Lava Lake.

I drove through Butte and Bozeman on my way to Big Sky. Ranches stretched from horizon to horizon under that famously huge expanse of blue and lazy cattle walked with loping gaits across the prairie, heads bobbing. The interstate that I usually vehemently avoid was empty and gorgeous, making its way through mountains with death-defying drop-offs and steep grades. I stopped at a McDonald's in Butte (hey, I got an Archcard for Christmas, ok?) and marveled for the zillionth time at the genuine kindness of people in the Midwest. The employees behind the counter actually seemed as though they cared about my order and they smiled a lot. They said "Excuse me" and "Thank you" to their co-workers as they moved about the kitchen. The cashier was an outrageously freckled teen with a nametag that read, "RIAN".
"I love your name!" I told him. "That's a great way to spell Ryan."
"Oh, um, actually it's Brian. The B wore off."
"Oh. Well, Brian is a cool name, too."

In Bozeman I turned from East to South and traded the sprawling landscapes of I-90 for the twisting S-curves of the Gallatin National Forest. Suddenly it was darker, as the mountains loomed in front of the sun. I passed trailhead after trailhead, following Swan Creek as it snaked in between the foothills. Trees at least 50 feet tall lined both sides of the road. At the Greek Creek campground I pulled in and read the signs. "Camping $18.00 per Night"

"$18.00? Oh, hell no!" That's way out of my budget. I pulled right back out and drove up to the Lava Lake trailhead. Lava Lake is a mountain lake at the end of a steep three-mile hike up the side of said mountain. Parking was free and there weren't any signs saying overnight parking was prohibited, so I decided to risk it and sleep in the car at the trailhead. The lot was devoid of people but had plenty of cars parked. The license plates ranged from Michigan to Florida to California.

It wasn't quite dark so I figured a short hike would be nice, to wear me out. I threw on a sweatshirt -- my brother's wrestling hoodie that I stole, to be exact -- and began climbing. And climbing. And when that was over, I climbed some more. Then I turned around and realized I had only gone about 30 feet. "Sweet buttah, I'm out of shape." I muttered, struggling for air. It was very dark in the woods, and I began to get scared.

This was the first time I'd hiked since my bear encounter and I realized that after about ten minutes that I wasn't just scared, I was petrified. Every tree stump, every wayward boulder I thought was a bear lying in wait to attack me. I kept looking around and watching behind me, and even dodged behind a rock at one point, to escape the treacherous and hungry gaze of a signpost. "Stupid bears," I thought. "This isn't even fun." The scenery was spectacular, with dense trees and a rushing white-water creek, and here I was, not even enjoying myself because I was too damn scared of the wildlife. And I didn't know how to get un-scared.

I hiked for what seemed like forever, until I stopped to inspect what looked like yellow wax dripping from a tree, and was passed by the only other person I'd seen since parking my car, a middle-aged guy in a Michigan sweatshirt. "Hey, do you know what this is?" I asked him.
"Probably just sap. From those cracks in the bark right there."
"Huh. It looks like wax and it threw me. Did you hike all the way to the lake?"
"No, it's three miles up to the lake. I only got about halfway, to where the footbridge is and I turned back 'cause it's getting dark."I was just happy to see somebody else, and kept asking questions. "Have you seen any wildlife around here?" Subtext: "I'm very afraid of bears. Have you seen any bears?"
"No." He had stopped to talk to me and began descending the trail again. He watched me with bright blue eyes to see what I would do -- keep hiking up, stay put, or start the hike down.
"I'll come with you," I said, hopping, skipping and jumping down the steep hill
"Okay," he said, falling into step with me, single file on the narrow trail. "No, I haven't seen much wildlife."

