Love is a Many Splendored Thing

by Michael Palm

After dating for eight years, I finally married Lisa a few months ago. And everything has been perfect - I cook, she eats; she does laundry, I dirty clothes; she breaks things, I fix them; I love movies, she loves movies.

Yet, although we share a faultless domestic relationship, I find it funny how different we are in the woods.

One would think after being together for so many years and traveling in the backcountry together for many of those, we would have found a common ground on which to tread.

But this isn’t so. In fact, many of the things that irritate her greatly, I find less than bothersome.

For example, we don’t agree on inclines. We like to hike in the mountains; therefore, heading up hill is an inevitable, unavoidable circumstance.

I deal with the torture, actually, I look forward to a good mountain climb because it stretches the legs and clears the lungs. But my wife, on the other hand, becomes a psychotic, homicidal lunatic as soon as the ground becomes anything more than level.

And her telling me she’s going to kill me every mile doesn’t show her true hostilities, what she doesn’t say - the dirty looks, the heavy sighs and the long piercing silence once we reach the top - expresses her true anger.

Yet, hills and mountains are not the only problems that exploit our differences. Lisa is a planner, and I’m not. My wife can map out a day of grocery shopping, a light dinner, dancing, charity work, family visits and all of these events to the minute. I usually just ride her coat tails.

Again, this is perfect in my life. But before and during a backpacking trip, her anal retentiveness can be a little disconcerting. Before we start, she has to know the exact distance that we are hiking and how long the trail will take us to complete. And during the trip, while I’m simply content with getting from point A to point B, she needs to know exactly how far we have traveled and exactly how far we have to go.

I, realizing that this woman owns half of everything, usually respond to her questions whether I know the correct answer or not. And, as long as we’re not traveling up hill, my quick, precise reply usually leads to peace and quiet.

"We are 5.5 miles in and have 4.7 to go until we reach camp. I’m gonna say it’s going to take us three hours."

Whether I’m right on or a little off, she doesn’t care. I gave her a straight answer. She’s content. That is, of course, unless my estimate is totally off base.

"Well, we just passed the six-mile mark. You said five miles. We’ve gone six, and still no sign of camp. You lied."

I love the outdoors, and Lisa loves me. Therefore, she tolerates the outdoors. She says she doesn’t mind the woods but indicates that she probably wouldn’t spend as much time in them if she hadn’t met me.

And her words are never more evident when her phobia of spiders becomes involved.

I regard spiders as nothing more than another animal in the forest, but the eight-legged creatures, no matter how large or minute, cause my wife great anxiety.

Thanks to the "Creatures That Can Kill You" program on the Discovery Channel, every time Lisa and I break for camp we must toss and shake all pieces of equipment and material, including tent, rainfly, sleeping bags, clothes, boots, hats, packs, cups, maps and especially food, because "you never know when your gonna find a half-eaten spider in your muffin like the guy at that restaurant." And look out if a spider creeps along the outside of the tent during the night, it’s tiny body silhouetted through the material by the moonlight. "Spider! Pluck it off! Pluck it off!"

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the perfect mountain man either.

Lisa is a better sport about certain situations that I find intolerable - sleeping for one. I need a nice comfortable place to snooze or I will lay awake all night.

And to help aid my affliction, I carry the most comfortable, expensive air mattress on the market, while Lisa simply packs a 1/2-inch piece of blue flexible foam to sleep upon.

Needless to say, while I only sleep marginally well, she’s out the entire night. I find the whole situation rather irritating.

Also, I have a major problem with noises - constant noises like a zipper jingling or a cup clanging as I hike.

I’m constantly stopping to rearrange my pack or tape a zipper flat.

And at night, the chatter and squeaks of those dang crickets are enough to drive me insane. As was obvious earlier, sleep is very important to me.

But how could I sleep in the woods if I can’t stand the chirping of crickets?

Well, the nocturnal bards singing off in the distance don’t set me off, but the sound of that one soloist that finds the area directly outside my tent the perfect amphitheater to perform its concerto resonates in my ears like a high-pitched bull horn.

Again, Lisa sleeps soundly from Act 1 clear through the Finale - that is until I wake her by rustling the tent after I’ve had enough and donned my headlamp, armed myself with a boot and headed out into the night on a search and destroy mission for the nasty black noise-maker.

And as I fumble around in the dark, cursing, Lisa just sighs and says she simply regards crickets as nothing more than another animal in the forest. Sometimes, BANG…ZOOM!

Yet, despite our obvious differences and our quirky manic behavior, Lisa and I will continue to backpack together. We will still argue.

We will still observe moments of silence on mountaintops. And I will still not sleep.

But, as long as I continue to love the outdoors and Lisa continues to love me, I think we will love and tolerate each other in the woods just as we do in the civilized world.

About the Author

Mike Palm is a copy editor, backpacker, rock climber from Southwestern Pa.