Two Minutes

9:48 a.m. So many yellow flowers down here at the river, hundreds of little suns. It is gorgeous and exactly as he described it. I won’t cross the river, though I can see the trail on the other side. I did bring my wading shoes just in case, but I won’t use them. I don’t want to inadvertently miss him. I’ve already worried about missing him on the trail down, but I only stepped off the trail that once, and I kept the trail in sight all the time. In places the trail almost tricked me. At about twenty-five minutes up the drainage, it veers off to the right and climbs for quite a while instead of continuing straight down. That made me nervous.

I came early. He traditionally comes to meeting places early. I don’t want him to have to wait. After five solo days in the wilderness, I want him to feel a warm welcome. He said to meet him between eleven and twelve down by the river. I brought my notebook and my pens to while away the time.

The hike down made me sweaty, so I’m sitting in the sun to dry out. It’s just a bit chilly in the wind.

The drive to the trailhead parking lot was enchanting early in the morning. Orion was just fading. Everything looked fresh and filled with hope. I didn’t see a bear this time like we did one dawn coming around a curve on the highway.

10:45 a.m. I’m right opposite of where he is likely to emerge from the trees. It’s getting close to 11 o’clock.

11:10 a.m. He’ll be here any minute now. I thought he’d have been here by now. I checked the email with his two-week itinerary again last night, just to be sure to get here at the right time. I do see where he should emerge from the other side of the river. The pale grass is high over there, and a few thousand bright yellow flowers over there as well. Once in a while the wind moves in the trees just so and I think it is his beige flap hat moving into sight. But no. Not yet.

I can’t really focus on writing, not while also constantly looking over at the trail on the other side of the water. It’s a bit like at an airport, you can’t read or write, not while also keeping an eye on the passengers coming down the arrival hallway. Nerves. Anticipation. Anxiety. I will be so happy to see him.

I love the wet grass smell of the river, mixed with the surprisingly fresh scent of decaying leaves.

11:32 a.m. I’ll see him any minute now. I do regret that we have somehow lost the wild desire of early days together. And so soon. I want to believe it wasn’t my doing. I’ve done everything I could to earn love and devotion. Which can’t be earned. I get that. But. I did so want to do everything in my power. Looks like I’m just not talented enough to inspire him. Or not imperious enough. Should have been a bitch perhaps. Should have let myself be chased. And I didn’t.

I am only thirty-seven. I didn’t expect to be jaded until much, much later on. If ever. I’m not ready yet to surrender to the dull prison of acceptance.

What worries me is that he sent a message with one of his friends before he split off for his solo adventure that I shouldn’t panic if he didn’t come today. There was a chance of storms and I should let the Forest Service know approximately where on his itinerary he might be if the weather turned bad. So far, the weather has been fine.

I spent all day yesterday preparing for today. Buying ice, sandwich stuff, etc. I so want to be loved, appreciated. If he started walking at 9:00 a.m., he should get here soon. I really thought he would have been here by now. This place is spectacular, tall rock columns all around, the water gurgling gently. I saw a cottonwood leaf detach and float to the ground, then I saw another leaf dance off on the water.

I am not to worry. Okay then. I am so looking forward to his head bobbing up the trail. We haven’t really made any contingency arrangements about today. It would be wonderful if he just came up the narrow path now, and we could have a picnic and start walking back up the trail to the parking lot. I must remember to offer to carry some of his stuff.

I want to show him how welcome he is. Not that it matters much what I do. He always believes he is welcome anyway. Which is okay with me.

I have lots more hours of daylight.

11:51 a.m. A small boy just jolted me with his sharp cry of joy at seeing the water. A human voice after all this silence. I wished it was you. Now the boy and his parents found a shady spot and are eating lunch a little way upstream on a rock. My beautiful solitude gone for a while. It is hot now, and there’s little shade here by the riverbank. I still want to be in this spot. I can see the trail on the other side of the river best from here. At least I have the shade from my ball cap. And sunscreen of course. I’ll put on some more in a minute. The yellow flowers stand so tall. It’s their last extravaganza of summer. The sun is making me drowsy, but I don’t want to fall asleep. What if he came and didn’t see me?

There, another leaf floating down. Where are you, my love, and why aren’t you here yet?

Would I stay where we live if you didn’t return? I’m not sure. At first, yes, of course, since I own the house. But it wasn’t my choice of place. If I could live anywhere in the world, where would I go? I don’t really know. Maybe the small town I visited in Italy when I was a child. Maybe some Greek island. I still have dreams, but I am also tired, even of dreaming. I don’t have passion anymore. My desires have all dulled down, and I don’t want dull, not in this one and only life I have. I really wanted to draw him into my world of passion. Instead, I’m being drawn into his world of practical indifference.

Almost noon already. I’ve been here for two hours now. Looking at the same path, the same green trees. If necessary, I’ll drive home and come again tomorrow.

12:21 p.m. I want to do what’s right. Part of me imagines you unexpectedly up at the parking lot already, dirty, exhausted, having missed me on the trail somehow. I don’t think you have a car key with you. And me down here with all my sandwiches and sparkling water and nuts.

If we don’t connect today, will I drive the two and a half hours home, or stay in a campsite at the hot springs? Probably camp.

I feel such tenderness for you. I’m suddenly convinced you won’t come today.

The sun is hot in my neck. The little boy and his parents have left. I am alone again.

There, a dragonfly, blue, beautiful.

12:28 p.m. It would be best if you came in the next few minutes. I’ll do a meditation now, with my eyes wide open.

