why are men?

I arrived on the mountain by 3:00 and decided to fit in a hike. In the Rockies, afternoon storms would have persuaded me not to attempt it, but here, the California sky was clear and it was breezy and warm. The manager at the inn across the road advised me on local hiking routes. Muir Woods was down the mountain, a six or so mile loop I’d save for the next day. It was the reason I’d chosen Mountain Home as a base in the first place. I couldn’t wait to see the redwoods.

“It’s…challenging coming back up,” he warned. So in light of the late hour, I chose a closer destination on the same path, filled up my water reservoir and headed out.

I was steps from the inn when I ran into Artie. A wiry old man of almost 80 who seemed unsure of where he was going. I was standoffish with him at the start. He tried to tell me I was mistaken about where the trailhead was (I was not) and I read him for a guy who didn’t like to be wrong.

We made polite introductions but I stayed several feet ahead, only looking back when I needed to repeat what I’d said. His hearing aids, he said, didn’t always work so great. At some point, I passed my turn off, and Artie suggested I continue on with him to Muir Woods. It was a pleasant hike to the national monument, he assured me. I thought, why not. My legs were fresh. And if I knocked it out that afternoon, I could return to climb Tamalpais the next morning.

Artie sweetened the deal. For the pleasure of my company, he’d happily buy me a hot chocolate at the visitor’s center. I agreed.

We hiked down the mountain, him doing the lion’s share of the talking, mostly about his wife, who had passed very suddenly not that long ago. I asked questions and shared bits about my own life. The hike was beautiful and several times I had to stop to pet the moss on a tree or gape at the trees towering over us.

As promised, when we reached the bottom, he bought me a hot chocolate. I picked up souvenirs for the boys. A sticker for my water bottle. An ornament for the tree. We sat in the cool canopy of ancient redwoods while he spoke more about his late wife, their grown children, and his grief. We toasted to her memory. It was disarming and very paternal.

In that moment, I thought about how I’d tell the story of meeting Artie. It would have been with a certain degree of warmth, I think, that now will be missing from the retelling.

The way back up was laborious for my travel companion. Artie was thirty some years my senior, so I lead slowly, stopping when his breathing sounded coarse. Late afternoon was yielding to evening and I had some concern that we wouldn’t make it up the mountain before sunset.

When we did finally reach the inn, Artie asked if I’d like to join him for a quick bite. This is when I should have politely declined. I was tired. I’d have rather driven down the mountain for a real dinner. Alone. But I didn’t want to be unkind. So I joined him at a table on the inn’s wooden deck and ordered a sandwich.

Halfway through dinner, it got weird. Artie had a glass of wine. And I wonder if that didn’t change his intentions, so much as…unlock them. He was midway through telling me how he met his late wife when he stopped and declared how beautiful I looked in my glasses. We were kindred spirits, he said. I was immediately on edge. I sat further back in my chair.

A breeze blew through and I took the opportunity to tell him I was cold and was done for the night. The inn’s manager was hovering nearby as we said our good-byes. I turned an offered embrace into an arm’s length side hug. “Drive safe,” I said. And that’s when Artie, declaring me so lovely, pulled me close and aggressively kissed my face. I pushed him off of me, astonished.

Before I could register what had happened, the manager intervened and it was over. He ushered the old man out the door and I was left to figure out just what the hell happened. Had I been too friendly? Why had I not just said no to dinner?

Why was I making his bad behavior my responsibility?

My face burned where his coarse scruff had scratched me. It didn’t stop burning until I sat in the bath that night and scrubbed him off of my skin with a washcloth. I wish I could have washed away the entire afternoon. It is impossible to explain how awful it felt.

As I climbed into bed, I sent an SOS to a girlfriend. “Why are men….” I trailed off. Why are men. Then I turned off the light and fell asleep feeling disturbed.

Artie and I had exchanged email addresses, and in the next day, he emailed several times. I sent them all to trash. When I was on my way back to Colorado, he sent a final email, apologizing for “offending” me. He’s used to being very affectionate with family members, he reasoned. I stopped reading there. The entitlement was infuriating. Whatever he meant by it, that was irrelevant.

The trip, so long in planning and something I’d looked forward to so much felt so… tainted. The sticker I’d probably never put on my water bottle. The Christmas ornament I couldn’t imagine hanging with any fond feelings. “You did that,” I thought, and deleted his apology. It was not my job to teach him how to behave. Nor was I in the business of absolution. Why are men, indeed.