By Halcyon Orvendal
The Mossy Log has received countless reports (detailed in whispers, rumors, etc) of bizarre first dates with outdoorsy men. After receiving feedback from readers that the news content is “depressing” and “unreadable,” the higher ups decided to shift priorities and send one of its reporters, Rocksanne Jennifern Big Bush ’25 (resident blonde and owner of 3 Anthropologie jar candles) on an undercover mission to capture the mysterious realities of this dating scene.
Too many unsuspecting freshmen match with “cragsmen” (long-haired mid-20s men who claim to climb V-12s but regularly flop V-5s) on dating apps without knowing what they are getting themselves into, and before long, find themselves sucked into the strange world of carabiners, freeze-dried Mountain House lasagna and moldy Nalgenes. It is The Mossy Log’s hope that this undercover, immersive investigation will provide not only public knowledge but also a public service.
Once the editorial board selected the unwitting subject — a 26-year-old,
self-proclaimed “spiritualist” named Raft “Trip” Whitewaters whose Hinge profile consisted of two climbing pictures, one silhouette portrait atop Mount Hood and one group photo of him drinking beer with his decidedly hotter friends — Big Bush ventured to The Route, the local bouldering gym, for a “casual first date.”
After making her pay $22 for a day pass, he introduced her to some fellow climber bros. They asked if she had been climbing before, to which she responded she had a couple of times, but they ignored her and proceeded to tell her that she should seriously consider getting her own climbing shoes because no one was going to take her seriously until she got out of those velcro rentals.
After 20 minutes of attempting to interject herself into their conversations, she resolved to sit on the floor and just nod along, taking mental notes. She chalked it up to her rental shoes. They seemed to be some type of invisibility cloak.
In the interest of journalistic dedication, Big Bush agreed to join Whitewaters for dinner back at his place.
He offered to drive, and even though she had her own old Subaru there at the parking lot with her, she thought it might be interesting to take a closer look at Whitewaters’s car. It was, of course, an ’07 Subaru Forester, with a busted tail light patched with duct tape and a “Leave No Trace” sticker on the back bumper. Eight Little Tree Pine air fresheners hung from the rearview mirror. Not one of them retained its original scent. “This Charming Man” by The Smiths played in the background on repeat. In the backseat, a three-day-unrefrigerated bottle of kombucha sat atop a wrinkled copy of “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac with a bookmark about 15 pages in. Camping gear in the back rattled around as he turned onto S Macadam Ave. He explained that the bungee cords and top rack were for when he eventually got back into surfing.
After a short yet oh-so-long drive away from The Route, they pulled into a parking spot. As they walked up to his apartment, Big Bush hoped that the many camping adventures he had told her about had resulted in some halfway decent cooking skills. It is 2025, after all. You would think men would know how to make a simple nutritious meal at this point.
Her hopes were shattered when, instead of the wine-and-dine experience she had been hoping for, she was offered a flat, expired Mt. Rainier beer and some microwaved backpacking meals from a bag. When she took a peek inside the fridge, she saw only a package of chicken breasts, ground beef, three cartons of eggs and some yogurt. Presumably, Whitewater cared a lot about his protein intake. The pantry yielded two shelves’ worth of hiking meals and canned pinto beans, as well as four bags of granola. Some browning bananas sat atop the fridge — for banana bread, she was assured.
After one hour of watching Alex Honnold Youtube videos in the living room, Whitewater remembered Big Bush was still there and asked if she wanted the rest of the house tour. “Sure, why not?” she thought to herself. His bedroom had only two decorations: a broken fishing pole mounted to the wall and a framed photo of Smith Rock. There was no bed frame. Or mattress.
“It’s better for your back,” he told Big Bush, when she appeared confused. “Our society suffers from an overreliance on material comforts.”
His declared values aligned with her exploration of his bathroom which yielded no razor, no bottles of shampoo or conditioner — but interestingly, a bottle of Patchouli-Lime Dr. Bronner’s and some clearly expired natural deodorant. A bar of crusty, yellowed soap sat in the corner of the shower, glued by hardened soap scum to its ceramic ledge. It may very well have also been a moldy protein bar. Our reporter was not able to discern the difference. There was also a Coors poster above the toilet, which had evidently not been cleaned in several months.
He asked if she wanted to “Netflix and chill,” by which he meant laying on the flat, musty carpet and watching “Fantastic Fungi” on Netflix. She reluctantly agreed, and immediately regretted it when he launched into a 40-minute monologue about how he tried shrooms and learned about empathy.
“I realized that everyone has their own lives, thoughts, experiences and emotions,” said Whitewater. “It was crazy. I hadn’t really thought about that before, but now I think I really understand that saying about walking a day in someone else’s shoes. Also, the visuals were insane.”
He asked if she wanted to spend the night, but seeing as there was no mattress and only one pillow and blanket on the ground, she resolved to return to campus and consult with the editorial board about her experience.
“At first, I was really stoked about hanging out with this cool outdoorsy guy,” she said. “But then, I realized he didn’t have much going on beyond that. At the end of the day, he’s just another guy with gorp in his pockets and foot fungus in his little climber shoes. I liked his Arcteryx beanie, though.”
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