"Are you from around here?"
"No, no. Michigan. And you?"
"Oh, I should have known by the shirt. That must have been your Michigan license plate in the parking lot. I'm from Baltimore."
"Yeah, I'm thinkin' I might never go back," he said.
"To Michigan? Why's that?"
"No work out there. Nothin' for me anymore. I love the outdoors and I called up my union yesterday -- I'm a roofer -- and they said they got me a job up in Bozeman I can start Monday."
"Wow! Do you own a house back in Michigan?"
"Used to. Sold everything I own and bought a trailer. Left about three weeks ago, on June 5th."
"That's the same day I left!" I said. "And you're brave to have done all that with no guarantees!"
"It's better than bein' back in Michigan. When I say there's no work there, there's literally no work there. I haven't worked in two years. Been on unemployment. It's nice, but you feel kinda worthless. I wanted a change, and I wanted to work. So I just packed up and came out here, hopin' for the best."
"So will you buy a house here now?"
"Not just yet. For the summer I'll probably just stay in my trailer at the campground. They want to charge me a hundred bucks a week, and that ain't bad at all. Maybe later on I'll get an apartment. See how I like the summer first, though. See if the job lasts. You don't want to get in on a lease and then have your job fall out from beneath you, y'know?"
"True." I was still amazed -- here was someone almost exactly like me!

"So is it a good job, what they're offering you?"
"We'll see. It's union, so it pays good." He told me what he made per hour and per week and it literally made me want to cry and become a roofer, in that order. It was exorbetent, almost criminal considering how many non-union workers (case in point, my father) work their asses off and never see money like that in decades.
"Yeah. Yeah, I don't think you'll have any problems." For a moment, I hated him. It's a jealousy thing that crops up now and then; funny how money and envy are both green. Still, I couldn't really begrudge him personally, it's not as though he wrote his own paychecks.

I told him my story as we made great time to the bottom of the mountain. Before I knew it we were passing the sign at the trailhead. "Too bad we didn't make it to the lake," I said.
"Yeah, well, I was gonna come back tomorrow morning and do it again, early. You know, before it gets too hot. Where are you staying tonight?"
I pointed to my parking space. "You're looking at it."
"Okay, well, if I come back in the morning and you're still here, would you want to go with me?"
"Sure! What time?"
"Like, eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock sounds good, I'll be here. Hey, y'know, I never got your name." Which was silly, because we'd only been talking for about half an hour at that point.
"I'm Robert."
"Jessica. And I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!"

After Robert left I walked down to the rushing Swan Creek. The water was frigid but felt good on my face. Sounds of fast-moving water drowned out the industrial rumblings of tractor-trailers speeding past the trailhead and I breathed out, because sometimes I forget to.
That night I put my "Please don't tow me" note under my windshield wiper and settled in. I debated on eating something but the McDonald's hours earlier had been so filling that I forewent dinner. The pale blue sky grew dark at 10:30 and I leaned my seat back for a long summer's nap.

The next morning a familiar red pickup with a Michigan license plate pulled up next to me at seven o'clock, kicking up gravel and rousing me from a dreamless sleep. I reached for my phone on the dash and rolled down my window, thrusting the phone out. "You're an hour early!" I shouted angrily, but I was smiling.
Robert laughed. "Sorry! I wanted to get started before it gets too hot."
"I hear that, just give me a minute."

I re-donned my bother's sweatshirt and my hiking boots, threw a bottled water and my camera in the pocket and we were off. Again I thought I'd die thirty feet into it, but having Robert along gave me something to aspire to. I hadn't eaten breakfast, or dinner the night before, but that turned out to be wise as the altitude began to get to me. With nothing in my stomach, I had nothing to make me sick.

Robert said, "I wouldn't be surprised if we see a lot of wildlife, since it's early."
"Yeah, just as long as we don't see any bears."
"Oh, yeah! Last night I was by myself and I kept looking behind me, I was kind of scared."
"Oh, thank god!" I exhaled. "I'm not the only one, then! And I feel better with you here, I'm not scared anymore!"
"Well, that's good," he said.

I still couldn't get over the idea of him packing up and leaving home the way he had. "What does your family think?"
"I don't really have family there anymore. My mom lives in Florida. I tried living there too, but I absolutely hated it. It was okay in the winter, but the summer will kill you. And it was so crowded! The traffic was so bad a trip to Target, about 3 miles from my house, would take two hours. I hate it, hate overpopulation. The day I decided to leave, I tried to go to Target. Took me four hours. I got home from the store and started packing up my stuff. Broke my lease, I couldn't stand it."
"I hear you. I can't stand my hometown now either." I told him of the alarming Honey-Let's-Sell-The-Backyard trend. "Schools are so overcrowded. Neighborhoods are overcrowded. And no one seems to care."

