Are you Peter? 

I rolled up to the small white van parked next to the picnic table, between the stream and the road tucked into the rolling hillside. The old man with tall white socks shuffling around in Crocs nodded. Yep.

I wonder if he knows how trendy he is. 

Cool, cool. Tyler’s right behind me, got a flat. Guess I passed him on the way here, said he saw me go by with his pecker in his hand. 

I don’t think Peter quite heard me, and I didn’t repeat it, though it was the most repeatable thing I’d said all day. A few of us from different directions were meeting up for some live music and good times around a fire, nestled inside the ruggedly magical area of Wisconsin known as the Driftless, the largest concentration of cold water streams in the world, according to driftlesswisconsin.com; also the largest concentration of cool people per capita at any given time, according to me.

Tyler was ahead of me by at least an hour before he rolled over a massive nail we all marveled at later, happened to be taking a piss on the side of the road when I zoomed by, cheerfully waving his available hand over his shoulder. Pretty bummed I missed that scene, but worry not, he filled the group in via text. Except there’s not much for service when you get there, so I delivered the message.

My new friend Peter and and I shot the shit for a bit, sizing each other up, testing the waters, how much of ourselves could we reveal this early in the game? Everything shifted when I mentioned Tynille.

Tynille? You know Tynille? Now that’s a real woman right there. I couldn’t agree more. A lot of woman packed into a sub five foot frame. He glanced up at my home on wheels and then back to all that is me. I get the feeling you’re one of them too.

I had known Peter for less than 20 minutes, but I already knew our admiration for Tynille stemmed from a similar place. His 95% from the fact she’s the best damn fly fisher caster he’s ever seen (and not even for a woman, just simply ever) and mine because she’s walked (and continues to walk) her own badass path, undeterred by societal norms. If we tag-teamed adventures, the two of us cover a nice portion of the gamut. I’ve been looking for my tribe. Some of us wait, some of us settle, some of us never find it. 

Later that evening, Peter couldn’t believe his eyes. Two men outnumbered by four women, everyone out here just being dudes, doing dude shit. Or shit Peter previously only associated with dudes. Tyler, on the other hand, (whom I’ve known for roughly 25 years) has a knack for surrounding himself with cool people who do cool shit (period), and a lot of us happen to be ladies, though a ladies’ man he is not, he’ll be the first to tell you. In fact, that’s how I met Tynille, through Tyler. And Peter? Tyler picked him up fishing somewhere out in the Driftless months or years ago, welcomed him to the family, and there we all were, sitting around a fire, shooting all the shit.

Peter, just shy of 80, shuffled from chair-to-chair to listen in on the things he wanted to hear better, ask the questions he wanted to ask. You ladies are from a different time, he declared in awe, after absorbing some life story, or the way we spoke, the thoughts we expressed, our unfazed ways. A different generation. 

Aw Pete, that may be true, but I know ladies your age who are twice as badass as this crew, so maybe they were just harder to find? And you stopped looking?

Now’s a good time to mention Peter appears happily married and seems to love his wife (of course I asked), though I’ve been deceived by appearances before. Tyler has her number in case one day he knocks on the white van in the morning, and there is no answer. Peter likes to sleep in, according to my observations, but with the chain-smoking and bourbon consumption, you never know when the ticker’s gonna stop ticking, so everyone gets half concerned when 930-10 rolls around without a peep. And we’re a rowdy morning bunch.

In the real world, Peter posts questionable things on Facebook, has some interesting life takes, and there’s very little we’d see eye-to-eye on within the constraints of the internet, but out here? We’re cut from the same cloth. On Sunday as we were saying our goodbyes, old friends and new, Peter clasped my hand in gratitude for spending my weekend with an old man. 

Are you kidding me? Thank YOU for being out here doing the same rad shit we’re doing. You give me hope! I mean, age is a mindset right? Not a lifestyle. And you make me believe I never have to stop doing the things I love, so I think we’re all winners here. 

I spent this past weekend on a magical island off the tip of Door County, dancing with strangers to music under a starry night, absorbing stories both beautiful and tragic, making incredible new friends from all of life’s corners. That’s my forever plan. You know, if you build it, they will come. Keep doing the things you love, and you’ll find your people. Maybe even your person. And my new goal in life is attracting people who want me in theirs, not just the ones who need me. 

Because the difference is everything.

If this were the (wild) animal kingdom, I’d be screaming my mating call with giant, intensely colored, wildly patterned peacock feathers, with the caveat of *not in service for reproduction* (hope you did that on your own time). If this were Bridgerton, I’d be making my debut into society, accepting invitations from gentleman callers in the tea room. Though also, if this were Bridgerton, my age and never-been-married status would label me something quite undesirable. 

But fuck that. In my world, I’ve made it. Sure, it took 43 years, but I’m a whole person. I’m not looking for my other half to complete me. I don’t need anybody, I want someone. And I want another whole person, so we can be two whole people, taking on the world. I know, wild concept. But I’ve found myself trapped in this 15 year pattern of filling needs, hauling out water and plugging up holes, convincing dudes of their self-worth or that they deserve happiness, helping them take a leap, serving as a stepping stone, a bridge to anywhere but here, playing second fiddle, being an option, cleaning up messes I didn’t create, ones I would never make, paying for the old one’s sins, yada, yada, yada. You get the picture.

A broken bird arrives at my doorstep, 
and I mistake it for love.
Again. 

But for the last time. 
Because now my race is run.
I’m ready. 

Feels nice to say that out loud.

You’re up Universe, do your thing.
Bring me one good love. 

(Mike Clark & The Sugar Sounds know what I’m talking about)