Dirtbags Never Die

My husband, back in the day, used to be a dirtbag. He lived in his truck and went climbing, and did that game. And while now he has an adult job with actual health insurance and he does things like re-screens our windows with pet-proof material, parts of his dirtbag self still exist.

At one point he was in charge of a Search and Rescue (SAR) team, and as a part of this, he had to lead various trainings. One Saturday he decided to put on a SAR team training where the team would hike up a popular mountain, but from an angel with no trail, and they would look for an outstanding missing person, who may or may not have been lost on the less traveled part of this mountain.

And, my husband is a notorious sand bagger. He'll say something like, We'll take the short cut and twenty-five miles later you are exhausted and he is totally fine.

So, the SAR team gathered at this random spot on the side of the road and we began our cross country march into the wilderness and up the side of this mountain. Of course, because this was an adventure put on by my husband, there was scrambling, steep drop off's, and a general sense of unease the farther everyone got from their cars.

We walked, and scrambled, and climbed, and a couple of hours in, I recognized the looks in everyone's eyes. They were a stressed and tired and this was the perfect time for a snack. I told my husband to take a break. He looked at me like I'd learned another language, then saw what I was seeing. We sat down and opened our packs.

In the group was a guy who grew weed and lived on the margins of established society. We will call him Ned, and if it's not clear, Ned was also a dirtbag, although not as reformed as my husband. Ned and my husband struck up a conversation about something, and it migrated into how long certain food items stayed good.

Now, one of my first memories of my husband is him telling me how cabbage is the perfect food.

"Per pound, it's the cheapest, and it stays good the longest," he told me.

So Ned and my husband began to talk on the cost to weight benefit of cabbage. While was happening a woman, we'll call her Hattie, ate her snack and watched them with growing horror.

Hattie was probably twenty-four, had just graduated from Cornell in Food Sciences, and was studying to take the MCAT.

"Yogurt stays good basically forever," Ned said.

"It's good until it gets the pink mold," my husband agreed.

"Oh yeah, the pink mold is no good. But you can scrape that off, and you're fine," Ned said.

My husband nodded enthusiastically while he took a bite from the unrefrigerated yogurt he had stuffed into his pack hours before.

"No..." came a soft voice.

Everyone looked around.

"No," Hattie said again, this time a little louder.

"What?" My husband asked.

Hattie appeared to steal herself. She looked back in the direction of the cars. I watched her do the mental math. She could not re-trace her steps without my husband. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere with us, yet in that moment, I knew, if she could have navigated herself back to the cars on her own, she would have.

"Yogurt goes bad far before it grows pink mold. You are... so wrong. It certainly can go bad before that."

The group considered this.

"She does have an Ivy league degree in food science," I said.

Hattie nodded.

My husband and Ned mulled this over.

"Yeah, but I've never gotten sick from it," Ned said.

"Me neither," my husband agreed.

"That's not the point," Hattie said.

This seemed to really confuse Ned. No one said anything. Finally my husband said, "I'm sure you're right, but it probably won't change anything for me."

"For real, just scrape the pink stuff off. It's fine," Ned said.

And rather than continue the conversation, we started our hike again, Hattie staying as far from Ned and my husband as possible.

We did not find the missing person, but all of us, Hattie included, made it back to the cars. I never saw Hattie after that, but I hope she's a doctor now.

This is for you Hattie.