Page 16 of Tracked By the Mountain Man
"I don't know," I admit. "But I know I want to try. I know I'm not ready to say goodbye to this. To you, to these mountains, to the person I am when I'm here." I look out at the view that captivated Katie, that called to her so strongly she was willing to risk everything for it. "Maybe it's time I started taking some risks of my own."
"What kind of risks?"
I think about the life I've built in Calgary. Where I’m safe, predictable, carefully controlled to avoid any chance of loss or pain. Then I think about these past few days with Tyler, about the way he's made me feel alive and brave and ready for adventure.
"The kind that might actually be worth it," I say finally.
Tyler's smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. "I can work with that."
As we stand together on the summit Katie never lived to share with me, I feel her presence like a blessing rather than a haunting. She brought me here, in a way, her death led to my healing, her memory led me to Tyler, her love led me back to life.
"Thank you," I whisper to the wind, knowing somehow that she hears me. "For showing me the way."
Tyler pulls me close, and we stand together in silence, looking out at the vast wilderness that's become sacred ground for both of us. Below us, the world spreads in every direction, dangerous and beautiful and full of the kind of love worth climbing mountains for.
Katie was right. Some views are worth any risk.
And some people are worth everything.
Leah
One Year Later...
Oneyear.It'sbeenexactly one year since Tyler found me lost and broken on Devil's Thumb, since he guided me through the wilderness of grief and back to life.
I stretch lazily in our bed, listening to the familiar sounds of him moving around downstairs—the gentle scrape of the coffee pot, the soft thud of firewood being added to the wood stove, the low murmur of his voice as he talks to Ranger, the rescue dog we adopted six months ago
I slip on one of Tyler's flannel shirts over my sleep clothes and pad downstairs, following the scent of coffee and something delicious baking in the oven. I find him at the kitchen counter, already dressed in his hiking gear, studying a topographical map spread across the butcher-block surface.
"Morning, mountain man," I say, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind.
"Morning, beautiful." He turns in my arms, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Sleep well?"
"I always do when you're beside me." It's true. The nightmares that plagued me for five years disappeared completely once I moved to Darkmore. Some nights I dream of Katie, but they're good dreams now—memories of laughter and adventure rather than guilt and loss.
"Ready for our anniversary hike?" Tyler asks, nodding toward the map.
I study his planned route, recognizing the familiar contours of the trail that leads to Devil's Thumb overlook. "Back to where it all started?"
"Seemed appropriate." His smile is soft, mysterious. "Full circle."
The past year has been a series of new beginnings. I'd returned to Calgary just long enough to quit my job, pack my belongings, and have several difficult conversations with Dr. Silverman about my decision to relocate. She'd been concerned at first—worried I was running toward a rebound instead of healing. But when I brought Tyler to meet her during one of our visits, she'd seen what I felt: that this wasn't escape, but homecoming.
Now I work part-time for Darkmore Search and Rescue, handling family liaison services and grief counseling for survivors. It's meaningful work that uses my experience with loss to help others navigate their own dark waters. The girl who once avoided anything that reminded her of Katie now spends her days helping families cope with mountain tragedies.
"The Smiths are doing better," I tell Tyler as we prepare our day packs. "Sarah's ready to start counseling next week."
Tyler nods, understanding immediately. The Smiths lost their teenage son in a climbing accident last month. Sarah Smith reminds me of myself from a year ago—shattered, guilty, convinced she should have somehow prevented the tragedy.
"Good. She'll need someone who understands." Tyler checks our emergency supplies with the thoroughness of someonewho's seen too many rescues go wrong. "You've become quite the lifeline for these families."
"Takes one to know one," I say, remembering how Tyler's steady presence had anchored me when I was drowning in grief.
We drive to the trailhead in comfortable silence, Ranger's head hanging out the back window, tongue lolling happily.
The dog came to us through the SAR program—a washout from avalanche training who was too gentle for the work but perfect for therapy. Like Tyler and me, he found his second chance in Darkmore.
The trail to Devil's Thumb feels different today. Instead of the panic and desperation that drove me here a year ago, I feel anticipation. Tyler sets an easy pace, and I notice him glancing at me frequently, as if gauging my emotional state.
