There is a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood
And they climb the mountain's crest.
Theirs is the curse of gypsy blood
And they don't know how to rest.

-- Robert Service

I have a vivid memory of the day I met Alex Lowe. I was young then, around twenty, but already tied to another. Barely out of high school, I had married my first boyfriend, Tom Ballard, a high school crush who was a rock climber, skier, and the proprietor of a bicycle shop in Missoula, Montana, where I grew up. Alex was three years younger than I, perhaps still a senior in high school, and so I observed him with a distant curiosity that day. Still, I felt the magnetism of his presence.

He had come into the bike shop to get the beta, or inside scoop, on a local climb, and I happened to be there. He politely introduced himself with a confident grin: "I'm Alex," he said, emphasizing the X. He was very boyish, tall and slim with wide shoulders and long limbs, truly gangly. I remember him with thick shaggy dark hair, tattered clothes, and the essence of climber, that hint that bathing wasn't high on his list of priorities. I was struck by his handsome features and his open enthusiasm, but most of all by his smile. He was a kid and could barely contain his excitement over climbing. The information he wanted that day was about the particulars of a route in the Bitterroot Mountains' Blodgett Canyon. Not long after, he came back to report on his success.

Alex rather quickly ticked off the local climbers' test pieces, or most difficult routes, and after a short go at college he was on to bigger places. He sporadically dropped in on Tom and me over the next few years with tales of his travels, the climbs he had done, and his grueling work stints in the oil fields of Wyoming. I recall seeing him huddled over a climbing magazine with a group of friends. A picture of Ray Jardine leading a very difficult roof climb called Separate Reality in Yosemite Valley was featured, along with the new camming devices of the time, called Friends. Everyone else was incredulous at the difficult-looking route--except Alex, who exclaimed, "I can't wait to try that!" The other guys' response was "Right, dream on!" But within the next few years Alex went on to climb it, along with dozens of other routes that most Montana climbers only dreamed of.

Alex paid his last visit to Tom and me in the autumn of 1980. We were living near Boulder, Colorado, where Tom had taken a job after finishing his degree. That summer it had dawned on me that the age of twenty had been too young to get married. I knew I wanted children, and Tom knew he didn't. Love had waned. I had chased a ski bum with a bike shop, but now that he was an engineer with a mortgage, I had a bad case of remorse. I had attended art school but never finished my college degree , always needing to work at menial jobs to help pay the bills. Suddenly I felt trapped. I was miserable and panicky that my youth was slipping away. I wanted out of marriage to travel, to get a taste of adventure, to find passion and my own path while I was still young.

Alex arrived out of the blue, but his presence seemed serendipitous. He had come to hang out in Boulder for a while and get in as much climbing as possible in the local playgrounds of Eldorado Canyon, Boulder Canyon, and Rocky Mountain National Park. His lifestyle looked like freedom at its finest to me. Unencumbered with responsibilities and material possessions, Alex was like a migrating bird, able to take flight whenever the impulse struck and to alight in whatever green field beckoned. He got a job at Lowe Alpine Systems (no relation), where I was employed, and he rented the basement of our house as I made plans to return to Montana. To have found Tom a roommate lessened my guilt about leaving, but I didn't foresee falling in love with that roommate.

I couldn't wait to leave my job, with its neon lights and acrid fumes of hot-cut nylon . I gave notice and bolted for the freedom of the hills, taking every opportunity to head to the mountains around Boulder. Alex had introduced me to his good friends Alice Phinney and Eric Winkelman, whom I warmed to instantly. He'd met Eric in Yosemite the previous spring and they'd hitchhiked to the Canadian Rockies for a summer of rock, ice, and alpine climbing. While there, they'd made the fifth ascent of Mount Kitchener's Grand Central Couloir, adding to an impressive sum of ascents. Alice had arrived later and joined Eric for some notable climbs of their own. They were a bright and fun young couple, and both were full of admiration for Alex, the "young gun" from Montana. With each passing day, my own admiration and fondness for Alex grew.

