Page 6 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“In the back,” she says. “Never used them.”
Of course she hasn’t. Of course I have.
“Pop the hatch.” I crouch at her rear bumper, feeling the first bite of cold find the skin between glove and sleeve. The chains clink like coins. I show her the cross links, the fasteners, the way you feed the cable behind the tire without catching your knuckles on the fender. She watches, knees bent and attentive. It’s the way my boy watches game film — quiet intent, catching the details without breathing on them.
“Left side first,” I say. “Always the uphill tire.”
She nods like that’s a secret worth keeping. We wrestle the second chain together, our gloves knocking. I think about how many versions of this moment live in this valley … fathers and daughters, neighbors and strangers. People wanting to get where they’re going before the weather changes its mind. By the time I snap the fastener into place, snow has settled in the grooves of the tread like thread in a seam.
“Drive twenty yards, then stop,” I tell her. “We’ll check the tension.”
She climbs in, starts the engine and eases forward. When she idles, I test the bite. It’s good, not perfect. But the road will make up the last of what we couldn’t.
“You make hard things look like a checklist,” she says.
“Practice is just yesterday’s mistake organized.”
She laughs, surprised, like she didn’t expect I’d keep a line like that in my pocket. Truth is, I only find lines when I need them to keep from saying something truer … something I shouldn’t. My phone buzzes.
Caleb:Coach pushed the film session to 4. I’ll grab the truck. Need cash for gas?
I thumb back:Card’s in the visor. Fill the tank, check the oil. Black ice possible.
Caleb: Got it. You okay?
Yep. First snow.
I see it. Looks sick.
A photo comes through of our yard with a powdered-sugar dusting. He’s seventeen and pretending not to count the weeks until everything changes. I’m forty-one and pretending I don’t.
I pocket the phone. Lilah’s watching me with that camera-off kind of attention. “Caleb?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Hungry. Tall. Trying not to outgrow the place that made him.” I lift a shoulder. “Senior year is a slow goodbye with a loud soundtrack.”
“I remember that soundtrack,” she says softly.
The snow thickens with intent. Time to move. I remove her camera bag and pass it up to her. She steadies it, our hands brushing.
“We’ll hit the overlook again in two days,” I say. “If the front clears like I think it will, you’ll get bluebird sky on fresh white. Elk flats at sunset today if the road holds.” I take out my phone, pull up the pin. “Park before the gatehouse at the rangerstation. Walk the last quarter mile. Stay left at the fork. The right takes you into willow tangle and a wasted hour.”
She takes the pin, thumbs it to save. “What about you?”
“Got a half day with a couple from Texas who think crampons are a cocktail garnish.” I tip my head. “I’ll swing by the flats if they don’t tap out.”
“And if I get there first?”
“You’ll hear them before you see them,” I say. “Wind will be wrong at first, but don’t chase. Let it turn. When it does, you’ll think the whole meadow just took a breath. That’s your moment.”
“Let the meadow breathe.” She repeats it like a promise to herself. Then, with that small courage she carries like a spare battery, “You don’t mind if I text you a shot?”
“Text me three,” I say before I can weigh it. “One you’re proud of, one you’re not sure about, and one you think I won’t understand.”
Her grin is quick and bright. “Deal.”
