"My family's been in these mountains for three generations," I say instead. "Logging, trapping, guiding. We take what the land offers and give back what we can."
"The caribou on your wall, that was your grandfather's?"
"His last hunt. He was seventy-eight, his lungs already failing him, but he insisted on making one more trip. Said he wanted to thank the mountain for everything it had given him." I adjust my pack, memories stirring that I don't usually share. "Took that bull with a single shot at two hundred yards. Clean, respectful, grateful."
"What did he say when he died?"
The question stops me cold. "What makes you think he said anything?"
"Men like your grandfather always have last words. Something they need to pass on."
She's right, though I'm not sure how she knows that. Maybe it's the scientist in her, understanding that knowledge needs to be transferred, that wisdom dies with the people who carry it.
"Take care of the mountain, and it'll take care of you," I say, hearing Granddad's voice in the words. "Everything else is just noise."
Aris nods like the advice makes perfect sense to her. "Dr. Brine said something similar. That understanding came from patience, not force."
"Smart man."
"He would have liked you," she says. "He appreciated people who understood their place in the ecosystem instead of trying to dominate it."
"Even hunters?"
"Especially ethical hunters. He believed in predator-prey relationships, understood that healthy populations need management." She pauses, color rising in her cheeks. "I was the one with prejudices about hunting. Thaddeus knew better."
The admission costs her something. She's carrying it in her shoulders. Academic pride is a powerful thing, and admitting you were wrong about something fundamental requires more courage than most people possess.
"What changed your mind?" I ask.
"Watching you work. The respect you show, the way you use everything, the fact that you see animals as partners in the ecosystem instead of resources to exploit." She meets my eyes directly. "And realizing that my grocery store meat came from conditions far worse than anything that happens in the wild."
"That's not a small thing to admit," I say.
"No, it's not." She kicks at the snow, working through thoughts that are clearly uncomfortable. "I convinced myself it was better because it was invisible. Easier to maintain moral high ground when you don't have to confront the reality of where your food comes from."
"Most people feel that way. Doesn't make you a bad person."
"Doesn't make me honest either."
The self-awareness in her voice isn't what I expected from her. She's admitting error and confronting the comfortable lies most people build their lives around in the same breath. That takes integrity rare enough to be remarkable.
"Honesty's overrated," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Gets you in trouble more often than not."
"But it's necessary." Something in the way she holds my eyes knocks my pulse off its count. "Especially out here, where pretending things are different than they are can get you killed."
"Truth has a way of cutting through everything else in the wilderness."
"Including prejudices about hunting guides who turn out to be teachers?"
The question sits there, loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine. She's looking at me like she's revising something she decided a long time ago.
"I'm still the same person you met three days ago," I say.
"No, you're not. Or maybe I'm not the same person who met you."
The honesty in her voice makes it hard to breathe. Three days of shared challenges, small revelations, growing trust, and now this moment of recognition that something has changed between us.
The weather front I've been watching moves closer, clouds building on the horizon, dense enough to promise serious snow. We need to find shelter soon, but I find myself reluctant to break this moment of connection.
