trail. 

 

My favourite hikes are still snow-covered for at least the next month, but I am now finding trail reports that there are options—no snow; just water and mud. (Hiking boots are themselves amazing… bring on the muck!) 

 

Yesterday, I ventured to Sumas Mountain Regional Park, about an hour from home to do what was supposed to be a 2.5-hour hike, a little bit on the short end in terms of what I like but, hey, I needed to recognize that my hiking legs were out of the habit of being just that. Start small, build up. How responsible of me. 

 

I pulled into the trailhead’s gravel parking lot just before ten in the morning. It was otherwise empty. I’d literally have the mountain to myself. Hurrah. No one’s music, no drones, hopefully no gunshots. (On a hike I did a couple of years ago in the area, there happened to be a shooting range at the base of the mountain. I was especially motivated to do the ascent!) 

 

I did the responsible things prior to taking to the trail. I took a photo of the trail map at the parking lot and texted Evan with a selfie that included what I was wearing and my license plate along with indicating what time I expected to return to the car. Please, let there be no cause for search parties. Or camera crews zooming in on a bug-bitten hiker with a sprained ankle, hauled out on a stretcher.

 

I can be dramatic.

 

My destination: Chadsey Lake and a loop hike taking me past Baker Rock. There was no Baker Rock on the trailhead map but I figured I’d come across a disproportionately enormous boulder and exchange greetings (“Hello, Baker!”), with the noteworthy rock staring back stone-faced.

 

As it turns out, I missed the Chadsey Lake turnoff, a tiny white sign at knee height two minutes from the parking lot. Instead, I found myself on Killing Time, a mountain biking trail that had me going downhill, not uphill. Checking my map photo, I would connect with a Centennial Trail and still reach the lake. No problem. 

 

Somehow, despite a considerable descent, I blocked out any notion that I’d have a considerable ascent as well. Stay in the moment, they say, when hiking. Mindfulness in motion, I call it. Yes, behold the ferns! Wonder how many mountain bikers have broken limbs—and how many per person—after going airborne on the many wooden ramps built on the trail. Er… maybe just focus on ferns.

 

Chadsey Lake

It took two hours to reach the lake. I texted Evan, surprised to have phone reception. It was looking like my 2.5-hour hike would be 4 hours. No problem. This was more in line with the length of hike I like to do. After I sat on a log and viewed Chadsey, I began my return trek, deciding to take a trail marked as “Parking Lot,” most likely the trail I’d missed in the first place. Maybe I’d cut off a bit of time, avoiding another prolonged descent-ascent sequence and coming upon some sprawled-out biker with an arm extended at an impossible angle. (Being squeamish, I’d be no help at all, just fainting at the scene. Sorry, biker dude.)

 

I was suddenly picking up signs easily. In addition to “Parking Lot,” another sign indicated the “East Lookout” was farther past the lake. I had no idea what I’d be looking out at but, figuring I wouldn’t be repeating this hike anytime soon, I decided to seize the day and hike onward. 

 

Much more muck. (Another shoutout to hiking boots!) Much more ascent. 

 

As a hiker or, more broadly, a human being, I’m not a fan of sweating. Ascents mean lots of brow wiping and shirt fanning. I would get used to this as hiking season picked up, but I will never embrace it. (I contend spin class and hot yoga enthusiasts are masochists.)

 

The problem with the trail signage was it failed to provide distances. Was the East Lookout half a kilometre ahead or was it in New Brunswick? The park map also failed to have a scale and the route to East Lookout included many wiggly lines which would make any scale (had there been one) challenging to use to create a distance and time estimate.

 

I’d gone over an hour, still ascending, sweating profusely, hoping I was still on the path to East Lookout but unsure. Knowing I’d taken the long route to Chadsey Lake in the morning didn’t boost my confidence about being on track. I simply kept following little orange squares intermittently nailed onto trees to mark a trail presumably to somewhere. 

 

I heard voices coming toward me and suddenly two labradors were sniffing my legs. Presumably they were piddled out with so many red cedars on offer and the ferns had taken on a redundancy. I was a new find. Very exciting!

 

Two young women (Late twenties? Early thirties?) hollered the standard apology given when off-leash dogs oblivious to personal bubbles offer hearty greetings and close-up knee exams. 

 

No problem. Much better than a bear encounter. Much, much better.

 

“Did you go to East Lookout?” I asked. “How far is it?”

