A Real Story

I found the group on a community board, wedged between a lost-cat flyer and an ad for guitar lessons: ‘Singles Hikers, All Levels, Meet at the Ridgeline Trailhead, 8am Saturdays.’ I wasn’t looking for anything, honestly. I was looking for a reason to put on real shoes and leave my apartment before noon. Fourteen of us showed up that first week, sorted into a name-tag line like it was a corporate retreat, and I ended up next to a guy in a faded Grateful Dead shirt who kept apologizing for being out of breath on what was, generously, a moderate incline.

We didn’t exchange numbers that day. We didn’t even really talk much beyond him offering me pretzels from a ziploc bag he’d clearly packed with real intention. But the next Saturday he was there again, and so was I, and somehow we ended up walking at the same pace near the back of the group, falling behind on purpose to talk about his terrible ex-roommate and my even worse commute. This happened four more times. Same trail, same slow pace, same bag of trail mix he started bringing enough of to share.

By week six he asked if I wanted to hike somewhere that wasn’t organized by a stranger with a clipboard, just the two of us, no name tags. We went the following Sunday, got mildly lost, and ate gas station sandwiches on a rock overlooking absolutely nothing scenic. It was the best date I’d had in over a year, and it happened because I showed up to something with zero expectations six Saturdays in a row.

We’re still hiking together, though now it’s just us and occasionally his dog. I never would have called that meetup ‘dating’ while it was happening — it felt more like exercise with witnesses. But apparently that’s exactly the kind of low-pressure repetition that works on me. Turns out I don’t do well with a single dinner date; I do well with someone who keeps showing up.