Page 15 of Hidden By the Wild Mountain Man
I hear Dawson on the forestry road before I see him — the particular rhythm of his footfall that I know now the way I know the trail, the way I know the sound of the woodstove settling in the night and the way the creek sounds when the snowmelt is running high. He's been on the traverse for three days. October solo, same as he did before me and same as he'll do after, because that one trip is his and I have never suggested otherwise and don't intend to. He needs the mountain, completely, without explanation, as a fact about himself that doesn't require defending.
Cashew hears him first. He lifts his head from the pine cone, both ears forward now, and then stands up and trots to the porch steps and down into the yard like he has an appointment. Which he does, more or less. He meets Dawson at the gate every time, regardless of weather, regardless of hour. I have watched him do this in the dark, in the rain, in the early September snow thatsurprised everyone including the mountain. He is always there. It is the most devoted thing I have ever seen and it is performed by an animal who would be deeply insulted by that description.
I hear the gate, and then the crunch of boots across the yard, and then Dawson comes around the side of the cabin with Cashew at his heel and three days of the traverse on him, worn and weathered and entirely himself, the way he always is coming off a long trip, like the mountain has stripped everything back to the essential version.
He sees me on the porch and stops.
"Welcome back," I say.
Cashew trots up the porch steps, deems the reunion sufficiently supervised, and goes inside through the gap in the door I always leave for him.
Dawson comes up the steps and I unfold from the chair and he pulls me in — cold jacket, cold air, cold hands finding my face. He kisses me the way he does when he's been gone for days, which is slow and deliberate and entirely certain, like he's confirming something he already knew. I put my hands inside his jacket against the warmth of him and hold on.
"Good trip?" I ask, into his collar.
"Good trip," he says. “I missed you.”
The rain comes down soft on the porch roof. The valley is gold and grey and the peaks are white above it all. Inside, I can hear Cashew investigating the kitchen, probably supervising the state of his bowl, finding it inadequate, preparing to make his feelings known.
I take his hand and I bring him inside, out of the rain, into the warmth.
