by Jennifer Cox
Descending the steep mountain pass from Interstate 90 into Missoula, I was struck by the eerie brown pall engulfing not just the entire town but the mountains all around it. I already knew from conversations with the Missoula Smokejumpers’ headquarters that this summer’s fires were some of the worst on record: over 3,300 wildfires already burning out of control across 665,800 acres, with new fires taking hold every day. It was only now I was here that I understood just how serious it was, and I felt guilty for having taken such a flippant attitude.
Parking the car, I walked up the steps of the Holiday Inn, admiring the pretty Clark Fork River and bike trails that ran behind the hotel and along the edge of town. Down in the valley it was a fabulous sun-trap, but the smoke from the burning mountains that surrounded us made the hot sun hazy. I couldn’t actually see the smoke but my eyes were streaming and my throat stung; people checking in ahead of me were coughing constantly. The town really was in the grip of a disaster.
I wasn’t surprised, therefore, when reading my messages up in my room, to see one from Tim Eldridge, my contact at the smokejumper HQ and the man Nicholas Evans’s main character had been based on. He wanted to warn me that the date probably wasn’t going to happen since all the men were working back-to-back shifts trying to control the fires. He invited me to meet him at HQ the next day and said he’d do the best he could. I left a message immediately asking him to please not worry about the date: I hoped everyone was safe and, yes, I’d love to meet him tomorrow.
I opened up my laptop. On the Playa there had been no cell-phone coverage, no emails, so I hadn’t been in contact with the outside world for five days. But as AOL popped onto the screen, it quickly became clear that the outside world had indeed been in contact with me.
There were 378 emails. From Dates who had been, Dates who were to be, and friends checking the details on Dates who might be. There were confirmations from hotels; invoices for reserved flights; details for rental cars to be collected. There were also work emails: Could I do an interview about this; was I free to write an article about that; did I have the notes for a conference I was chairing next month?
My eyes blurred as I struggled to take in the details, and I finally gave up and ran a bath instead.
After five days in the desert—where I had barely washed, knowing not to waste a single precious drop—I now marveled at how freely the water gushed from the taps. It seemed an extraordinary extravagance to be able to lie in a huge tub of hot, clean water.
Undressing, I was shocked when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror: Tanned a deep brown, my face was sprinkled with freckles and my body was caked with sand and dirt from the desert. My hair was rigid with dust, my plaits sticking out almost at right angles. It took me a moment to work out why I had angry red welts and black bruises on my bottom, until I realized I was inspecting the handiwork of Bike Mistress.
Exhausted from the last week’s excitement and lack of sleep, I caught myself dozing off in the bath, and had to drag myself out and dry off. Crawling into the impossibly huge and impossibly clean bed, I slept like a dead person for fourteen hours.
The next morning, feeling stunned like I had jet lag, I walked to one of the downtown coffee shops. Armed with a couple of strong black coffees, I planned another attempt at reading my emails and getting my thoughts into some sort of order.
“A grande Americano with space please,” I told the thirty-something woman busy taking orders behind the counter—a black coffee, cup not filled to the top. Starbucks has taught even us Brits the universal language of coffee ordering: Espresseranto.
She took my money. “I’m not sure what kind of spice you want, hon,” she noted helpfully, “but we have cinnamon over there by the milk.”
I looked at her blankly. “Spice?” I repeated slowly; then realizing she’d misunderstood my accent, I laughed and said: “Not spice, s-p-a-c-e,” putting heavy emphasis on the offending vowel.
Now it was her turn to stare blankly. Another woman, making the coffee, sensed a problem and came over to the counter. “Everything okay?” she asked brightly.
The first woman turned and said: “She wants spice but we only have cinnamon.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the barista apologized. “What kind of spice was it that you wanted?”
I was a bit too tired for this, but persevered. “I don’t want s-p-i-c-e,” I explained, enunciating for all I was worth, “I want s-p-a-c-e.” Now both looked at me blankly. I tried another tack: “Room. I’d like room in the cup, please.”