 

“Yes,” one woman said. She looked at her hiking companion. “How long do you think?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

Ah, well. Good. I was hoping for a number less than five, but I wasn’t going to turn back now. So close! The trek up continued. I would not be hiking to New Brunswick, after all. Whew!

 

At the twelve minute-mark, post knee-sniff, I observed a clear trail going straight up on my left. East Lookout? (Please.) No sign. No orange markers. Instead, a trail continued meandering to the right, orange markers aplenty. As I often do on hikes, I hesitated. I pondered. I wanted to take the unmarked path. I sensed it led to East Lookout. But I’m directionally challenged in the best of times. My senses regarding which way to go consistently fail me. Stick to the marked path. Let there be no search parties. 

 

My final piece of logic that kept me on-trail was the fact I wasn’t at the twenty minute-mark. Not even close. Forty percent more time on trail. Keep going!

 

About eight minutes later, I came upon three BC Hydro towers up one final hill. Yes! The towers marked the lookout. Made sense if not something especially scenic. There would be a clearing. I’d have my back to the fenced-in towers and the posted signs warning of possible electrocution. Whatever the view from East Lookout, I would take a few pics, dammit. I’d ooh and aah even if it were strictly performative. “You have reached your destination.”

 

But, no. All around the towers were trees. Just like all the trees along the trail. Nothing distinct. Not even a rock I could call Baker. (That thing was still in hiding, too.)

 

Okay, I know I began this post mentioning that my age may have made me sensitive, presumably on this hike. ’Tis true. Let’s get back to that.

 

The fact is that access to East Lookout was at the twelve minute-mark from when my knees went through doggy inspection. Due to all the looking around I did at the twenty minute-mark—no, I did not climb fences and risk electrocution—I didn’t actually arrive at the lookout until almost an hour after asking how much farther. I’d checked out yet another mountain bike trail (and scored a peekaboo view). I’d circled all around the towers, a couple of times inadvertently. Yes, very directionally challenged.   

 

Here’s where my being sixty and sporting a clearly white beard (finally) comes into play. I wondered if age was a factor when I was told it was another twenty minute-schlep to the lookout. Maybe they looked at me, some guy decidedly in the “sir” range from their assessment. Older guy. Sweating profusely. Gosh, yes, another twenty minutes. For him. 

 

Now, I know that’s ridiculous thinking entering my brain. Blame it on excess perspiration and not enough hydration. I’m the worst at hydrating. If I Google dehydration, one side effect must surely be paranoid thinking that one is too old for whatever activity is contributing to dehydration. 

 

Objectively, twelve minutes and twenty minutes are not far apart. It’s entirely possible that the woman who went with twenty gave that as a valid estimate of the time it had taken them to walk back from the lookout until they came upon me. Maybe she’s bad with time. Maybe they’d truly lost track of time, talking about the dynamics at work, relationship issues or the hot yoga class they were taking that evening. Yes, mascochists. 

 

Maybe there were doggy delays on account of the whole off-leash nature of their hike. Maybe the dogs continued marking red cedars even though the pee stream was running on empty. Maybe they sniffed and tried to track a mole or squirrel. I neither saw nor heard small animals the entire day, but I don’t have a dog’s sense of smell. Maybe an entire warren of bunnies existed between the lookout and the point where we came into contact. 

 

So many maybes. Why did I even entertain that they’d added on extra time for a sweaty, grey-bearded oldster to reach East Lookout? 

 

Why hadn’t I just followed my gut and gone up the unmarked trail in the first place. I’d have just been pleased to arrive early and would have applauded my fitness. I’d never have gone down the I look old tunnel because there wouldn’t have been a setback. 

 

Good grief—clearly an oldster’s expression—sometimes hiking isn’t mindful at all. Sometimes it offers too much time for obsessive thought.

 

View from East Lookout

My 2.5-hour hike turned out to be a 6-hour endurance test. Oh. My. Quads. I took a few Advil when I got home. And belatedly hydrated. But way to go, old guy. I’m readier for hiking season now. Let the muscles ache less next time.

 

Was East Lookout worth it? Absolutely! See for yourself.

 

 

  

GRINDR GAVE ME COVID

True story. Grindr gave me COVID.

 

Okay, it’s not that simple, like going from Point A to Point B. I’m in a committed relationship. We’re not interested in opening it up to guys with curated dick pic collections. Seriously, is a dick pic enough for a hookup? Not a single face shot or even a pec pic? What happens in such situations? Does one guy head over to another guy’s place, both appearing disoriented when the door opens until the fly unzips? Ah, yes! There you are. 

