Owen saw the morning forecast and made a decision. The decision was: light jacket, no water, vibes.
I want to be clear that I had shown him the full forecast. I had literally read aloud the part that said "high near 84." I had used the phrase "desert heat is deceptive" with the earnestness of a woman who had done actual research. He nodded in the way he nods when he is hearing sounds but not words, and then he grabbed his denim jacket and said, "it's fifty-nine degrees babe, I think I'll be okay."
We were in Joshua Tree for the weekend. My idea, my planning, my color-coded note in my phone labeled JTNP LOGISTICS that he had gently mocked approximately four times on the drive out from the city. He had contributed one thing to the trip preparation: a podcast he wanted to listen to in the car. The podcast was three hours long. We had a two-hour drive. He had not checked this in advance.
Anyway. Sunday morning, we parked and started walking. It was beautiful. It was genuinely, heartbreakingly beautiful — the Joshua trees doing their strange spiky ballet against the blue sky, the rocks stacked like something a giant had left behind mid-thought. I had my water bottle. I had sunscreen. I had a hat that he had described, on Friday, as "very practical."
By 10 AM, Owen had tied the denim jacket around his waist.
By 10:45, he asked if he could have some of my water.
By 11:30, he was walking slightly ahead of me toward every patch of shade with the focused intensity of a man who has made peace with his mistakes and is now simply trying to survive them. He didn't say anything. He was too committed to the bit of not saying anything to say anything. I respected it, honestly. There's a kind of dignity in that.
What got me — what really got me — was that when we stopped to look at a cluster of wildflowers that some other hikers were photographing, Owen crouched down, genuinely delighted, and said, "wait, these are actually amazing." And he meant it. He was sunburned, slightly dehydrated, wearing a jacket as a belt, and he was completely, authentically thrilled by the flowers. He took eleven photos. He texted one to his mom.
I gave him the rest of my water.
We had driven past a farmers market situation near town on our way in — Freedom Plaza, people with tote bags and ceramics and that specific energy of a community that has collectively decided to be present on purpose, off their phones, making things with their hands. Owen had pointed at it and said "that looks cool, can we go after?" and I had said yes because I am a fool who is in love with him.
We went after. He bought a small watercolor print of a Joshua tree from a woman who painted them plein air. He carried it very carefully all the way back to the car. He said he wanted to frame it. He will frame it, actually — that's the thing about Owen, he follows through on the tender stuff. It's the logistical stuff that loses him.
On the drive back, the podcast host announced that this was part two of a four-part series and Owen looked at me with an expression that I can only describe as a man confronting his own legacy.
"Did you know it was a series?" I asked.
"I did not," he said.
We listened to it anyway. It was about the history of crossword puzzles. It was genuinely interesting. He kept pausing it to tell me facts.
By the time we hit the highway, the sun was going down over the desert and everything was orange and improbable and Owen had his hand out the window, feeling the air, and the watercolor was wedged carefully between his seat and the center console so it wouldn't slide.
"Next time," he said, "I'll bring more water."
"You could also," I offered, "read the forecast."
"Yeah," he said, like this was a creative suggestion he was willing to consider.
I have the JTNP LOGISTICS note open already for next time. I'll pack his water bottle for him. I'll probably also pack the sunscreen.
He'll take a photo of something beautiful and text it to his mom, and that's going to make the whole thing worth it, same as always.