My first ice climbing experiences came early that winter, with Alice, who was excited to share the sport with me. A gifted athlete with a go-for-it attitude, Alice was a Boulder native whose parents had instilled in her a love of the outdoors and a passion for pushing her limits. (Her brother Davis became an Olympic bike racer who rode in the Tour de France.) Although Alice channeled most of her energy into studying, first for a degree in biology and then for another in mechanical engineering, she was driven to climb for a few years of her life.

As we approached our first climb in Rocky Mountain National Park, crunching along through the ice and snow of a subalpine forest, I was candid with my new friend about my unhappiness, and she was empathetic. We walked in the fog of a grey cloud that had coated everything with a crystalline layer of fragile hoarfrost. Alice was certain that the cloud would burn off with the rising sun, and she was right. As we gained elevation, the sun shone through the ever brighter mist and lit the world around us in a dazzling burst of white. We peeled off layers of clothes and smeared on sunscreen while breathing in the cold pine-scented air. The gnarled and stunted trees of that high place were bent by harsh winds and deep snows of long winter months. Few and far between, they'd grown in one direction and then another, their seeds rooted in crevices of stone with barely a grain of soil. Their warped forms looked as if growth had been painful, yet they were beautiful and artful, like nature's bonsai among a scattering of talus.

We came upon a waterfall frozen in gentle tiers, a stairway of ice. There, Alice and I strapped on our crampons. Mine were newly acquired "foot fangs" that I had purchased at work. They had corrugated red plastic bottoms lined with shiny steel shark teeth biting downward and little sawlike front points. With ice axe in hand, I felt like a knight in armor bedecked in spikes. Alice taught me to plant my tools with the same wrist action used to swing a hammer. I watched her lead the clean blue ice, then followed, ascending with care as Alice coached me.

I had grown up skiing, biking, and hiking with girlfriends in Montana, but the climbing I had done was always with guys. The first day I went out with Alice was a day that I treasure. She was not taking me climbing but teaching me to climb ice, and on our next outing, I led a pitch myself. Our forays into Rocky Mountain National Park were both empowering and enchanting. They helped give me the impetus to strike out on my own. Alex, with his romantic life of adventure, would certainly have an influence on me too, but it was Alice who gave me the courage to try climbing some mountains of my own.

Eventually I returned to Montana and the remote comfort of my father's ranch near the Bob Marshall Wilderness, a good place to sort out my life. There I was able to find solace in the routine of feeding cattle and the daily chores of ranch life, watching over the place while Dad and his wife, Carol, enjoyed a visit to California, a hiatus from the long winter. With guilt and sadness, I reflected on my impending divorce. I thought of Tom's parents, whom I had grown to love, and thought of my own parents' divorce in my early teenage years, remembering my hurt and confusion. But things had turned out better in the end for each of my parents, it seemed.

As cattle began to drop their calves, I enjoyed the role of looking out for any that had trouble with the birthing process. I called on a neighboring ranch to help with one troubled young heifer I had brought to the barn. She was down and exhausted by labor, her bulging eyes rolled back with fear. When two brothers from the Copenhaver ranch arrived, we got her up, and one of them reached an arm dripping with iodine deep into her contracting body to get a rope around the calf's front feet. Once that was done, it took all of us to "pull the calf," but we managed to have it suckling in a couple of hours. The birth of that little bovine gave me a jolt of confidence. I stood before the frisky calf the next day and said, "Well, I managed to get you out into the world and on your feet. I ought to be able to do it for myself."

I was on the lookout for another job when my cousin called from Utah to say that a position was available on the seismic crew that employed him. Working outside was appealing, and the job would be lucrative. I assured his boss that I was tough enough, having done ranch work, tree thinning, and seasonal work for the Forest Service for many summers. I drove through the night to arrive at Heber City and sign on.

