Page 5 of Mountain Man's City Girl
"Can I help?" she asks.
"Almost done."
"I'm actually a decent cook. Living alone in San Francisco means learning or surviving on ramen."
I raise an eyebrow. "You live alone?"
"For three years now. Tiny studio with a view of another building's brick wall, but it's mine." She leans against the counter, close enough that I can smell something floral in her hair. "The rent is criminal, but the magazine work pays well enough when I can get it."
I ladle stew into bowls, set them on the table, and gesture for her to sit. We eat in silence for a few minutes before she picks up the conversation again.
"So tell me about this place. How long have you been here?"
I consider deflecting, but her eyes are earnest. "Nine years."
"After your TV show ended?"
I nod, surprised she knew about that. "Wasn't much of a show. Six episodes on basic survival techniques."
"I watched them all." She takes a sip of wine.
The admission hangs between us. I stare at my bowl.
"Anyway, I've been freelancing since college. Travel photography mostly, some conservation pieces. I accidentally ended up in Morocco last year when I was supposed to be in Madrid—missed a connection and decided to just go with it."
Her story draws a reluctant smile from me. "How do you accidentally go to another continent?"
"Terrible sense of direction and an excessive sense of adventure." She laughs, the sound bright in my quiet home. "Ended up documenting a saffron harvest instead of Spanish architecture. The magazine loved it, though. Sometimes the best stories find you."
She continues, filling the silence with tales of her work—chaotic deadlines, nightmare clients, beautiful discoveries. I find myself listening intently, drawn in by her enthusiasm and the animated way she talks with her hands. The knot in my chest loosens slightly.
"I had this landlord once," she says, "who insisted that the black mold in my bathroom was actually an 'organic feature' of the building. When I threatened to call the health department, he offered me a discount if I'd photograph his daughter's wedding instead."
A laugh escapes me before I can catch it. Her eyes widen in mock surprise.
"Was that actual amusement? Alert the media."
I shake my head, but I'm still fighting a smile. "You talk enough for both of us."
"Someone has to." She sets her spoon down. "This was delicious, by the way. Thank you."
"It's just stew."
"It's more than that. It's... honest food. Nothing pretentious." She leans forward. "Like this place. Like you."
Her directness catches me off guard. I've been called many things—hardened, difficult, remote—but honest isn't usually among them. Not when I've spent years hiding from myself.
She clears her throat. "So, about tomorrow. I'd like to start shooting at sunrise if possible. The light will be perfect."
"That's early."
"I know. But it's worth it." Her face lights up with passion. "The way morning hits these mountains—that first golden light breaking over the peaks, catching in the mist—it's magic. Exactly what this story needs."
I study her, recognizing the fervor of someone who truly sees beauty in wild places. It reminds me of how I used to feel before exhaustion and guilt dulled my senses.
"There are some places..." I hesitate. "Some trails I don't take people on."
"I understand that. And I respect it." She meets my eyes steadily. "I'm not here to exploit anything. I just want to show people why places like this matter—why they're worth protecting."
