She watches everything. Files it away. Asks questions that show she’s listening. She wants to understand, not just be led.
We stop for a moment to drink from our water bottles and catch our breath. She tells me she’s an architect and that she mostly designs urban projects, but she’d love to design her own home someday. She’d pay attention to every detail, right down to how the sunlight hits the windows in the morning.
When she talks about her brother, I listen. Not just to the words, but to the pauses. The way she keeps moving even when her voice catches. He loved the mountain. He told her to take chances. She wishes she’d listened sooner. Wishes she’d come here with him when she had the chance.
“I know what you mean,” I tell her. “I think anyone who’s ever lost a loved one wishes they’d had just a little more time together. But you’re hiking with Nate now, honoring his love of the mountain with every step you take.”
She smiles. “I’m ready to continue to the overlook.”
Nodding, I begin leading the way again.
An hour later, the overlook opens up ahead of us, the trees giving way to a rocky outcrop that juts out over the valley. The view is worth the climb. Always has been, but somehow, it’s even better with Trista by my side.
She stops at the edge, careful to stay back from the drop, and juststares.
Below us, the valley stretches out in layers. Dense forest gives way to open meadows, gold and green in the afternoon light. A ribbon of river cuts through the center, catching the sun like molten silver. Mountains rise in the distance, ridge after ridge fading into blue haze. On a clear day like this, you can see forever. Or at least far enough that it feels that way.
Her expression shifts, softens. The tension she’s been carrying since I found her eases out of her shoulders.
“He was right,” she says quietly. “It is beautiful.”
I don’t answer right away. Just stand beside her and let the mountain speak for itself. Let the wind carry the scent of pine and stone. Let the silence settle.
After a while, she shrugs off her pack and sets it down carefully. Her hands move to the zipper, then pause.
“Do you need a minute?” I ask.
She glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. Vulnerability, maybe. And perhaps a little bit of trust. “Actually… would you stay?”
The request catches me off guard. Most people want privacy for this part. Want to be alone with their grief and their memories.
“Of course,” I say.
She pulls out a simple wooden urn, holds it in both hands for a moment.
“He would’ve made fun of me for getting lost on the way here,” she says. A small smile touches her lips, sad and genuine. “Then he would’ve shown me the right path and told me to pay better attention. Probably would’ve made me buy him a beer to make up for the rescue.”
“Sounds like a good brother.”
“The best.” She opens the urn carefully, reverently. “He was the one who took chances. I was the one who planned everything to death. Color-coded calendars. A spreadsheet for everything, even my grocery lists. He kept telling me I needed to loosen up. Live a little. Stop being so afraid of making mistakes.”
She steps closer to the edge, and I move with her, close enough to be there if she needs it. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
The wind cooperates, pulling gently out toward the valley. She tilts the urn, and the ashes catch the breeze, scattering into the air. They drift down and out, disappearing into the vast expanse below, becoming part of the mountain he loved.
For a while, neither of us moves.
Then she turns to me, eyes bright but not quite crying. Grief and relief tangled together. “Thank you. For staying.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stand there in the fading light, and something shifts between us. Not grief. Not awkwardness. Just… connection. The kind of thing that happens when two people stand in the right place at the right time and recognize something in each other.
She sits down on a flat rock, and after a moment, I join her. The stone is still warm from the sun, holding onto the day’s heat.
“How long have you been a game warden?” she asks.
“Twelve years. Grew up not far from here. About thirty miles down the mountain.”