12:50 p.m. Still not here yet. Should I worry?

I can’t decide what to do. Is he waiting for me to come further? Did we miscommunicate? Did he get stuck due to high water somewhere? Is he in danger? What am I supposed to do? I so wish he’d just come walking through those trees and yellow flowers.

It is too early to lose you. Just come wandering down the path now. I will wait until 1:00 o’clock and then hike back up to the trailhead.

I remember one time at the Hampton Inn—I waited for him at what I thought was a sensible place, but he decided to change plans and do something else. Thing is, he’s usually early, too, not late. Did he find some other way to the parking lot? I worry about the message from his friend, if something happens “let the Forest Service know where I am.”

Are you somewhere on the trail praying I would do something other than what I am doing? If I leave at 1:00 I’ll be back up before the Visitor Center closes.

Where are you? I feel so insecure. I always feel accused. It’s my mother’s legacy. What have I done wrong?

I really don’t know what to do. Except start hiking back at 1:00 o’clock, see if he’s somehow made it to the parking lot.

And what if he is somewhere farther down on the trail hoping for me to find him?

I wish you’d just come walking along. Everything is exactly the way you described it, and yet you aren’t here.

Where will I go if you don’t return? I’d hate it, of course, but I’d much rather you ran away with some mountain nymph rather than be stuck in some physical distress somewhere. Be well wherever you are. Come walking up the path now. Please.

Of course I worry. Do you need my help? I feel calm but lost. I still see the trees flicker in the wind, I still keep hoping that’s you coming up the path. Leaves fall. Branches dance. Hummingbirds and butterflies. Come on. Come walking toward me. Step by step. I want to see you, and it’s always just shadows in the trees. You’ve never been late. I’m not to panic until tomorrow.

I will leave here at 1:13 p.m. That’s 1313 military time and 13 is my favorite number. I don’t think you will come anymore. Are you lost? Did we miss each other somehow?

I don’t think I would like to live without you in our house, which is really your dream house, not mine—and your dream part of the world.

It would have been lovely to meet here by the river.

What if I get to the parking lot and you’re not there?

Where are you, my love? What’s going on? I feel remarkably calm.

Who are we? What have we become? What is our purpose?

I hope you are well. If you could just come walking down the path, that would be fantastic.

1:13 p.m. Goodbye, beautiful river with your glittering water and your cicada song and summer sun scent.

4:12 p.m. Well, I’m back at the parking lot. He is not here. Wasn’t here earlier when I came up either. I went to the Visitor Center to find out whether there was any calamity reported anywhere. Negative. And, no, they will not act on any missing hiker report until at least 48 hours have passed. I bought some yogurt and OJ at the hot springs general store. The yogurt was not very good. The Visitor Center folks recommended if it gets too stinky at the parking lot because of the horses, or too loud because of their owners, I could go to a campground a half a mile north. But I won’t go just yet. Not until after dark.

So many yellow flowers up here too. Daisy types of some kind. I have to force myself to look at them. My mind keeps pulling me elsewhere. I think this is your goodbye, beautiful flowers, your yellow garlands of summer farewell.

Hiking back, I had a lot of time to think about our situation. I hope he is well. I wanted to bring him the gift of passion and instead it’s turned out he’s given me the dubious gift of equanimity—indifference, really—which I don’t want any more than he wanted the passion I had on offer.

I am amazed that I am not frantic. As I would have been just a few years ago. There was a time, ten, twelve years ago, when I was so brilliantly in love. I would have done anything for him. I would have given my life for him. In some ways I did. I changed. It was a bit as though I died. To make his dreams possible. I flowed around him and his agenda. Like the river flows around stone. He didn’t particularly notice. He accepted it as more or less his due. And then he started taking it, and me, for granted. I wish I could have done better for both of us.

I’m sitting here at few feet away from the trailhead, looking up at the path from time to time. If he still comes today, he’ll come down the trail from above. He can’t miss me. I can’t miss him. If he comes. I’ll stay here until dark, then I’ll drive to the campground.

I am calm. I miss the passion in me that used to burn like fire. Indifference is contagious. Passion apparently is not. Indifference is a survival skill. Indifference is also deadly. I ache. There is a hole where my passion and my love should be. I want to be in love with this world, not trapped in this calm acceptance of things. I miss my fire.

He’s told me more than once: “I do love you. Just not the way you want to be loved.” But then what good is it? This is my only life. I don’t want to settle for ash.

9:48 p.m. He came down the trail at 4:30 p.m. or so. I was so relieved to see him. He told me he got to the river at 1:15 p.m., two minutes after I left. Because I wasn’t there, he decided to wait and see if I would still come. After an hour, he figured I wasn’t coming and started to walk on up. He agreed that he had told me between eleven and twelve in his itinerary email but had then given me a different time verbally. I didn’t remember that. Could be I didn’t listen. A more likely story is that he believed he had told me and hadn’t actually done so. We were both a little embarrassed.

We ate the sandwiches at a picnic ground off the highway on the way home. They were stale, but good enough for two hungry and tired critters. He drove all the way home. He wanted to, and I didn’t. When I drive and he is the passenger, he has too many noticeable intakes of breath, though he has graciously abandoned verbal critiques.

He’s asleep now in the other room, the same man he was yesterday, the same man he will be tomorrow, the same man I will always love. And yet I feel tamed into indifference. Juniper berries dropping on the roof will keep me awake for a while. And late summer cicada trill. When I fall asleep, I hope to dream of yellow flowers.

Photo by SoloTravelGoals on Unsplash