In honor of Valentine’s Day, we’re looking back on our most memorable dates in the outdoors. Adventure brought us together—and sometimes, adventure will tear us apart. From a whitewater wipeout on the Lochsa River, to locking eyes mid-air after a scary climbing fall, here are Outside editors’ most heart-warming (and cringe-worthy) moments of looking for love in the wild.
Whitewater Wipeout
During the COVID-19 pandemic, outdoor recreation hit an all-time high. I had been a whitewater boater for years at that point—and I had had my fair share of relationships with men in the industry as well. One night, in May 2021, I was sitting by a late-night bonfire at a wilderness camp sandwiched between Idaho’s Highway 12 and the Lochsa River, a wild and scenic boater’s paradise.
Across the flames, I made eye contact with a dark-haired, mustached man in an orange beanie. We hit it off and decided to run the Lochsa’s stretch the next day. It features continuous, technical, high-water rapids with daunting names, such as Grim Reaper, Bloody Mary, and Lochsa Falls. This man from Maine—Maniac, if you will—offered to captain my raft, which included four of my best girlfriends as passengers. (Talk about an introduction to the friend group.)
Upon our approach to the turbulent, chaotic Jones’ Rapid, we flipped the raft. As the group was ferociously swimming through the frigid, fast water, one of my girlfriends screamed at me, “Do you even know this guy?!”
“Not really, we met last night!” I yelled back. (To be fair, he was a certified Maine whitewater guide with years of experience on rivers around the country. Jones’ is just a heckuva rapid.) That day, we swam and drank from the Rocky Mountain river, but everyone stayed safe, and eventually, were warm and dry.
As for that guy I met at the fire? We dated for a handful of years and boated whitewater around the world, including West Virginia’s Gauley River, the Jataté River in Mexico, and multiple multi-week trips down the Grand Canyon. We’re no longer together, but we remain boater buddies. (It’s a small community, alright?) —Madison Dapcevich, associate editor Outside
Forever Running Mates
This is a story of platonic love. A couple of years ago, I was working at a bookstore, and a woman with curly hair walked in. We chatted; I rang up her purchases, and she later returned to the store, asking me if I wanted to be friends. We exchanged numbers and started texting. We realized we both loved something other than books—running.
We started meeting up at a run club every Saturday morning. When one of us wasn’t feeling it, we’d hype the other up enough to get out of bed and get to the running trail. We’d start off side by side, but she’d eventually breeze past me, and then I’d try to catch up to her. Never did. We go on ice cream dates (even in winter), go back to that same running trail, and walk it just to talk, or walk together in silence. I never thought I’d make a best friend in my 30s—I’d always heard that making friends past a certain age was pretty impossible—but I feel deeply grateful that she and I met.
In a funny twist, we also happen to have the same birthday (and our dads have the same birthday!). We’re in agreement that we were meant to meet, and I’m prepared for this friendship to last a lifetime. —Ayana Underwood, senior health editor, Outside
A Hangry Moment Ends in a Happy Ending
Several years ago, my boyfriend and I had planned a backpacking trip up to our favorite alpine lake in northern New Mexico. It takes about six miles and a ton of vert to reach the sparkling water, surrounded by rugged peaks. The May trip was the first of the season for us, so we were both wildly out of shape. By the time we reached the campsite, I was exhausted and beyond hangry. Worse: the flint on my backpacking stove wasn’t working as I went to heat up lunch. As I sat there grumpy and frustrated, trying again and again to light the stove, my boyfriend kept saying “Hey babes, look!” and “Hey, I think Squeaker has something for you.”
