He flipped the tablet around, revealing a dashboard of analytics that made my social media marketer heart skip a beat. “Over two thousand attendees so far, and they’re still coming. The petition has over five thousand signatures. The livestream has viewers from thirty-seven states and twelve countries.”
“And the hashtag?”
“Trending nationally.” His grin widened. “And ‘Chinese Mountain Cuisine’ is now trending in three major metropolitan areas. Your parents’ fusion menu is generating its own buzz; we’ve got food bloggers from Denver who left the festival there to come here just to try it.”
I glanced toward the food tent, where my parents presided over a line that snaked around the parking lot. Possibly all the way back to Los Angeles. Mom wielded her ladle like a conductor’s baton, directing Dad and three hastily recruited local volunteers through a synchronized cooking dance. The Disco Chicken Dumplings had sold out twice already, with patrons returning for seconds of the Migration Moon Cakes. Al even had to make a second flapjack run.
“I’d better get back to the main stage. The timing of the Kevin the Goshawk and Gary the Grouse mashup gets tricky, so I prefer to handle that one myself.”
As Parker returned to the AV equipment command center, I wove between booths, just soaking up the scene. Near the conservation education area, children gathered in an excited semicircle, their attention focused not on the impressive wildlife displays or interactive exhibits, but on Yeti.
Noah’s wolf-dog had become the festival’s unofficial mascot, sporting a handmade bandana emblazoned with a disco-dancing grouse that Brie had crafted the night before.
“Now remember,” Diego instructed the wide-eyed kids as Yeti sat with regal patience, “wilderness creatures aren’t pets. They’re wild animals that deserve our respect and space.”
Understanding her role in this demonstration, Yeti offered a paw to a small girl in pigtails, who giggled with delight at the contradiction.
The “Pet the Wolf-Dog, Save Her Home” attraction was Brie’s idea, with a suggested donation that already filled three five-gallon jars. Each child received a “Junior Conservation Ranger” badge, complete with Yeti’s paw print stamp of approval. When the demonstration ended, Yeti wagged her tail with such enthusiasm her entire rear end swayed.
My attention shifted back to the stage when a cheer rose from the crowd. The band finished their song, and Axel leaned into the microphone, voice carrying across the festival grounds.
“We’ve got a special surprise for you all,” he announced, prompting another round of cheers. “Someone who’s been essential to protecting the wilderness we all love is going to join us for our next number.”
My stomach dropped as Axel’s gaze settled on Noah. “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Aster Park’s very own mountain guardian, Noah Barrett!”
The crowd erupted, and I couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the look of pure horror that crossed Noah’s face. He shook his head vehemently, trying to back away as Jenn and Diego each grabbed an arm and shoed him toward the stage.
“No way.” I watched in disbelief as Noah reluctantly mounted the steps, looking like a man approaching his own execution. “Noah Barrett sings?”
“Not in a long time,” said Brie, stepping up beside me. She hit record on her phone. “This is going to be gold.”
Noah stood awkwardly at center stage, accepting a guitar with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a live snake. For a minute, it was touch and go whether Noah was going to hit Axel over the head with the guitar, or flee the stage entirely.
But as soon as his fingers made contact with the instrument, hisentire body went still. For a split second, his face calmed, even that hard jaw relaxed.
The crowd’s roar intensified, and a chant began to build: “No-ah! No-ah!” But he didn’t seem to hear them, somewhere else entirely, his thumb unconsciously running along the guitar’s worn edge.
“I can’t believe he’s actually doing this.” Brie seemed as mesmerized as I was.
I leaned forward, desperate to watch what came next.
“Some of you locals might remember,” Axel continued into the microphone. “That before Noah was your friendly neighborhood wilderness guide, he and I used to play a bit of music back in high school.”
The ripple of surprise that moved through the audience was nothing compared to what I was seeing play out on Noah’s face.
“This next song is an old one,” Axel continued, “but it feels right for today. It’s about finding something real in a world of illusions. Something authentic when everything else is just for show.” His eyes flicked briefly toward me, then back to Noah. “It’s called ‘Seeing Clear.’”
When the drummer counted them in, Noah’s fingers moved across the strings. The opening notes rang crisp and clear, but I was watching Noah’s face, seeing the exact moment when he finally let go. Like he’d forgotten where he was, and who was watching.
And then something amazing happened.
Noah began to sing.
His voice wasn’t polished. Wasn’t perfect. It carried a rough-edge that matched the rugged contours of his face. Every note carried weight. And as his voice filled the festival grounds, I watched something extraordinary happen. The weight of the world drifted off his shoulders and floated away onthe breeze.
“Through all the filters, past all the lies,
I finally see you with unclouded eyes.