Alex left Boulder soon after I did. He returned to the Wyoming oilrigs, where he could make a higher wage and take double shifts, allowing for a shorter period of work between climbing adventures. He wrote to me at the ranch, and Dad forwarded his letters. I had become infatuated with the charismatic young climber who appeared to have life by the tail, and I wrote back to him:

I must thank you for inspiring me to take a risk and try a new lifestyle. My goal is to save enough money to go to Europe this summer. I want to visit some art museums and do some climbing. Seismic work is not bad at all. We "juggies" fly to work in helicopters that take us high up into the mountains. Once there, we lay out geophones and then set out charges of dynamite. After the shot, the geophones send a readout to the "box," where it is recorded; then a geologist somewhere can tell if there is oil in these hills.

The next letter I got from Alex said he would be keen to get a job on my crew if an opening came up, and that he would be happy to accompany me to Europe.

In the meantime, we both had a few days off and planned to meet in the Tetons of Wyoming for some ice climbing. I drove into Jackson Hole with anticipation and there, by the antler arch in the sunny town square, stood Alex leaning against his old Volvo station wagon, arms folded across his chest, an enormous grin beneath his Vuarnet shades. It was still late winter, and he wore army-navy khakis and flip-flops with a wool sweater knit by his mom. His long arms were around me in an instant and it was pent-up love at first sight for both of us. We spent a steamy night in the back of his car, and the next day skied up Death Canyon to Prospector Falls.

It was a fresh winter day with sun sparkling on new snow as we approached the frozen waterfall. We found the vertical ice in perfect shape, and the day unfolded like a dream as we ascended. But about halfway up, an avalanche came roaring down upon us. Alex, who was above, yelled at me to plant my tools and hug the ice. Powdery spindrift poured over me as I held tightly to the shafts of my tools.

Then the snow was gone, the sun shone, and with a surge of adrenaline we quickly finished the climb. Only when we had rappelled and returned to the bottom did I realize the magnitude of the avalanche. The windblast had sent our packs more than fifty feet downslope, and there was stuff strewn everywhere: big chunks of frozen debris and bits of rock. "Whoa!" I said. "It was lucky we weren't standing here when that came down!" Alex looked a little spooked and answered sheepishly, "No kidding." The day was an auspicious start for the two of us, but fitting for the exhilaration of new love that felt somewhat illicit.

Soon after, Alex joined my crew. We adapted to seismic life and set a goal of working for three months. In that time, we figured we could save enough money to take a trip to Yosemite and then Europe, traveling for several months. As enamored of Alex as I was, I knew he was a vagabond so I didn't hold out hope for a long relationship. It didn't matter. He was twenty-two and I was twenty-five. Happy to live in the moment, we both agreed that we would travel to Europe together and see how it went.

As it turned out, we were glad for each other's daily companionship. Work on the seismic crew meant adopting a nomadic lifestyle with little chance for social interaction outside of our coworkers. Aside from a handful of frugal Mexicans, most of the crew approached life as a party and spent their fat paychecks quickly on drugs, booze, and expensive steak dinners. Alex and I did not fit the mold; we were lovers of nature and saw our jobs as a temporary means to an end. To save money, we bought food at the grocery store and ate in our hotel room.

When the weather got warm enough, we camped out to save even more of our precious paychecks. For a while we camped near Montpelier, Idaho, and Bear Lake, where the campground was mostly empty but for us. Alex did pull-ups in the outhouse doorway every evening to stay fit for climbing. I would watch his long arms pump up and down in slow rhythm as I cooked dinner on our camp stove, and then we'd sit by a fire reading. Alex played Neil Young, Cat Stevens, and John Prine songs on his guitar while I painted with watercolors or wrote letters, looking up now and then to watch his tongue curl over his lip in concentration. When tiredness overcame us, we'd crawl into the Volvo for the night.