 

I’m glad I’m not on Grindr. I’ve never set up an account. Still, I’ve learned a thing or two about the app and Grindr “culture” over the years from acquaintances who can’t seem to put their phones away lest some prime uncut specimen be only three hundred feet away. I don’t have a lot of gay friends but, if they’re on Grindr, they don’t talk to me about it. Perhaps they sense that I’d be uncomfortable. I grew up, after all, in a prudish household where repressing things was what made us feel at ease. The only birds-and-the-bees talk I ever had was a quick primer on refilling the hummingbird feeder before my parents went away for a Shakespeare festival weekend. (And, no, there was no wild Saturday night party in their absence. I simply had a few friends over to play Uno while we drank root beer. My friend, Spencer, was the best belcher.)

 

But back to Grindr. Evan’s friends have no problem talking about it. If there are different levels of Grind-ing, I suspect they’ve reached gold status and are hell-bent on achieving platinum. They’re a goal-centered lot. 

 

To be clear, these are guys in their fifties. They seem to have embraced their role as Daddy and get their egos, among other things, stroked by guys at least two decades younger. I presume it’s a quick exit when the young host wants them to linger for a discussion on the transformative powers of “Hannah Montana” or sets up the karaoke machine for a “High School Musical” sing-off. 

 

Evan gets annoyed by how much his friends are drawn to Grindr, but he enjoys the storytelling that comes as his friends run through weekly highlights. I’m mostly quiet, my smile being more about how relieved I am they got the monkeypox vaccine than the play-by-play of a backyard sex incident that required a dog-walking baggy. 

 

I may not understand the intricacies about Grindr, but I didn’t realize that listening to Grindr stories can give you COVID. It happens. I am proof of that.

 

This past weekend was my turn to be on Evan’s turf so I drove down to Seattle. We’d talked about all sorts of road trips that involved renting cabins that were either too expensive or unavailable so we decided to make it a simple Seattle weekend, enjoying his neighborhood by Lake Union, swimming, biking and taking it easy. When I walked into Evan’s apartment, he was on a call with his best friend, Dean, with Evan reading recent reports of people’s hiking experiences on a certain trail. I thought we’d ruled out hikes since Evan said any enjoyable experience required significant driving to avoid trails that were overwhelmed by Seattleites who wanted to update their Instagram accounts. 

 

It took a couple more evening texts before it was decided we’d get up at 5:30, then drive to Dean’s and head to Mount Rainier for our second hike there in the past month. No middle-of-nowhere motel this time, just a two and a half hour drive each way and a four-hour wander along a gorgeous trail.

 

Evan had me sit up front, riding shotgun, as Dean drove. I thought it was part of Evan’s plan to help his best friend and me bond, but then Evan said, “I can’t watch Dean’s driving.” Okay, not a romantic revelation. If someone flew through the windshield, it would be me. I double-checked the seatbelt. Seemingly secure. 

 

I wasn’t awake enough yet to engage in much conversation with Dean. We didn’t make a coffee stop until after the first hour on the road. Who does that? Still, I was indeed getting to know Dean. The guy didn’t require caffeine. Every yes/no question turned into an essay answer with tangents that were hard to track. I tuned out a time or two, visualizing lattes, imagining the aroma, scanning cupholders in Dean’s car. Maybe I could order two for myself. Double shots. Triples! It didn’t matter that we’d reached rural roads where the last sighting of a funky, independent café was twenty minutes behind us. We were in a region where coffee was served at roadside shacks with drive-thru windows and baristas who wore bikinis. I needed a latte even if it came with a cleavage assault.  

 

Dean got on a roll about his Grindr hookups from the week—a guy from the gym, a new twink from Mississippi, even an experience that didn’t have a satisfying ending. Two out of three ain’t bad. One week…Dean had been busy.

 

I got my latte. I showed restraint, keeping it to one. The woman who served us wore a standard t-shirt. Maybe that’s why we were able to drive right up to the window. We got to Mount Rainier and enjoyed the hike, spotting end-of-season wildflowers and lots of mooching chipmunks. No marmots, no bears. A unique cloud topped one side of the star peak. Dean and Evan noted that it looked to be safely covered in a giant condom. It wasn’t an inaccurate observation, but I preferred my more conventional interpretation: a spaceship had arrived for a study of one of Earth’s stunning landscapes. 

