“Does it?” I asked, shaking my head. “I used to review these tiny Mexican restaurants. You saw.”
“I did.”
“Places where abuelitas made tortillas by hand and refused to write down recipes. It was real, you know?”
“What changed?”
“Money,” I said simply. “Paying bills. Trying to survive. Sponsors pay contracts for luxury content. Not hole-in-the-wall taco joints.”
“Or hole-in-the-wall Adventure Centers. Apparently.”
I nodded. “I guess I adapted.”
“I guess we all do,” agreed Noah.
We stared back over the valley, each lost in our own world.
“So all this camping with your dad, that’s where you learned your badass wilderness ninja skills?”
His hands stilled on the blade of grass he’d been twirling between his fingers. “Dad taught me how to read weather patterns, find edible plants. He showed me how to tie proper knots when I was six. By eight, I could start a fire in the rain.”
In the distance, a rumble of thunder rolled across the Colorado sky, as if Mother Nature was accepting Noah’s challenge. “Dad used to say you could read the mountains like a book. Each track, broken twig, or scattered feather tells a story.” I watched his face as he spoke, his usual guardedness melting away.
“I wish my dad taught me cool stuff like that. The only thing my dad taught me was how to fold dumplings. Well, he tried to teach me. They always come out weird-looking and lumpy. Like little mutant Buddha statues.”
“I’m sure they tasted good.”
“That’s what Mom said. She’d tell me it didn’t matter how they looked, as long as they were made with love.”
“That’s what my mom used to say about pie crusts.” Noah’s smile was bittersweet.
Across the clearing, we watched Yeti sniffing the grass like she was hunting something. Perhaps an attempt to show that her owner wasn’t the only one with superior wilderness skills.
“So, your parents still cook a lot?”
“They own a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown.”
“That must have been interesting growing up.”
“That’s one word for it. Other words are loud. Intense. Chaotic. I grew up doing homework surrounded by the sounds of broccoli chopping and sizzling woks. The smell of five-spice powder still takes me right back there.”
Staring out over the mountains, soaking in the views, it seemed Noah wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Which was good, because I wasn’t in a hurry either. It was one of those moments you want to remember for the rest of your life, and you make a conscious effort to make sure you commit every detail to memory.
“It’s not that hard, you know,” said Noah, breaking the spell.
“Have you tried making dumplings?”
“Not dumplings. I meant reading tracks.”
“Maybe not for you, it isn’t. Or natural born predator over there.” I thumbed toward Yeti.
“Anybody can do it.”
I could only assume that by “anybody”, he didn’t mean me.
“Here, let me show you.” He scanned the ground. “Elk come through here all the time.” It took only a few minutes of searching for him to find something. “See, come over here.”
I wobbled over, still bowlegged and saddle sore, then crouched down beside him.Noah traced his finger along the edge of what looked like a dent in the dirt to me, but clearly held volumes of information to his trained eye.