Annoyed and wondering why it couldn’t wait, I rolled my eyes, placed the stove on the ground, and looked down at our dog Squeaker. He had a box with an engagement ring in it attached to his collar, and when I looked up, my boyfriend was down on one knee. Several years later, we’re still married with two little kids and a step-teen, and my now-husband knows to never ask me anything when I’m hungry. —Abigail Wise, brand director, Outside
Meeting in Mid-air
Climbing is what brought me and my now-husband Casey together, but it was a big fall that seemed to lock things in. On one of our first few times climbing together, we drove down the dirt road through Spring Creek Canyon on Colorado’s Western Slope and hiked up a scree field to one of my favorite routes: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
On the first pitch, Casey, who weighs almost twice as much as me, took the biggest whipper (a giant climbing fall) of his life. Usually, the belayer has some idea that the climber is falling, because they might yell “take!” or scream “falling!” or utter a nervous “watch me …” But Casey had given me no verbal cues or even indication that he was struggling. When he fell, I was yanked upward as he plunged toward me. We met in the middle, hanging in mid-air. In our super romantic, climbing-themed Lady and the Tramp spaghetti moment, we locked eyes. A few years later, he proposed on the third pitch of an ice climb. —Maya Silver, editor-in-chief, Climbing
Sandbagged on a Second Date
At 6’2”, I have never had to exaggerate my height on a dating app. I may have exaggerated my climbing ability, though. Just before I started dating my now-wife, Natalie, I connected with another climber on Tinder. We made plans to meet up at the Freight Train Boulder, a large granite monolith on the edge of Colorado’s Eldorado Canyon State Park, where we spent a long afternoon chatting and trying the overhanging problems. I was a slightly stronger boulderer than her and had been there before, so I powered through lines that she struggled to top. Shortly afterwards, we agreed to a second meeting at Shelf Road, the sport-climbing hotspot near Cañon City. My date asked me what grade I climbed so she could pick a zone; I gave her a number. She replied that she was pulling at the same level.
Now, here is the thing: bouldering is not sport climbing. Just because you can link a couple of hard, overhanging moves doesn’t mean you can keep it together for 80 feet of slab. On top of that, the number I had given her was my redpoint—the hardest route I could climb after a long session or two of working on it—whereas it was her onsight grade, a fact that dawned on me right around when she led me to the bottom of a climb rivaling the hardest things I had ever sent and told me to tie in.
Could I have admitted my mistake, cleared things up, and asked her if we could climb something easier instead? I could have, but I was 26, and would rather have eaten a pile of sand than admit weakness in front of a girl on a second date. Instead, I let her put me on belay and spent the next twenty minutes painstakingly picking my way up some of the sharpest holds I had ever felt. Miraculously, I made it to the anchors without falling. For a moment, as I belayed her up, I let myself believe that I had gotten away with it. Then she pointed me to a route that was a full two letter grades harder, and I understood that first climb had been the warm-up.
Over the next few hours, I flailed and hangdogged my way to the top of a half-dozen or so routes that she—head and shoulders a better sport climber than me—essentially walked up. (She, blessedly considerate, pretended not to notice; we hung out once or twice more after that.) Since then, I’ve adhered to a policy of rigorous honesty in all of my relationships, and lowballed my onsight grade when a new partner asks. —Adam Roy, editor-in-chief, Backpacker
Too Close for Comfort
I spent a few winters living in Aspen in my late 20s, and I still consider it one of the great privileges of my life. I was deeply in love with skiing Ajax and with the small, local community that made me feel instantly at home. I wasn’t dating much. The town is tiny and options are limited, but if I’m honest, I was also still talking to a long-distance ex I believed might come back around. Then, on my birthday, I learned he was on a surf trip in the Pacific Northwest with our mutual friends and had invited another woman to join him. Message received.
That was the moment I decided I needed to date outside the bubble. Really outside it. So when a guy from Denver, four hours away, asked me on a ski date, I said yes. We met halfway at Beaver Creek, each driving a couple of hours to test fate. Admittedly, skiing is a risky first date, especially if you’re prone to the ick. One bad run, one awkward lift ride, one premature base-layer reveal, and it’s hard to recover. Thankfully, he was tall, cute enough, and skied well. We cruised groomers and chatted about our shared outdoor hobbies.
Then, on the chairlift, he mentioned a recent surf trip he’d gone on with some new friends. To the Pacific Northwest. A few clarifying questions confirmed it: same beaches, same friend group. It was the same trip my ex had taken with his new beau. So much for escaping the bubble.
Still, it was a great day skiing groomers and eating overpriced nachos. We went out for sushi for dinner and poached a hotel hot tub. We confirmed we had the sexual chemistry of two rocks and parted ways with a hug and a high-five, no follow-up required.
Until, of course, I ran into him years later at a Halloween party in Salt Lake City where I moved to. He now lives down the street with his wife and baby. Because in ski towns, large or small, as they say, he’s not your boyfriend, it’s just your turn. —Sierra Shafer, editorial director of Lifestyle at Outside
Tell us in the comments: What’s your most memorable—sweet or disastrous—date in the outdoors?
The post Our Most Memorable (and Unhinged) Outdoor Dates appeared first on Outside Online.