Our salaries each amounted to two thousand dollars per month, which was great money at the time, and I remember getting paid in hundred-dollar bills. On a typical day we would be at the LZ, or landing zone, early. There were usually two helicopters, which would whisk us away at first light to the top of a ridge. As soon as the pilot gave a thumbs-up we were out the door, ducking beneath blades to scurry away with packs slung over a shoulder. The day would entail laying out equipment, setting up shots, or picking up equipment as the helicopters ferried loads of geophones from the back of the line to the front. Working outdoors and walking all day up and down hills was great, but it was a compromised existence knowing that we were looking for oil. Alex had worked on rigs for several years, taking advantage of the high-paying jobs provided by the oil boom, and he had seen firsthand the callous treatment of the environment. I dreaded the idea of roads and oilrigs invading the wild places where we walked each day. The terrain where we worked varied from steep and rocky with deep windblown snow, to timbered, to wide-open with wildflowers popping from the melting snow banks as we followed a line left by surveyors.

For a while Alex and I "chained" for the survey crew, whose company we preferred. Far from the noise of shots, we traipsed through mountain groves of aspen, alone with red-tailed hawks, whitetail deer, and occasional cottontails, planting flags in the snowy ground. In the late afternoon or evening, our pilot would call on the radio saying, "Find an LZ," and we'd look for the flattest spot for a helicopter to land. On occasion we'd have a sketchy landing where the pilot would toe into a hillside, hovering while we carefully climbed into the floating chopper.

Although our pilots were usually skilled Vietnam vets or guys with military training who put us through regular safety drills and flew with sound judgment, we did have a couple of wild cards. I remember one guy nicknamed Captain Wa-wa who had a fondness for zooming along at what felt like inches above the water of Bear Lake. He loved to rocket up a ridge and then dive-bomb out of the sky, following the contours of the hills, while fellow "juggies" squealed with delight on this ultimate amusement ride.

When Alex and I gave our notice in the spring, most of the crew were amazed that we had amassed enough money for a trip to Europe. We smugly drove off toward Montana to make our plans, store our things, and meet each other's parents.

* * *

By this time I was completely in love with Alex, the skinny kid who surprised me with endless attributes. Aside from his climbing talent on rock and ice, and his proficiency at skiing and winter camping, Alex was knowledgeable about all things wild; he had hunted, fished, and become an Eagle Scout at the age of thirteen. He could identify insects and nearly every wildflower that we came across, and would rattle off their Latin names as well as the common. The Alpine forget-me-not, or Eritrichium aretioides, with its tiny brilliant blue petals, was the flower that we both proclaimed as our favorite. Its habitat is exposed rocky or gravelly ridges or mountaintops, where the diminutive plant withstands harsh wind and blowing snow to show off its deep blue blossoms in early summer. We saw lots of them that first year together and would crouch head to head over the tiny palette of blue. In later years, whenever Alex came across them in his travels, he would press a few and bring them home to me from afar.

He loved wild birds as much as I, and he carried a field guide as we traveled, ticking off the various species we observed, the most delightful being the migrating sandhill cranes in Idaho. One evening after work we drove to a wetland field dotted with dozens of the elegant long-legged cranes, their spine chilling prehistoric calls echoing off the hills. I was humbled by the presence of these ancient birds, their bright red heads bobbing like regal painted caps. They are the oldest bird species on earth, their ancestors' fossils dating back nine million years. It is daunting to think of all the history on this planet that has unfolded beneath their great migrating wings. We watched them gracefully strut and dance until the sun sank low and a white disk of moon rose from the east.

A complete romantic, Alex had lodged himself in my heart, and I felt ever more content that our love was meant to be. He nicknamed me Bird, which endeared him to me no end. He played his guitar, singing soulfully and unabashedly while I watched, and loved telling a good joke or a funny story. Even when his jokes weren't funny, it was impossible not to join his infectious laughter.

Alex was a voracious reader and could recite entire poems, such as "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service and "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe, and he often sang silly Tom Lehrer songs while cooking or driving. He left me poetic love notes and was lavish with his compliments, gifts, and surprises. I thought I had discovered my kindred spirit, my soul mate, and my knight in shining armor all wrapped in one. Indeed, some of his friends had dubbed him "the White Knight."