 

Dean talked more about sex and perhaps other things on the hike. I wasn’t obviously antisocial, but I often created space as I like hiking to be a quiet experience, taking in the scenery and trying to blot out the impression now that Mount Rainier was covered by a condom.

 

Spaceship.

 

Condom.

 

Spaceship, spaceship.

 

Condom.

Dammit!

 

I’ve gone on a lot of hikes and one of the things that amuses me is how many of them end at a human structure such as the remains of someone’s version of a “castle” or, in this case, a fully intact wooden forest fire lookout station. Yes, the lookout was placed thoughtfully at a high point with sweeping, 360-degree views of mountains all around, but instead of photographing the ridges, near and far, people lined up for selfies and group shots on and around the elevated cabin. As if a standard wooden structure eclipsed all the nature in our presence. Humans are egocentric. And weird. 

 

I snapped away at the mountain views and, yes, got one obligatory pic of The Thing that Man Made. Maybe I’ll give Everest a climb after someone gets around to building a warming hut at the summit or, at the very least, one of those quaint lending library boxes.

 

We walked back, got in the car for the drive home and stopped for lunch at a Mexican restaurant housed in a small-town motel. It’s best that I don’t leave a review on Yelp. When you opt for motel Mexican, the warning signs are implicit.

 

Something about being out of internet range while hiking seemed to have Dean in Grindr withdrawal. He talked more about hookups as I sipped a mediocre margarita—shouldn’t they lose their liquor license?—and watched motorcycles go by. I’m assuming they were in town for the festival set up under tents off the main road, but maybe the town was simply a Harley haven. (Could it have something to do with baristas in bikinis?)

 

On the road again—cuing Willie Nelson here seems apropos—Dean was suffering the equivalent to Grindr DTs. We were two hours out of Seattle, but he propped his phone against the steering wheel and sent emojis or woofs or eggplants or whatever it is people do in the Grindr world to acknowledge someone without saying anything. And, as it turns out, an eggplant (or whatever) was enough. Guys started unlocking their photos. Dicks, butts, sometimes even faces. You’ve reached a kooky corner of the internet when showing your face is more daring than flaunting your penis. Just an observation. Okay, judgy, too. 

 

It was surreal watching Dean at work/play and seeing the way an app for gay men looking for sex can short-circuit regular brain function. Is this what Evan meant when he said, “I can’t watch Dean’s driving”? I was at the ready to yell if Dean swerved or lingered at a green light. To his credit, the guy was a skilled multi-tasker. Even so, I’ll drive next time. My turn, after all. 

 

The next morning, I stepped out to get Evan and me our morning coffees. Snooty café, oh how I missed you! (Have you noticed that servers ignore you until it’s time to pay? “How’s your day going?” is the tired line. “Fine,” I say. They don’t want elaboration. They just want me to press a higher tip percentage on the credit card machine. I still fall for it at least half the time, notably before I’ve had my first coffee.)

 

I got home and handed Evan his almond matcha latte in bed. He cleared his throat and looked at me all too seriously before saying, “Dean texted. He has a sore throat. He took a COVID test. He’s positive.”

 

Wait. What?! 

 

We tested. Both negative. I figured that’s the way it would stay. Evan just had COVID back in June. He got it from my mother after we met my parents for lunch in Seattle after their Alaskan cruise. Mother, father and boyfriend got it; I was apparently immune.

 

By early Tuesday morning, I had a cough and a sore throat. Another test: negative. I drove back to Vancouver, making none of my customary stops in case I was a COVID carrier. By Tuesday night, my list of symptoms had grown. Denial was getting harder to cling to. Still, I have a solid track record of hypochondria so I hoped that ol’ trickster was messing with me again, making me think I felt awful. I tested.  Positive. 

 

I suppose it’s payback. If my cruise-happy mother gave Evan COVID, then let Evan’s cruisy-happy best friend return the favor. Lessons learned: never trust the (future?) mother-in-law and sometimes it’s best not to trust the best friend. Well played, Grindr. You got me.

 

What’s done is done. Let Dean take a break from his app while I catch up on crosswords. Who’s got the upper hand on a good time now?

