Water in Drought
The first interstate stretch to be declared a “scenic byway” sped beneath them. A crisp gauze of winter mists clung to the evergreens, wended into layers, un-crisped. When my mom asked him what our anniversary would be, as she drove my partner over the pass to SeaTac airport, he supposed it would be the day I proposed. Not an unusual way of choosing an anniversary, except. None of it happened in the order we’re taught to expect.
In Washington State, 2025 was a year of historic drought. The reservoirs made from dammed-off mountain lakes never refilled, and their miles of mud were trenched into Mad Max apocalyptic patterns by the tires of recreational vehicles. Despite barrages of rainstorms this winter, 2026 isn’t shaping up to be any more precedented. Yet, in the personally unprecedented, my own reservoirs were filled.
JULY, 2025 — Highway 97 cut through a dry, agricultural stretch of the Yakima River Basin before crossing the Columbia River and turning along the Gorge. Our destination was Silver Falls State Park, where the Trail of Ten Falls loops behind hundred-foot waterfalls that cascade over basalt cliffs in a temperate rainforest. We camped beside a creek and dashed from the cool mists of one fall to the next. Submerged in the luminous beetle-green of leaf-filtered light, I took photos of Trye in his “unnatural habitat,” and he took photos of me as I exuberantly confirmed our Lobster Mushroom find and harvested two to take home.
I made a white wine “lobster” pasta with them and invited Trye over for dinner with my roommate and our friend Mitchi. Out of an abundance of foraged foods. Out of joy with dissolving caution.
MID-MARCH, 2025 — It was a clear day when I met Trye at The Mule to talk about our goals, dreams, habits, and non-negotiables. If we were going to buy a house together, there were some things we needed to know first. We talked over drinks and fried pickles. It was the third time we’d met up one-on-one.
A 5–7-year commitment before we could refinance or buy each other out. Could we share chores that long? Could he share the space with foster kids? Could I live without asthma-attack-inducing pets? After we left the bar, our phones lit up with pings—or lights—of eager disclosure (my cell stays on vibrate, his with the volume on): “I talk to myself.” “I play music on my phone as I walk around.” “I snore.” “I always keep the curtains open.” “I’ve been stable for years, but I have bipolar.” Can you live with that? Can you live with me?
Eager disclosure like a stream of consciousness. Like a leak in a dam.
OCTOBER, 2025 — Waves crashed over the median barriers as Trye drove us home from date-day in Tacoma. While we’d explored LeMay: America’s Car Museum and the Tacoma Museum of Glass, dark clouds had flowed into each other—each confluence growing heavier—until the sky burst with an atmospheric river. By the time Trye was driving us home, whole towns off the interstate were without power. The road was scattered with branches and puddles of standing water, deep enough that each passing semi could be crowned Triton and raise the high seas. Trye held the steering wheel in one hand, and my hand in the other. He gasped and pointed at a large branch, half crushed with scattered rust leaves, in the other lane. He pointed with his left hand.
I had never understood holding onto someone like that, like the Lizzy McAlpine song “reckless driving.”
2024 — The first time we saw each other was in a crowded gallery. Trye was tabling for the local Pride organization, and I arrived with another friend. I walked that friend over to his table—an awkward attempted-wing-man—then slowly backed into the crowd. I don’t remember the weather, or the day, or what either of us were wearing. The first time I said his name, I asked “Is that one Trye?” while pointing to the wrong person.
APRIL, 2025 — I placed my hand on his low back and pulled him toward me, steering Trye away from the Pacific rattlesnake just in time. He didn’t even notice it, giant and spread partially over the trail. Maybe Ancient Lakes wasn’t the best beginner’s hike. With an easy mileage (to me), and with no spring snow in the high shrub steppe, I thought only of the beautiful desert waterfalls, gorge views, and blooming wildflowers. I forgot about the sheer scree-fields, venomous wildlife, and stinging nettles. But I still convinced him to scramble up algae-slick boulders with me to the furthest waterfall, and he eagerly pointed out the red-winged blackbirds the way he points out interesting cars.
Taking people out on hikes is a habit of mine. Taking Trye out became its own habit.
MARCH 10, 2025, OUR ANNIVERSARY — I went feral for that yellow house on Sprague Street. Zillow sent me a push notification for a house it knew, for a fact, was out of my price range. I hadn’t wanted anything like that in years. I flooded the trivia team group chat with schemes to sue Zillow for emotional distress, to manipulate the sellers, anything to afford the house. I propositioned the person with the best credit score.
“OR @Trye, my darling… my chance at qualifying for this loan, what if we got married”
“Proposal!!”
“:0”
“And the response???”
“Omg the three dots in anticipation is giving me a heart palpitation”
He said yes.
OUR ANNIVERSARY? — I spent the year before proposing to Trye declaring loudly, and often, that I’d figured out what I wanted: another queer, asexual person committed to staying in Ellensburg and providing a space for kids. I wasn’t asking for too much. Specific, maybe, but not too much.
For a while it felt that way, until one day I looked over at trivia and that exact person had materialized from—of all places—Arkansas. Then another day I found myself on his doorstep delivering a snack of wild sagebrush violets. Another day he took me to a car show. Another day I led him barefoot through the water pooled beneath Umtanum Falls until water crashed over our heads and we covered our faces with our hands, both wondering, “is this when we kiss?”
It was another day, long after he matched what I wanted, that what I wanted became him.
Queer people are often told that we’re asking for too much; honestly, anyone who’s thought about and personalized their desires beyond the given social script is dismissed in a similar way. But being able to articulate who I am, who I want to be, and how I want to be with someone is what allowed me to go off script. To propose to a friend. To leave the apartment where I lived for four years with the same person. To imagine my life beyond the label that helped me for so many years. To let unfamiliar feelings saturate me.
Finding one day—one start—is like choosing a drop in a river. It’s more accurate to look at the whole. The whole? Trye is my water in drought.
Photo from the Ten Falls Trail. July 2025.
