Twenty minutes later, I’d eaten and cleaned up. I peeked out the window to see that the cat hadn’t shown up yet.
My phone buzzed from its place on the kitchen table, and I frowned. It wasn’t like Brady to keep trying—not again on the same night, at least.
Wenn: Want to hit Craggy Peak tonight?
As I stared down at my phone, the only sounds I could hear were the clock ticking on the wall and the distant call of a bird somewhere outside. A quick scan of my kitchen and the living room beyond showed absolutely nothing going on.
I thought about it for all of ten seconds before replying.
Me: Sure. Meet you at 9. I’ll get the beer.
Wenn: Bring that cider, if you’ve got it.
I peered out the back door one last time to see the bowl of cat food still untouched. Then I went to grab my gear and put a couple of ciders in the cooler.
The drive up to Craggy Peak took about thirty-five minutes. I got to catch an amazing view of the sunset after all, it just happened to be outside my side passenger window as I maneuvered the twists and turns on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
I parked next to Wenn’s massive Jeep and transferred my camera, equipment, and belongings to his backseat. He was just walking back from the direction of the visitor center when I finished up.
“What’d you barter tonight?”
“Peach strudel bars,” Wenn replied and then hopped in the driver’s side.
My friend had an arrangement with the visitor center employee on duty. For over a year now, Wenn provided baked goods, and the worker looked the other way while we used the access road off the main trail at Craggy Peak. There was the area that tourists and locals were allowed to hike and visit, and then there was the narrow, bumpy path that was roped off and intended only for park employees and law enforcement.
As was our routine, Wenn pulled right up to the dirt drive, and I hopped out and unlocked the chain as he drove past. Then I climbed back in and we continued our rough journey out of the trees and on toward the lookout, where the landscape flattened beneath our tires and the hills spread out below us.
At just over five thousand feet in elevation, Craggy Peak provided a nice view of the surrounding area. You could see nearly to Tennessee from our vantage point. Wenn and I came out here, usually once a month when the weather was good, to shoot long-exposure photos of the night sky and mountains.
I’d taken a random photography class in college, and half a decade later, I found myself with an expensive hobby and intermittent income from selling prints online.
Wenn and I had met a couple of years ago at a photography group meetup in Asheville. He was quiet, like me. Maybe that was why we’d gravitated toward one another. Our friendship had pretty stable boundaries. We didn’t grab dinner or go out for a beer at a brewery. Wenn had never been to my house, and hell, I didn’t even know where the guy was from. But every now and then, he texted me to come out to Craggy Peak. He’d pass me some sort of baked good that tasted like heaven on earth while I provided the beer. Then for a few hours, we’d sit in peace and mostly quiet, in between taking photographs of the night landscape.
Wenn’s tall, broad form moved around his Jeep, getting out a tripod and setting up camp chairs for us. I brought out my own gear and dropped the cooler in between our seats. The moon was bright enough for us to see what we were doing without the aid of headlamps or lights. And turning on an electric lantern would have messed up our exposures anyway. We performed all our usual tasks in silence, but it was a different sort of quiet when you shared it with someone else.
Twenty minutes later, when we were sitting comfortably and the night air was still in the low eighties, Wenn popped the top on some ancient Tupperware and passed me the contents.
Peach wasn’t my favorite stone fruit by a lot, so I had low expectations. But when I took a bite, the cinnamon from the strudel topping blended perfectly with the sweet, ripe peaches. The base of the bar was some sort of vanilla shortbread. Combined with the texture of the cream cheese layer, it was all just ridiculously delicious.
“Man, that is good,” I said after I swallowed.
Wenn’s dark eyes stayed fixed on the barely visible horizon, but I could tell he was pleased by the compliment. “Thanks. I had a basket of peaches I picked up in South Carolina that I needed to do something with.”
I took another bite and finished chewing before I mentioned, “I brought you a bag of zucchini from my garden. Left it in the backseat. In case you want to make any more of that chocolate chip zucchini bread.”
Wenn nodded. “I might just do that. Thank you for the produce.”
“Where do you learn to make all this stuff?”
I was tempted to take a third bar.
My friend gave me a scrutinizing look, so I backpedaled. “Hey, I wouldn’t have asked if I thought it was a secret. I’m sorry.”
A sound left Wenn’s lips. It would have barely been amusement on anyone else, but it was practically a guffaw from the quiet man.
I didn’t know Wenn’s story, not really. He liked his peace and quiet. He was generous with his baking, but a stingy bastard with his words.
While we were friends, I’d never really felt like it was my place to ask why he had a picture of a woman and a kid as his lock screen when he’d never mentioned having any sort of family. I didn’t initiate deep discussions. I didn’t know why he went months without texting sometimes, or why he had trouble sleeping. I kept our interactions simple. I thought my friend got the only sort of socializing he could handle. So I called it good and didn’t push.
