Page 8 of Wild for the Mountain Man
The message lights up my phone just as I’m sorting memory cards on Dad’s dining table.Storm track shifted north. You’ll get color at creek bend tomorrow at 6:12. Bring the long lens and dry socks.
I read it twice, then a third time for the tone between the lines. Wade speaks and writes in a practical, protective way. I suppose it’s Wade’s kind of poetry.
I should answer right away, but I stare at the blinking cursor until the words that feel right appear.
I’ll bring warmth with me.
When I hit send, my reflection stares back from the window. My mascara is smudged and my braid is messy.
Dad’s asleep already after a long day at the firehouse. I spread out the day’s photos on my laptop. The elk shots are good — clean light, movement you can almost hear. But it’s the thirdimage, the empty one, that won’t leave me alone. Wade’s text about proof and vanishing keeps circling.
I shut the lid and pack my gear for morning. Batteries full. Cards formatted. Socks thick enough to keep his warning from coming true.
♥♥♥
Dawn sneaks up on me. By the time I reach the creek bend, the air tastes metallic, like the world’s been rinsed clean overnight. The snow has stopped but lingers in pale sheets across the meadow, a white quilt someone forgot to fold away.
Wade’s already there. When he sees me, he immediately calls out a warning . “Slippery rock by your left boot. Step wide.”
I do, grateful for the warning. He treats danger like something that belongs to the mountain, not the people moving across it. Years spent being a smokejumper molded him into one that anticipates situations before they happen.
“You weren’t kidding about cold,” I say.
“I’m never kidding about cold.” He grins, teeth white in the dim light, then motions toward the bend. “Look past the birch trunks.”
The creek widens there, mirrored smooth except for a few ripples from a hidden current. Above it, the rising sun hits the ridgeline and spills over the water, making it look like crystals. Steam curls from the surface like breath.
“Oh,” I whisper. “That’s unreal.”
“Real enough.”
I crouch, adjust my lens, and the world narrows to frame and focus. My gloves squeak on the camera body. The cold nips at the edge of every breath. Wade moves behind me, almost silently.
Click. Click. Another.
When I finally lower the camera, he’s watching the creek, arms crossed. “You see the shimmer?” he asks.
“I see everything right now.”
He turns his head toward me, slow. “That’s the trick … seeing before it’s gone.”
I can’t tell if he means the light or something larger. Maybe both.
A raven cuts across the valley, the sound of its wings louder than I expect. I follow it with the lens and catch the moment it crosses the sun, one black curve against gold. The shot is pure instinct.
“Got it,” I breathe, pushing a stray blonde strand out of my eyes.
“Let’s see.”
He steps close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. The heat that radiates through his jacket feels inviting in this air. I scroll to the image, tilt the screen toward him.
“Nice,” he murmurs. “Raven against the morning. Balance of what stays and what goes.”
“You talk like that often?”
“Only when someone’s listening.”
The silence between us thickens, vibrating with unspoken words. It seems like the water, the birds, even the wind pause, waiting to see what happens next.
