We met on a Saturday night in February of 2019, two days after Valentine's Day. For both of us, it was our first time at 404 Bar and Grill, which hosted the weekly go-to salsa dancing night in Nashville. I saw Jacqueline across the room, wearing a Vanderbilt sweatshirt and a curly afro as wide as her shoulders, framing her radiance. It was opportune that we were both beginner dancers; rather than trying to dazzle each other with elaborate skill, we danced basic footwork to five songs, using the music as an excuse to spend the first fifteen minutes of the rest of our lives together.

Two weeks into dating, Jacqueline told me she was moving across the country at the end of the semester, which forcefully begged the question if it truly is better to love and lose than never love at all. We convinced ourselves that we'd make the most of our brief romance for the sake of its promise of short-term happiness, but the pull of affection made separation unthinkable. The night before she moved to San Francisco, we confessed our love for each other, only adding to the pain of the next morning.

What's the point? Long distance never works. Why prolong the inevitable? Why keep up with the phone calls? Why plan a first visit? Why go on trips together? Why discuss 'what ifs' as if there was a future together? Why endure Covid together? Why work through problems together? Why plot to rewrite the stars together? Why let emotion conquer reason?

Why not follow my heart? After three-and-a-half years, resilience transformed into happiness: I moved to San Francisco, knowing that I was going to ask Jacqueline to be my wife.

I was determined to propose to Jacqueline in Yosemite, a place very special to us. The original plan was to propose atop Half Dome, surely an unforgettable experience. But the logistics—permits and the inevitable crowds—didn’t fit the intimate moment I envisioned.

The plan: climb Half Dome in April before the permit season, when the mountain would still be quiet. But that winter brought record snowfall to the Sierras, rendering the route snowbound until June. That summer, I must have climbed a dozen routes in the Valley, looking for the perfect spot, until my eyes turned to the highlands of Tuolumne, to the 10,800 foot summit of Eichorn Pinnacle.

The ascent traversed the Cathedral ridgeline to a prominent spire, exposing us to a 1500 foot drop to Cathedral Lake below, an exhilarating (or terrifying, depending on who you ask) prelude to my proposal. The first to ascend the mountain, I mounted my camera on a tripod and brought Jacqueline to the summit. She was overwhelmed with emotion before I spoke a word. Two minutes later, she was in tears, my adventure partner for life; Jacqueline Elizabeth said 'yes' to be my wife.