  

 

 

BETTER AS A SOLO HIKE

Not long ago, during our coldest spell of this mild winter season, I set out on a five-hour hike, hoping to catch Norvan Falls completely frozen. I’d seen photos online from the weekend but, by the time I arrived on the scene midweek, the water was crashing down again although it still looked cool with the icy bits that framed it on either side. A decent day. As I walked back to my car, I noticed a marker for The Varley Trail and a large sign that explained it was so named for a famous Canadian painter, Frederick H. Varley, a member of the Group of Seven. He’d lived in this area for a number of years and the trail purportedly covers much of the land he strolled as he searched for inspiration. I knew I’d be back to check it out.

It’s a short trail through the forest with many wooden walkways built over muckier sections. A rushing stream flanks it for much of the way. After dodging mountain bikers on a connector path, I came to a loop around the rather compact Rice Lake with a few mountain views. All lovely. Still, my hikes are never less than three hours so I wandered onto other trails midmorning and after lunch. Meandering took me along a muddier trail—no user-friendly platforms this time—and eventually down a couple hundred wooden stairs. (I have such appreciation for trail builders. Who built these stairs? How long did it take, carting all the supplies from a car parked miles away? Was something about a preexisting dirt path deemed too treacherous?) There, a mere thirty feet from the bottom of the steps, I experienced déjà-vu.

More like déjà-eww.

Oh, the scene itself was spectacular. A pool of impossibly green water glistened, the water so clear, the rocky bottom was in full view. Last time I’d been here, was on a Saturday in April six years ago, when the sound of water cascading downward at a point mostly hidden by protruding rocks was drowned out by dozens of people looking for photo ops after checking out the nearby Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. Today, I gloried in having the place to myself, in part because it was a weekday, but also because, as I soon discovered, the suspension bridge was closed, access completely fenced off.

Six years ago, I welcomed the noise of the crowd. I was on a go-see first date that arose from a guy reaching out to me on Plenty of Fish. Such occasions had become routine: show up at a coffee spot, sit and sip, strain to make the conversation feel like something beyond an interview. I was excited that he’d suggested we grab a coffee and head out on a short hike. We could experience something as we chatted. The conversation would flow more naturally while walking and talking, similar to what happens when two people are driving somewhere. Even if we weren’t a match, it would be fun to get out and see a beautiful forest area I’d only explored once, twenty years prior when I’d first moved to Vancouver.

The date was dreadful. It felt like I was on the receiving end of an excruciating silent treatment, whatever conversation that happened being all give, no take. I’d lob a question, he’d answer in the fewest possible words and forgo the courteous, common sense “What about you?” that normal, socially aware people lob back in a get-to-know-you exchange where two people search for a shared interest. He didn’t even bother to pose one of those standard questions like “What do you do for a living?” or “If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” Okay, I’ve never asked or been asked the latter question. For the record, a weeping willow. On that date, at least. Emphasis on the first word. No actual tears but the experience was painful—weep worthy.

What made things worse was being stuck on the date with no handy exit plan. In a cafe, I could have stood up and said, “Nice meeting you, but I’ve got to get home to [insert something that sounds infinitely more exciting (e.g., re-grouting my shower tiles or self-administering a root canal)].” I was stuck in the middle of a forest, at least half an hour away from where he’d parked his car, my own vehicle still parked near a coffee shop I had no idea how to get back to on my own.

I recall feeling shunned. To this guy, I was some sort of pariah. It seemed he was gritting his teeth, just trying to get through this experience, something in his mind worse than the combined torture of waterboarding, a fully body waxing and Michael Bolton playing on an endless repeat cycle. And that’s where we finally found common ground: his torture was my torture.

Dates like that are best forgotten. Largely, I’d done that although the wall of silence was so off-putting that the outing has occasionally come back to mind on subsequent dud dates as a point of reference and perspective. No matter how flat any other date felt, I could always tell myself, At least it wasn’t as bad as that hike in the forest.

I’m glad I stumbled on this familiar ground again. While the beauty of this spot registered even six years ago amid that air of awkwardness and that throng of people scrambling for selfies, I now had a chance to fully appreciate it. No interruptions. No nagging thoughts in my head like Am I simply hideous? or Do I have halitosis? Body odor? Boogers swinging from dangling nasal hairs?

I’m grateful I got to experience this spot again, to take it back, to have this moment as my own. Such a beautiful place. It deserved another chance.

After twenty minutes and lots of photos—not a selfie in the bunch—I turned back to face the daunting set of stairs. Onward and upward.