I knew the saying "Love is blind" and tried to be objective, but aside from occasional moodiness and an inability to sit still, it was hard to find anything wrong with Alex. He didn't do drugs, rarely drank, and was concerned about eating healthy foods and staying fit. He seemed full of virtue, earnestness, and strong moral character.

Alex's parents had been somewhat horrified to hear that their son was shacking up with an older and previously married woman. I remember the phone call he made to them from a laundromat. I stood nearby as he told them, "I'm living with Jennifer here." There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Alex hung up with the knowledge of his parents' disapproval. "I'm corrupting you," I teased.

I wasn't exactly dying to knock on their door in Missoula, but I was certainly curious about the people who had raised Alex. My own mother and stepfather, Totsye and Lester Madsen, also lived in Missoula, and they too were less than thrilled with my pursuing a newfound bohemian lifestyle with "some kid" who appeared to have seduced me from my marriage. In the few conversations I'd had with them, I'd assured them that I was happy and making lots of money, but I knew they wanted a look for themselves, and I fully expected to get lectured. My mother was known for her directness, which could sometimes be rather uncomfortable, so I warned Alex, "Don't mind my mom. She's not shy about telling you what she thinks." We were both a bit nervous as we drove into our hometown of Missoula.

* * *

James and Dorothea Lowe had moved to Missoula around 1965, when Jim took a job at the University of Montana teaching in the school of forestry. He'd been in the PhD program at Yale specializing in entomology but was keen to find employment in Montana, where he had worked as a seasonal smoke jumper. Alex was seven at the time, the second of three brothers. Andy was two years older, and baby Ted was seven years younger. Jim and Dottie both came from Tennessee; Jim spent a good deal of his youth in the Great Smoky Mountains, while Dottie spent years canoeing, swimming, and boating on the lakes near her home of Chattanooga. The Lowe family life was outdoor-oriented, and Alex took to the wilderness activities with vigor.

Alex described his parents as sweet but strict, and said he'd been poised like a rock in a slingshot to get out of the nest. He felt he'd had far too much discipline and too few freedoms in his childhood, although I thought that I would have loved growing up in a family who backpacked together. My family had car-camped, fished, skied, and occasionally horse-packed. I had ventured out backpacking with friends in high school and felt that I had a late start in gaining true wilderness experience.

When I met the Lowes, I could see that Alex took after his mom in his looks with a square jaw, wide smile, and expressive wide-set eyes beneath dark brows. Dottie was beautiful, polite, and reserved. We grew to love each other, but I know that her first impression of me was not favorable. Jim, however, seemed completely accepting, jovial and friendly. He was full of fun, and I saw right away where Alex had gotten his charismatic personality. As night fell, we were given separate bedrooms; I wasn't surprised by the matter-of-fact disapproval of our lifestyle, but it did make me a bit uncomfortable. (Alex snuck into my room soon after I'd drifted off to sleep, in blatant defiance.) We stayed at my parents' after that, as they saw no point in providing us with more than one bed.

* * *

In my family, I was the second of four sisters and the tomboy of the group. Jan, Paula, and I were close in age, with Camilla seven years behind, but from a very early age I was always the one who wanted to tag along with my dad on any of his outdoor forays. My father, Paul Daly, had also grown up in Montana and was an avid horseman, hunter, and fisherman. He served in the Navy during World War II, where he flew fighters from the deck of a carrier on the Pacific. After the war he was stationed in Pensacola, where he met my mother. His grandparents had homesteaded and run cattle on a ranch in the Grasshopper Valley, near Dillon; Dad spent the summers of his youth working the ranch and loved it.

When we were small and living in Missoula, Dad bought a couple of horses. He kept them at a friend's ranch nearby in exchange for labor, and I fell in love with riding. We spent summer vacations at Grandmother's cabin on Grasshopper Creek, a tiny log homestead with no electricity or running water. To my mother it was no vacation at all, but a reminder of earlier hardship. She was the daughter of a humble Alabama farmer with a large family, and both of her parents had died when she was young. She had worked hard to help her younger siblings and to escape the stigma of being poor in the South. I was too young to appreciate this, though, and could not understand Mother's aversion to the place I loved most of all.