We stopped a few times to take breaks. At the steeper parts, I lagged far behind, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. But at no time did I even dream of saying, "Let's turn back." I've got too much girlish pride, which could be a good or bad thing. Four years ago, hiking in the Grand Canyon, my friends, Patrick and John, nicknamed me 'Sparky' because I refused to be the slow little girl in the back. I kept running past them, straight uphill, because I never want to be seen as a weakling. That night, back at camp, I felt like I'd smoked pound of weed and couldn't move for 24 hours. Hence, Sparky was born.

Sparky made a re-appearance on Lava Mountain that day, just trying to keep up with Robert. Still, he stayed a few steps ahead of me. At the 1.5 mile marker, the footbridge over the mountain creek, we walked single file over a wooden plank. "This is as far as I got last night," Robert said. "It should level out now."

It didn't. It began switch-backing. We laughed to ignore the pain in our legs and chests, and talked about home.
"My girlfriend's back at the campsite. She doesn't like stuff like this. I don't think she'll last very long out here," Robert said.
"Wow, I didn't even realize you had someone with you." He hadn't mentioned her the night before.
"Yeah, that's why I got the camper, mostly. She doesn't like to be without a bathroom and stuff. But I kinda made a mistake and bought a trailer without a holding tank. Still, if it weren't for her, I probably would have done what you're doing and just take my truck. And my dog. The gas with pullin' that trailer is killing me."
"Yeah! I can't imagine traveling in anything but a Honda. And alone, with maybe a dog."
"You got a boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
"What does he think about you being out here?"
"Well... he wishes I was there. More than that I think he wishes he was here. But we make do. So, if your girlfriend doesn't stay, will you stay together?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah, long distance relationships are hard."
"Relationships are hard period. I was married for years. Been divorced for about 8 years now."
"Do you have kids?""Yeah, but they're kind of grown-up."
"What?!" He looked to be about 34. "How old are you?"
"I'm 45."
I was incredulous.
He continued. "My ex-girlfriend, the one before this one, was your age. Twenty-five. It was great dating someone younger, but she didn't like to do anything outdoors. She loved to shop, she was kind of a princess."
"Yeah... that's so not me," I coughed as we crested a switchback. "Are we almost there, you think?"
"Hope so."

Finally, after an hour of steep climbing, the ground leveled and we enjoyed a leisurely walk. Animal prints were scattered over the soft ground and we tried to figure out what made them. "Mountain lion?" "Dog?" "Fox?" We also started walking faster, eager to see the lake. And there, just past a huge pile of rocks, was the most beautiful lake I'd ever seen.

Snowcapped mountains, spectacular though not very tall from this vantage point, surrounded the whole scene and tall pine trees blanketed the shoreline. The water was so clear we could see rainbow trout swirling as far out as thirty feet, over brown and green rocks on the lake floor. The reflection was pristine, marred only by the smooth ripples of a jumping fish. A tiny yellow butterfly flew past my face as I tried to take it all in. Staring out at the water, Robert murmured softly. "I'm definitely not going back to Michigan."
"I might not go back to Maryland, either."

We stayed by the water, picking our way across the wooded shore and waving to the only other people up there -- three backcountry campers perched on some rocks. "C'mere, look at this!" I shouted to him, a few steps ahead of me.
"What?"
"Look under that tree-root."
"What is it?"
"Glow-in-the-dark mushrooms."

There, tucked in a marshy crevice, were mushrooms shining the color of parking cones. "That is too cool," he said.

A salmonfly swooped too close to the surface and ended up in the lake, floating out towards the center. "That's it for that guy," Robert said, just as a hungry fish jumped out to bite. "I'd love to bring a kayak up here," he continued.
"Yeah... but you'd have to lug it all the way up the mountain. I'm having a hard enough time with a bottle of water and a camera." He laughed.

Hungry and tired, we didn't stay too long. It was getting close to noon and the sun was heating up. We filled our water bottles in a stream that fed the lake (best water ever) and headed down the mountain. On the way down, we passed group after group of people clad in fleece, panting and sweaty. "Good thing we did this early," I said.
"Seriously," Robert said as a man walked past with a baby in a backpack.
"Sweet god, I don't envy that guy."

At the bottom of the mountain, we said goodbye. For all the time we spent together, it was the most random meeting. "You be safe out there," he said, pulling away.
"Will do," I said, and I turned right, towards Yellowstone.