Page 14 of Off the Trail

He’s the boss. “Sounds good.”

The kayaking expedition with two guests from Montreal goes well. They’re fairly inexperienced, but they catch on quickly, and mostly I’m there for safety as they poke around the edges of the lake and explore the little feeder streams. It’s a gloriously clear day after yesterday’s rain, without a cloud in the sky. It’s also fairly warm, which bodes well for the evening ahead.

It takes some time to coax Nolan into putting together a picnic dinner, but when I threaten to serve Shawn granola bars and powdered hot chocolate on the trail, he relents.

“Chicken sandwiches and pasta salad,” he decides, stroking his angular chin.

“And real hot chocolate?” I ask hopefully. Nolan’s homemade hot chocolate is legendary, but he only makes it seasonally, the bastard.

He consults his notes. “Cabin three likes salted caramel. I’ll do something with that.”

I resist complaining, because whatever Nolan comes up with will be delicious, even if it’s not what I’d order for myself. The guest comes first. “Thanks, man.”

I gather the rest of the essentials and pack a lightweight backpack. We’ve got water, flashlights, headlamps, and emergency gear. We shouldn’t need the whistles, compass, and emergency ponchos, but I pack them anyway. A night hike might seem risky, but I’ve been up this trail about a thousand times at every hour of the day. Still, I know better than to skip any basic safety precautions.

I knock on the door of cabin three at four o’clock. Shawn answers wearing joggers, sneakers, and a hoodie over a T-shirt. It’s the most casual outfit I’ve seen him in since he arrived. “Let me grab my jacket.”

I peek inside the cabin while he goes to the armchair and grabs a suitable nylon windbreaker.

There’s not much of him inside the room, which makes sense. But still, I’m oddly disappointed to find it so impersonal. Then I catch the green Laurels insignia on the black jacket he ties around his waist. It’s the first overt nod I’ve seen him make to the team.

“All set? Want me to carry that?” He points to the backpack over my shoulders.

“You can take a turn later,” I say. “Besides, we’re driving to the trailhead. Misty’s in the truck already.”

“How long have you had her?” he asks, making small talk as we walk back to where my truck is parked at the boathouse.

“She’s six going on seven. I got her when my sister left for college. The house was too quiet.”

It’s clear he doesn’t know what to say to that. But by then we’re at the truck, and Misty barks excitedly when she sees I’ve brought company.

“She loves people,” I warn him. “Should have asked if you were allergic.”

“Not allergic,” he says.

I open the passenger door, but Misty stays put in the cab, wagging her tail and sniffing the air as Shawn comes close and offers her a hand to smell.

“She’s beautiful.” He pets the soft fur on the top of her head and climbs in next to her without complaint.

I get behind the wheel and try not to notice how good he looks in my truck with my dog practically sitting on his lap.

It’s a short drive down the main road toward town, but before we get there, we turn off and park at the trailhead. No one else is here on a late September Friday afternoon. The shadows have lengthened, but it won’t be full dark for a while yet.

I clip the lead to Misty’s collar and grab the backpack. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Shawn says.

“This is a well-marked trail,” I say as we start up the pine-needle strewn path with its initially easy incline. “Orange blazes.” I point out the pumpkin-orange rectangle painted onto the bark of a white pine a few dozen feet ahead of us. “Do you know how to read them?”

“You better remind me,” he says with a self-deprecating twist of his lips.

I explain that the markers show which way to go in case of a fork in the trail, where two blazes indicate direction depending on if the top one is to the left or right of the bottom one.

“Here.” I hand him a silver whistle on a thin cord. “In case we get separated. Just blow.”

He drops the cord over his head, fingering the whistle at his sternum. “I feel like Mr. Munsen.”

“Who now?”