Page 29 of Easy, Tiger

Grateful for the solid presence at my side, I move in tandem beside him as we start down the trail. Whatever's been making me feel watched, it seems less threatening with Nolan nearby.

"Woodpecker anatomy, actually. There's a family of pileated woodpeckers that's been working this section all week."

"Smart birds. They know good timber when they see it."

The casual conversation should feel normal, but something underneath it harbors an undercurrent that escapes me. Nolan moves through the forest like he owns it, each step placed with measured care. It is the hyperawareness of someone actively listening for threats, stripped of the conscious attention common to those unfamiliar with rough terrain.

"There—pileated woodpecker, two o'clock."

Nolan lifts a finger toward a bird hammering against a dead oak, its red crest flashing in the dappled sunlight. Raising my camera slowly, I adjust the telephoto lens until the bird's distinctive markings fill the frame.

"Perfect lighting too." The shutter clicks rapidly as I capture the woodpecker's powerful neck muscles in action. "These guys are basically the bulldozers of the bird world."

"Subtle as a construction crew at dawn."

"Says the man who runs power tools for a living."

"Touché." He perches against a fallen log, monitoring my work with subtle amusement. "Though my saws don't wake up half the forest at five AM."

The woodpecker halts its assault on the oak, tilting its head to gauge us with one bright eye. Sketching quickly, I capture the bird's alert posture and the wood chips scattered around the tree base.

"You always this focused when you work?"

"Only when I have an audience." My pencil moves across the page, adding detail to the bird's distinctive white neck stripes. "Makes me want to show off a little."

"Is that what this is?"

The question lands with enough gravity to snap me out of the lines in my sketchbook. Nolan peers at me with an intensity that brings a sudden flush to my cheeks.

"Maybe."

The woodpecker resumes its destruction of the oak, filling the silence with constant percussion. Forcing myself to peer back at my sketch, I add shading to the bird's powerful beak.

"Your turn to be impressed. There's a beaver dam about a quarter mile downstream. Active lodge, and they've been working on repairs all week. Trailhead lot's right past it too, so we can loop back to my truck from there instead of backtracking the whole way you came."

"Lead the way, woodsman."

The creek runs higher than I expected, swollen from recent mountain rains. Fallen logs create natural bridges at irregular intervals, some sturdy enough to support a person, others clearly one step away from collapse.

"That one looks promising," I point to a thick pine trunk spanning the narrowest section of creek.

"Looks can be deceiving." Nolan tests the log with one boot, bearing down until it gives slightly. "This one's more solid."

He indicates a broader trunk upstream, its bark worn smooth by countless crossings. The surface gleams with moisture, and green moss coats the shadowed side.

"Slippery though."

"I'll go first and test the footing."

Nolan crosses with the easy balance born from navigating countless stream crossings. Halfway across, he turns back, extending his hand.

"Your turn, city girl."

"I grew up hiking, thank you very much." But I accept his offered hand anyway, enjoying the warmth of his calloused palm against mine.

The log feels solid beneath my boots for the first few steps. Moss provides surprising traction, and I begin to think this will be easier than expected. Then my right foot hits a patch of wet bark.

The world tilts sideways as my boot slides out from under me. I flail, bracing for a freezing, muddy plunge into the shallow creek water that will undoubtedly leave me shivering and bruised for days.