Upon hearing my request, both women stiffened visibly and regarded me with open disapproval. “We don’t have a license to serve alcohol, ma’am,” the barista said with a sniff. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to a bar if you want to drink.”
This really was too much. Putting both hands flat on the counter and leaning toward them menacingly, I hissed through gritted teeth: “Not RUM, r-o-o-m!” A caffeine-withdrawal meltdown was barreling irrevocably toward the surface, like a great white shark with a stomach unexpectedly full of cork.
“She wants a black Americano with space,” the man behind me called across the counter. That’s what I just SAID, I thought to myself. But his American accent made all the difference and the cloud perceptibly lifted from the countenances of both women. They beamed, as all anxiety over serving the alcoholic foreign lady vanished and they busied themselves with my order. I turned to thank the man, but he spoke first: “It’s Jennifer, isn’t it?”
That threw me. Could today be any more disorienting?
“Ummm, yes?” I replied, as if unsure myself. “Errrr, how do you…?”
“I’m Cam,” he interrupted, seeing my bewilderment, “Jo’s friend? I swung by your hotel to ask if you wanted me to show you around a little. They said I’d find you here.”
God, it was a Date. I was on a date and I hadn’t even had a flaming cup of coffee yet.
Date #56: Cam—Missoula, Montana, U.S.A.
Cam was a friend of Jo’s. They’d met at a Buddhist retreat in California, where he lived. Although I was grateful he’d rescued me from my coffee debacle (it turned out to be terrible coffee, for the record), he scared the bejesus out of me right from the start.
With a shaven head and extraordinary cornflower-blue eyes (I felt like I was on The Amazing Eyes of America tour—all the men I met seemed to have them), he sat across the table from me, talking about kayaking but giving me a direct and unnerving look that said: I will take all your clothes off here and now, if you just say the word.
It was all too much. I hadn’t yet mentally prepared myself: I was still loved up and back in Garryland.
Every year, Cam came to Missoula to take a ten-day rafting trip along the Lochsa River. He’d got back from it just the night before and was excited and energized by the adventure. “Moving with the elements allows you to harness the energy of nature,” he told me, his face feverish with excitement. Apparently he’d come away believing more strongly than ever that “you can’t waste that energy. You have to store it up and channel it through everyday life; channel it through the people you meet.”
It was no good: I wasn’t in the mood for Cam and his channeling. “Cam, it’s lovely to meet you,” I said, trying to stem the flow. “And I’m glad you had such an exciting trip, but…” And I told him all about Burning Man and Garry and how I needed a couple of hours simply to absorb and understand what had happened to me. I was sorry and was very much looking forward to our date, but could we maybe have it a little later?
Cam smiled. “That’s beautiful, Jennifer,” he said, taking my hand in his. “And I can feel this man has affected you deeply: I have to tell you that you are generating some very strong, spiritual energy right now.” I nodded, relieved. “In fact,” Cam continued, now trailing his fingers across my palm and circling them around my wrist, “perhaps there is a way that you and I can channel our energies together.” Giving me that look again, he edged his chair closer, sliding his leg slowly and deliberately aga
inst mine. “It would be a very powerful experience for us both,” he added in a low voice.
Wriggling my hand out of Cam’s grip, I lurched unsteadily to my feet as I attempted to disentangle my legs from his while grabbing my laptop from underneath the table and snatching my cardigan from the back of the chair.
“So, umm, Cam, thank you for coming out to find me,” I stammered, backing away from the table and pretending I hadn’t understood his suggestion. “I’m pretty busy while I’m here and, actually, may have to go early. But, you know, I’ve got your number, so if there’s time, I’ll…uummm…give you a call.” And with that, I fled the café and went straight back to my hotel, leaving a message at reception that under no circumstances was I to be disturbed.
