I meet Anne at the summit of Mt. Starr King in January. I haven’t seen a single soul on the trail all morning. I assume I’m the first one at the peak. But sitting on a snowbank, fiddling with a phone is a woman decked out in winter weather gear including a neoprene wind mask covering her face – from her nose to her neck.

We exchange pleasantries and I watch her try to take a selfie with heavy gloves. “Need some help?” I take her phone and position her with the mountains at her back.

“Let me show you something fun.” I pour some trail mix into her hand and tell her to hold it out straight. A pair of gray jays immediately swoop down from nearby branches, land in her hand and begin to feed. She’s delighted. I take more photos. My own phone is dead so she takes a few of me too. Can you send me a few?

Since we’re both headed to nearby Mt. Waumbek we walk together. Compared to my pace, she moves slowly through the deep snow. We talk, mostly about hiking and the weather. The summit of Mt. Waumbek is completed obscured under feet of snow but we take pictures anyway – to mark the occasion. “I’m slowing you down. Go on without me, I’ll be fine,” she assures. So, I bid her goodbye and jog back down the mountain, back to my car, back to warmth.

Days later, Anne thanks me for walking with “an old lady” and taking her photo. She sends a few photos via Messenger.

A few days after that, she texts me again. “Whats your favorite mountain to hike?” I respond. A few days later she asks me another question. I respond. Soon she’s texting everyday. Then it’s every few hours, everyday. She’s an IC nurse who works night shifts part time. She’s got time, lots of time.

Its nice to make friends, and I crave the communication and intimacy that is so lacking in my life, but the texting is incessant. I establish some boundaries – only a brief window Monday through Friday – and never initiate conversations or discuss myself in too much detail.

The texts in the following weeks and months become increasingly personal. She tells me about herself, and informs me she’s married (unhappily). “Surprised?” she asks. Don’t care, actually.

On paper we probably have a number of things in common. That we both found ourselves on a mountain top in January in some ways underscores that. I maintain what I assume is a friendly but detached demeanor. At one point she declares that she’s becoming aware that I don’t share the same level of feelings for her [that she presumably does for me]. Alarm bells.

Silence descends for the better part of a week, and then she begins texting again.

Back in the real world, a friend’s health continues to deteriorate. I can’t seem to get a straight answer from he or his family. Anne is a trained nurse so I ask her to diagnose his symptoms. “Late-stage cirrhosis.” I figured as much. I vent. Why would someone let this happen to themselves? What about willpower or just simple responsibility?

Apparently I strike a nerve. She tells me about her alcoholic husband, the one who has been out of work for years, the one she’s bailing out of bankruptcy. She informs me that she too is “a problem drinker!!” She accuses me of not understanding and of lacking empathy. She brings my brother’s drinking up and asks me if I really did enough to save my friend.

There are certain people I would take that from. She is not one of them. I mention it to my brother who laughs. One friend urges me to “ghost her.” Another insists I need to confront her. I don’t believe in ghosting people. It’s cowardly. And everyone (well, almost everyone) deserves something, some sort of response.

I wait for the anger to subside. The response effectively shines a spotlight on her preconceived notions. “Please, for your own sake stop pretending that you know me. You don’t. I’m just a guy you met on a hike who took the time to be kind. That’s it. You see what you want to see.” Cruel? Perhaps. She is a lonely old woman stuck in a loveless marriage. I get it. I know the feeling. But, I’m firm in my conviction. I tell her I don’t really want to chat with her anymore. “I thought you were a good man.” Ouch.

There is no joy in doing this. As someone who has been on the receiving end of similar interactions, it sucks. I feel for her.

For weeks she honors my request, but eventually sends a long email admitting her timing was bad, and that texting is an imperfect mode of communicating complicated emotional concepts. “I was only trying to help.”

My resolve crumbles. Life’s already hard enough. If it makes this woman happy to text me about hiking does it hurt anyone? Does it matter?