one
Nyla
Thetrailheadparkinglotis a gravel clearing at the end of a forestry road, and I've been standing in it for six minutes and I already can't get a signal.
I found this out by checking, and checking again, and then holding the phone up toward the treeline like an offering. Two bars at the hotel. One bar on the road leaving town. A blinking nothing somewhere around the second switchback, and then I was here, and the phone has been useless ever since.
It's not even five in the morning. The sky above the mountains is that particular dark blue that can't decide if it's still night. My pack is on the gravel beside me because it's heavy and I didn't want to stand here wearing it, and my coffee from the hotel thermos is already half gone because I needed something to do with my hands.
There's one other vehicle in the lot. Mud-grey truck, cracked rear mudflap, roof rack loaded with gear strapped under canvas. No one inside.
I look at my phone again. Still nothing.
I think about the comment count when I last checked, somewhere around the second hour of not sleeping. Tyler's video. Three minutes of Tyler in his car, voice low and considered, head tilted at the angle that makes him look like he's really thought about something.I just think we've both grown in different directions. I want the best for her. I really do.
I found out at a dinner I'd been looking forward to all week — not from Tyler, from a friend of a friend who turned their phone around with that specific face people make when they already know you haven't seen it yet. Two hundred thousand views by morning.
The mountains don't care about Tyler's video. I can tell already. They've been here substantially longer and they'll be here substantially longer, and right now that's the most comforting thing I can think of.
A man comes out of the trees.
Worn boots. Faded green jacket open over a dark sweater. A pack that looks like it was assembled by someone with strong opinions about every commercially available option.
He's not what I pictured when I booked a guided backcountry trip online at two in the morning.
I pictured someone outdoorsy. Friendly. The kind of guy who says “great question”and points at things with a hiking pole while his hat flops up and down.
This man looks like the mountain sent him.
He's lean and muscular, the kind of build that doesn't exist in cities. There's a scar along his jaw that's been there long enough to be unremarkable. Dark hair that's grown past the point of intention. He glances at me once and then his attention drops to my pack on the gravel.
"Nyla Pratt," I say, because someone has to say something.
He nods and crosses to my pack and crouches beside it without asking. Runs his hands along the frame, checks the hip belt, lifts it by the top handle and tilts it. His hands are certain. Everything about him is certain.
I get the pack on and try to adjust it.
The man, the mountain guide, frowns. "Straps," he says, and reaches for my left shoulder strap.
He's close enough now that I can smell woodsmoke, pine resin, cold air. His hands move efficiently, tightening, adjusting, and I hold still because I'm not sure what would happen if I didn't, and also because I've barely slept and I'm operating on half a thermos of coffee and the sensation of a stranger's hands near my face while I stare at his collarbone is genuinely the most present I've felt in two weeks.
He steps back. "Better."
Not to me. Just a fact entering the world.
"I’m Dawson," he says, like an afterthought, and starts walking.
"Do you do that with all your clients?" I ask, falling into step behind him. "The silent pack inspection?"
He glances back. "Your hip belt was wrong. You'd have had a bruise by noon."
"So yes."
I find out very quickly that I am not a hiker.
I mean, I walk. I have a gym membership. I once did a 10K for charity and didn't stop running, which I felt was impressive. What I am learning, at pace, is that none of that prepared me fora mountain at five in the morning behind a man who moves like the incline doesn't apply to him.
I extend my stride. I'm almost jogging. The pack is heavy and my lungs are doing their best and I don't say anything because I refuse to be the woman who asks the guide to slow down in the first three minutes.
