By the time I met Boone, I thought I had life figured out. Turns out, I only had it alphabetized.

Like most Wyoming kids, my early 20s were equal parts grit and wander. College felt like both a privilege and a science experiment. (Can you fit a week’s worth of groceries in a dorm mini-fridge? Jury’s still out). And sure, I made good grades and had some friends, but my world was, let’s say, limited. I knew the trails of Grand Teton like the veins on my own hands, but people? Their infinite complexity felt like an avalanche waiting to happen. And then Boone trotted into my life like a wayward colt, unbridled energy and all, and shook me out of my self-contained bubble.

Boone wasn’t your normal roommate. For starters, he was 15 years older than me—about the age your middle-school PE teacher seemed before you had to share a mailbox with him. He’d already lived triple the number of lives I had: a former Marine, a bartender, a reluctant poet (his words), and somebody who could somehow name every constellation while halfway through a can of dubious gas-station beer. Boone shouldn’t have ended up in Laramie, bunking in a creaky two-bedroom rental. But life has this funny habit of rerouting people, and when his job building pipelines dried up, he stumbled into Wyoming to restart. “That icy air smelled honest,” he joked the day we met.

Section 1: The Boone Method

Living with Boone felt like living inside a never-ending TED Talk—though if TED Talks included a lot more swearing and the constant aroma of freshly brewed cowboy coffee. His wisdom wasn’t the type you’d find in self-help books marketed on Instagram, but it was the kind that burrowed into your bones.

Some gems were practical (“Your truck will always break down when you can least afford it—so eat the damn steak before you’re broke”), while others bordered on philosophical (“People are like rivers, Jax—some are clear and shallow; others are muddy, but deep enough to drown you. Learn to tell the difference”). But what Boone really taught me wasn’t just how to rotate the tires on my old pickup or give decent life analogies—it was how to connect with people, plain and simple.

See, Boone had this way of making friends with everyone: the cashier at the corner store, the librarian begrudgingly renewing his overdue books, even cranky neighbors whose snow blowers mysteriously “disappeared.” Before Boone, I thought relationships were built slowly, like barns you assembled nail by nail. Boone? He built rapport like it was breakfast—quick, messy, and always nourishing.

Section 2: The Cowboy Code Meets the Pickup Line

When Boone found out I’d never asked someone on a date (something I tried to blame on my “focus on studies”), he nearly overturned the kitchen table in disbelief. “How in the hell do you expect to know anything about someone—or yourself—if you don’t get out there and stumble around a little?” he said, waving his coffee mug like a preacher at Sunday service.

Boone dragged me, metaphorically kicking and screaming, into the wild unknown of social risk-taking. “Jax, dating’s simple,” he liked to say. “It’s asking someone to share a piece of the pie—just make sure it’s a pie worth sharing.” His first lesson? Before you look outward, get your own house in order.

  • Self-awareness first: Boone hammered into me that self-reliance wasn’t just for fixing fences. “You gotta know your strengths and own your quirks,” he said. “And no, being into weird wildlife facts is not a dealbreaker. It’s a selling point!” Before long, I stopped hiding the things that made me unique—like carrying binoculars on hikes just in case—and started owning them.
  • Don’t overthink it: Boone had a distrust of complicated strategies. “You’re not planning an ambush, Jax; you’re asking if they like peach or cherry in their pie.” He taught me the beauty of straightforward curiosity: asking questions not to impress, but because you care about the answers.
  • Embrace rejection: His mantra? “You’re not everybody’s slice of pie—and thank God for that. Imagine eating pie all day and never tasting cake.”

Section 3: What Boone Taught Me About Lasting Connection

It might’ve been Boone’s knack for turning every social interaction into a version of a campfire chat, but what stuck out most wasn’t just his way with people—it was his perseverance. Boone talked a lot about the Marine Corps, about how it taught him there’s no mountain too steep with the right company beside you—whether that’s a squad or a partner. Relationships, he said, weren’t about finding perfection but about showing up, dust and all, for the people who matter enough to keep climbing toward.

Boone’s philosophy wasn’t life-changing in that lightning-bolt kind of way—it was more like water finding cracks in the rock, shaping me subtly over time. He nudged me toward understanding that real connection doesn’t happen overnight. “When things got hard, kid, that’s when the friends who mattered were still there,” he said once, tapping his chest where his dog tags used to hang. That line, simple as it was, stuck.

Because it wasn’t about whether I got the girl at the end of the night (spoiler alert: I didn’t…that first time). It was about showing up for those around me—even the less-than-perfect moments. Boone taught me that kindness starts as much with listening as with speaking. It was through these earnest attempts, some awkward and others actually meaningful, that I forged bonds in a way that stuck.

Section 4: Where Boone Left Me (and All of Us)

Boone didn’t stay in Wyoming forever. In fact, a job repairing boats took him to a small town near Corpus Christi, Texas, leaving a trail of coffee-stained wisdom and duct-tape life lessons in his wake. We still talk occasionally; his calls usually come from fishing docks at golden hour, the sound of waves in the background.

But looking back, Boone’s legacy isn’t in the tips he left behind or even the moments we shared as roommates. It’s in the way I try to approach connection now—whether that’s stopping long enough to chat with a grocery cashier or risking the rejection of reaching out to someone who catches my eye. Staying open, staying curious, and staying ready to learn—Boone’s the friend who planted all that in me, weaving lessons I’ll carry well beyond my Wyoming roots.

So, if there’s one thing I can leave you with, it’s this: don’t underestimate the people who stumble into your life. With any luck, you’ll find someone who both wrecks your worldview and rebuilds it better, leaving you cracking jokes and building bridges you never thought yourself capable of crossing.

And until you do, might as well take a page from Boone’s book: eat the steak first.