Usually I stocked new books on the shelves at Sam Weller's Bookstore, but on this particular day I was behind the counter, up front, at the cash register. A friend of mine walked into the store with a very handsome man, blond and suntanned, with unruly hair. We said hello, and the couple disappeared into the stacks.

When the two returned, the blond wild man was carrying a dozen books. I was impressed, for among his tack were some of my favorites: Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey, Black Elk Speaks, Edward Curtis's Portraits from North American Indian Life, Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko, Encounters with the Archdruid by John McPhee, and Wilderness and the American Mind by Roderick Nash. He also had Peterson's Field Guide to Western Birds. I tried to be inconspicuous as I entered the rice of each book in the register, listening carefully to their conversation.

"My dream in life is to one day own all the Peterson field guides," the man said passionately.

My friend looked at him and said, "That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard."

Without thinking, I interrupted. "I already have them -- "

Our eyes met. "Brooke Williams," he said.

-- Terry Tempest Williams, on how she met her husband, When Women Were Birds