Back in my room, I threw myself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling for inspiration. What was I going to do? Where could my dating tour go from here? I mean, forget about Cam and his energetic overtures, could I carry on dating any man when all I could think about was Garry?
It felt like sitting down to dinner having already eaten: I wasn’t hungry for more dates. I wanted to see Garry, pick up where we’d left off. I felt embarrassed to be missing him already—it was only a day since I’d seen him, for chrissakes—but it wasn’t just that I missed his presence: I missed the way I felt when I was with him.
But what if it was just Playa Love?
What if, outside the extraordinary, emotionally live environment of BRC, we met in the real world and…there was nothing? No spark, no wonder?
Should I give up on my trip or should I keep dating?
If I stopped dating, Garry and I would have the time to get to know each other and see if this was for real. But would I then feel I’d let my Dates and Date Wranglers down? And if I didn’t complete my journey, would there always be a quiet voice whispering What if?
From a positive perspective, would continuing to date be the test that proved Garry and I really were Soul Mates? But did I have the confidence in me, in Garry and me, and in Fate, to believe our relationship could survive the rest of my journey? Or was I being naïve and selfish even imagining that a relationship could be that flexible? Would I inevitably push Garry’s understanding too far and lose him forever?
Ugh! It was all going round and round in my head. I wanted to do the right thing, but I had no idea what the right thing was. Then it hit me. I sat up on the bed and dragged my laptop onto my knees.
This was a question for the Date Wranglers.
My Very Dear Date Wranglers,
I’m sorry to be so me, me, me (though you all know me well enough not to be surprised), but, as the inner circle of my Date Wranglers, I am in urgent need of your advice and counsel.
55 dates in, I’ve met my Soul Mate and I don’t know what to do.
I met Garry at the Burning Man Festival last week and it was pretty much love at first sight (see attached pic). From the moment he took me on the moonlit bike ride through the desert—romantic and magical—we were inseparable.
He’s my age, works in radio, lives in Seattle, and is funny, kind, and utterly gorgeous :) I’m going to stay with him in Seattle next week to see how we get on in “real life.”
But in the meantime, I’m in Missoula and the last thing I feel like doing is dating the rodeo rider or smokejumper while I’m missing him so much. I still have loads more dates to go and don’t want to drop everything at the first sign of SMA (Soul Mate Action), but at the same time, he’s just great and I don’t seem to be able to think beyond that.
Please tell me what you think I should do.
Sorry to be so melodramatic—this has completely thrown me. I always assumed I’d meet someone in Fulham when I got home! Hope you are all groovy and well. Kisses, Jxxx
P.S. Jo—we need to talk about Cam!
The moment I sent the email I felt relieved: I knew I’d done the right thing. The DWs would give me some perspective and good advice. The situation felt too big for me alone, and for the millionth time I was grateful to have such good friends to call on.
And, seeing that the decision was now percolating through the system, I felt free to get on with my day. Grabbing a coffee from reception, I jumped in the car and drove the seven miles west out of town to the Missoula Smokejumper HQ.
Tim wasn’t there, but he’d left another message saying he was sorry he couldn’t make it, he was out fielding calls. As he’d predicted, all the men were out fighting the fires, so getting me a date (Date #57) had proven impossible.
To be honest, I felt relieved, and that was nothing to do with my feelings about Garry. The fires were so bad, crews were being called in from neighboring states to help. This was clearly the wrong time for me to be turning up looking for a fun night out.
Latching onto a passing tour, I noticed a visiting crew were just finishing a tour of their own and were preparing to drill. Liz, our guide and a student volunteer, explained that drills were vital: From the time the siren sounded to being airborne, the crew had less than twelve minutes to drop everything, scramble into their 110-pound packs and suits, and be in position aboard the plane. To do this, the smokejumpers had to be fit (able to do seven pull-ups, forty-five sit-ups, and twenty-five push-ups and run a quarter of a mile in less than eleven minutes) as well as organized.
