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Holt plans the north loop survey, scheduled for this week, like a military operation.

At seven in the morning, he spreads the map across the hood of his truck and walks me through the route. It follows the public trail, past the closure sign, along the ridge on the outside edge of the interior, and back down by the creek crossing to the old fire tower road. Each stop is penciled in, ending with a dot in the middle of the blank space. He’s written LAST beside it in his block capitals.

He’s choosing to show me. I’m here for a survey, but right now, his invitation matters more. I grin down at that little pencil dot.

A man who guards his forest like a dragon guards gold just handed me the keys. Do I want to hug him or climb him? Definitely both.

The forecast says the next front has sped up overnight: showers this afternoon, storms after dark.

“We’ll be down by three,” Holt says. “The creek face gets saturated fast. If it does, the interior is our way down.”

For the first few hours, we’re a well-oiled machine. I test the soil, and he clears the brush. I sketch the switchbacks, and he tells me which ones flood. Past the closure sign, the trail turns rough and narrow, with a drop on one side and a steep climb on the other.

He walks on the outside edge without a word, between me and the drop.

Does he think I haven’t noticed? Please. I notice everything about this man. I just keep my mouth shut, because if I say anything, he might stop, and I don’t want him to stop.

At noon, we eat lunch on a rock with our legs dangling over the valley. He passes me half his sandwich without asking, because I left mine on the truck seat.

“So. That last stop on your map. Do I meet the wife? The kids? Please tell me there’s a cat. I need someone to impress.”

He chokes on his sandwich, coughing and thumping his chest with his fist until his eyes water. I pound him on the back, which is like pounding on a brick wall.

“I don’t have a wife,” he wheezes when he can breathe again. “Or kids. Or a cat.”

“A girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Any buried bodies?”

He gives me a long look designed to intimidate. “Eat your sandwich.”

I follow his orders, smiling because he admitted he has no wife or girlfriend, which makes me ridiculously happy.

The sun is still out when Holt lifts his head and breathes deeply through his nose.

“Rain,” he says. “An hour, maybe less.”

I look up at the blue sky. “Are you sure?”

“We head down now,” he says. “Creek route.”

After he packs lunch, we are quickly on the move again. Forty minutes later, the first drops fall in a steady stream, cold and fine. We are extra careful as the trail becomes slick under our boots.

We’re close to the creek crossing when Holt stops dead. His ears snap forward. His nostrils flare. He’s staring at the slope above the trail ahead of us, and he isn’t breathing.

“Back,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for me to move. He grabs me around the waist, swings me behind him, and pins me against the uphill bank, his whole body between me and the trail.

A second later, the hillside lets go.

Thirty yards ahead of us, a section of the slope slides down in a rush of mud and rocks. A young fir tree goes with it, roots and all. It pours across the trail and over the edge into the gully below, and the roar of it goes on and on.

When it finally stops, our trail is gone, buried under a wide brown scar of loose dirt and broken branches.

I’m shaking. Holt’s still holding me against the bank, one big hand flat on my stomach.