In our family, Mom had sewn clothes, gardened, canned food, cooked, and cleaned. Later, when my parents were divorced and Mother remarried, she took up golf and excelled at it, indulging herself in the pleasure of a hobby for the first time in her life. I was proud of her but never tried the sport, preferring to bike, hike, or ride my horse. I loved to join her in the garden, helping to care for the flowers and vegetables that always adorned our yard. In later years I often accompanied my stepdad to fly-fish the banks of the many rivers and streams surrounding the Missoula valley. "Papa," the son of a dairyman, had also grown up in that valley, where young boys and fishing went hand in hand. He did his best to teach me the fine art of casting a fly, and with our forays came a closeness and an acceptance, on my part, of my parents' changing course.

* * *

Alex and I drove along the winding Blackfoot River to the ranch in Ovando to meet Dad and Carol. To my delight, they welcomed Alex and were impressed when he spent several hours chopping wood to double the size of their woodpile, then hopped up to do dishes after dinner. On another visit to the ranch, Dad was incredulous at Alex's strength and work ethic. "You make a good ranch hand!" he said, giving him the ultimate compliment.

Back in Missoula, Mother was not too warm toward Alex, but Papa was more accepting. Mom softened a little when I told her that Alex had received a scholarship in chemical engineering and was just taking a break from school. She did find him good-looking and very charming, but worried that he might not have my best interests in mind. Perhaps both of our mothers sensed that the two of us made for a dangerous duo, and now that I am a mother too, I can understand their fears and hesitation to condone our alliance. I know now that mothers are programmed to worry about their children.

My mother is gone now, and Dottie and Jim live far away in North Carolina. Dad and Carol sold their ranch in Ovando long ago. Only my stepfather, Papa, remains in Missoula with those memories, and so much life has been lived since then. One recent summer, Conrad, the boys, and I shared a picnic with Papa on the banks of Rock Creek. He helped the boys to rig and cast their lines on the same stretch of water that he and I had fished alongside my mom and sisters years before, when our family was newly pieced together. The river tossed the flies over waves and around rocks, sucking them into swirling holes and spitting them out until they were lifted skyward and flung back upriver for another ride.

* * *

I awoke in the early hours of dawn one spring morning in the year following Alex's death. The exuberant song of a robin wafting on cool air drifted through my window. The dim grey of first light told me the hour was before six and I closed my eyes to listen to the robin's chorus, his voice crisply cutting the still air with continuous song for perhaps ten minutes. In a half sleep, I drifted with the song to another spring morning long ago in Yosemite Valley. There I had lain in Alex's arms in the tent that was our home in Camp IV, the climbers' campground, and listened to a cacophony of robins' voices, all competing loudly like an orchestra tuning their instruments before performing. In Camp IV the granite walls soar to create a natural amphitheater for a sound made ever grander. For the robins, it was their performance, a daily ritual to announce the coming dawn.

Abruptly the song ended and I awoke fully to the present, a sharp elbow against my back. I turned to look at Isaac in the growing light and watched his little chest rise and fall with that miraculous involuntary motion. "He is alive and Alex is not," I thought, but Alex does live in his face, the thick dark hair, the wide grin and square jaw. And Isaac has a similarly endless amount of energy and drive for perfection that sometimes leads him to frustration and tears. The way he sleeps flat on his back, with his hands behind his head and his elbows straight out, is also a gift from his father, oddly enough. I had no idea that genetics could dish out something as unique as a sleeping position. But there it is. Isaac seems to have gotten nothing from me except a mole on his left ankle and a stubborn streak. He is a daily reminder that life with Alex was not a dream, and though Alex is gone from us, he is still here in many ways.

Excerpted from "Forget Me Not: A Memoir", By Jennifer Lowe-Anker, ©2008, The Mountaineers Books.