We walked through the locker room (a sign on the wall declaring STUPID HURTS), passing a couple of men at a bank of sewing machines making their own parachutes, and out into the workshop where yet more parachutes were stretched over long benches, smokejumpers hunched over them painstakingly inspecting their condition. A two-way radio sat on a shelf, surrounded by multiple containers of eyedrops and the largest collection of indigestion tablets I’d ever seen.
It was clearly a stressful life, and the room crackled with testosterone, boredom, and restless tension. The men were certainly manly, but Liz gave me a sobering insight into how life with a smokejumper would be.
Watching the visiting crew doing pull-ups on a bar, one of the women in our group asked Liz if she fancied any of the crew. “No,” Liz replied, looking uncomfortable. “I know all the wives, who spend every day wondering if this will be the day their husbands don’t make it home.”
Back at the hotel, I logged on and was amazed to see that twenty-one of the DWs had already got back to me. All had clear and strong opinions as to what I should do. Some qualified their advice before giving it, like Paula:
I want you to know that what I know about boys can be written on the back of a very small postage stamp to a very small island…however…
Reading through the suggestions, I felt like a contestant on some kind of reality game show where everyone was ringing in and voting on my next move. There were two unanimous reactions. Firstly, thrilled I’d met someone I liked so much:
OOOOOHHHHHHH MMMMMMYYYYYYY
GOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
For real? He looks damn cute, that’s for sure! Grainne xxxxx
Secondly, demanding to know which of them could claim the Date Wrangler crown, having pulled off this coup:
I’ll be interested to know how the date came about (or to cut to the chase…WHO gets the credit?). Lots of love, Hec and Ang xxx
P.S. Call IMMEDIATELY if you find yourself serenading complete strangers with songs by the Carpenters and declaring yourself to be “On Top of the World” to anyone who’ll listen….
However, on the dating question of should I stay or should I go, the DWs were split down the middle.
The No Girl—Stop Dating camp was all female, and romantic:
Wallow in it. Even if he is the one and you spend the rest of your lives together, it’ll never be the same as it is for the first ninety days together…. I’m thrilled for you. Lots of love, Alison
inventive:
You’ve had 55 dates around the world, can’t you do another 25 with Garry? My advice is give it a go and forget about the singing cowboy or whoever you had lined up for subsequent dates. If you don’t, you’ll kick yourself. S
arah xxxxx
and considerate:
No need to travel any farther. It would not be fair on you, it would not be fair on Garry, not to mention those poor fellows who are waiting to meet you. Malgosia xxxx
The Go Girl—Keep Dating camp was a mix of male and female, and practical:
No matter how lovely Garry is, don’t give up now. If it’s meant to be, and if he’s the guy for you, he’ll wait for you. Simple as that. Lyn xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
sensible:
when you’re rolling round in the desert with exciting people, art installations, and dusty nipples at every turn (and I’m taking this directly from you, girl), most people look attractive/sexy/cool…but when you see him doing the washing up or queuing to buy a coffee…well, that’s the test. The mundane stuff. Cath xxx
and extremely direct:
Coxy—put the relationship on hold till you’ve finished or do the rest REALLY FUCKING FAST!! Love, S
My advice would be to stay with your Soul Mate in Seattle & let me carry on the dating game for you! Okay, that wasn’t very helpful, but you can’t give up: What if a month down the line SMA turns into GOOMFYP (Get out of my face, you prat!)? Good luck, sweetie. She MacB xx
Some brought their expertise to the problem:
Being an obsessive astro-chick—what’s his star sign/date/time of birth? If he’s an Aquarian, don’t get too excited too soon: They fall head over heels every couple of months…Glam Tan xxxx
Others brought their own problem to the problem:
Can’t talk about Cam or anything else now…am having trouble with Ryan AGAIN. Saw his ex at the pub, who “really wants to be friends again.” Of course, we had a huge fight. Why does he get pissed off with me when SHE’S the bitch who broke his heart? Ah, yes, Love…that used to be a nice feeling. Jo xxx