He doesn't slow down.
Then, maybe two minutes in, he does. Just slightly. The pace eases by enough that I stop almost-jogging. He doesn't look back or explain it.
"Thank you," I say anyway.
"For what."
"The pace."
"Trail's uneven up here. Slower is smarter."
It is not uneven. The trail is perfectly reasonable. I appreciate the lie to save my ego.
We move up through the old growth. The light hasn't reached yet and the air is cold and smells like pine and wet earth and something older underneath that doesn't have a name. Root systems cross the trail like they're testing me. Dawson steps over them without looking down.
I step over them looking very much down.
"So," I try, after a few minutes of just breathing. "Do you take groups, or is solo clients a regular thing?"
"Both."
"Do you prefer one?"
He considers this like it's a real question, which I appreciate. "Groups talk more."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends on the group."
"And so far, how's this group looking?"
He looks back at me over his shoulder, his lips quirked in an almost-smile. "Ask me at camp."
An hour in, the trail opens and the valley appears below us.
Silver Ridge is small and still in the early light, the river a dark thread through it, the peaks above already catching gold. I stop walking without deciding to. The view is breathtaking.
Dawson stops too, this time. He turns and looks back at me, and I realise he's been watching for this — this specific spot, this specific view, waiting to see what I'd do with it.
"You planned that," I say.
"First overlook's always here."
"Do people always stop?"
"Most people." He looks out at the valley for a moment, easy and unhurried, like the view is an old acquaintance. "Some people take pictures. Some people just stand there."
Something in his tone makes me ask. "Which do you prefer?"
He looks at me instead of the valley. Steady, direct, a little longer than a guide probably needs to look at a client. "The ones who just stand there."
I don't have a response to that. I face the valley and stand there, and my phone is in my pocket and I don't reach for it.
I look up at him. He's already facing the trail, pack settled on his shoulders like it grew there, and the mountain rises above him in layers — treeline, ridge, sky — and he belongs to all of it in a way that I find, unexpectedly, less intimidating than reassuring.
"Do people ever not want to go back?" I ask.
He's quiet for a second. "Yeah."
