Chapter 8
Mountain Rescue
Research, I remind myself as I pull on hiking pants, a moisture-wicking top, and a light fleece. This is for the article. My editor wants heart, and what better way to understand Angel's Peak than to see its hidden treasures through the eyes of someone who knows it intimately?
The mental justification feels flimsy even to me.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when I step onto Mabel's porch. A thin mist hovers over the quiet street, giving the town a dreamlike quality. Noah's SUV idles at the curb, headlights cutting through the morning haze.
"Morning, sunshine." His voice holds a hint of teasing as I slide into the passenger seat. "Not a morning person still, I see."
"Coffee?” I eye the travel mug in his cupholder. “Please tell me that's for me."
He hands it over, his fingers brushing mine in a brief contact that feels anything but accidental. "Black, one sugar. Some habits are hard to break."
The fact that he remembers how I take my coffee after all this time does something warm and dangerous to my insides. I take a fortifying sip, using the mug to hide whatever my face might reveal.
"So where are we going?" I ask as he navigates the empty streets.
"Angel Falls. It's about three miles up the eastern ridge—a tributary of Alpine Lake that most tourists never see." He glances over, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I figured a hidden gem would make good material for your article's heart.'"
My surprise must show, because he adds, "Small town, remember? Word gets around when the visiting journalist needs more emotional depth in her story."
I should be annoyed at the invasion of privacy, but there's something almost comforting about the familiar dynamics of a place where everyone knows everyone's business. Chicago can sometimes feel anonymous to the point of isolation.
"And you appointed yourself my emotional tour guide?" I raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile.
"Who better?" He turns onto a dirt road that winds up the mountainside. "I've been told I'm practically fluent in emotions these days."
I snort. "Please. You used to deflect every serious conversation with sex."
His mouth curves, just enough to be dangerous. "Can you blame me? The sex was worth it."
My cheeks flush, heat prickling under my skin.
He glances sideways, voice quieter now. "People change, Bennett. Ten years is a long time."
We lapse into comfortable silence as the SUV climbs higher, the road narrowing until Noah finally pulls into a small clearing marked with a weathered wooden sign: ANGEL FALLS TRAIL - EXPERIENCED HIKERS ONLY.
The air outside is crisp with early morning mountain chill and the scent of pine. Noah retrieves a backpack from the rear of the vehicle, slinging it over one shoulder.
"Hope you're hungry." He produces a paper bag from Margie's. "Breakfast burritos. Protein for the hike."
My stomach growls in response. We perch on a large boulder at the trailhead to eat, watching the sunrise paint the valley in shades of gold and pink.
It's painfully beautiful, the kind of moment that reminds me why people choose to build their lives in places like this despite the economic challenges.
"The trail gets steep in sections," Noah explains between bites. "But the payoff is worth it. The falls feed into a pool that's this impossible shade of blue. Gram always said it's where the sky comes down to swim."
The image is unexpectedly poetic. "Your grandmother is quite a woman."
"She likes you." Noah gathers our trash, tucking it into a side pocket of his backpack. "Which is no small feat. Gram doesn't suffer fools or approve of many of my choices."
"Am I one of your choices she approves of or disapproves of?"
His eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. "I think she's reserving judgment this time around."
The implication that there might be a "this time around" hangs between us as we begin our ascent along the narrow trail.
Noah takes the lead, setting a pace that's challenging but not grueling.
I follow a few steps behind, trying not to notice how his shoulders move beneath his jacket or the confident way he navigates the terrain.
The trail climbs steadily through stands of aspen and pine, occasionally opening to reveal breathtaking views of the valley below.
Angel's Peak looks different from this vantage point—more cohesive, less a collection of buildings and streets than a natural part of the landscape, nestled into the mountainside as if it grew there.
"How many rescue calls do you get on this trail?" I ask as we pause for water at a particularly scenic overlook.
"More than we should." Noah caps his water bottle, gazing out over the valley. Usually, inexperienced hikers underestimate the mountain. The weather changes fast up here. People get caught unprepared."
"Like that missing hiker call you got at Lookout Point?"
He nods, expression growing more serious. "Family of four, in that case. Took a wrong turn as it was getting dark. We found them around midnight, cold and scared but otherwise okay." A shadow crosses his face. "Not all searches end that well."
"Tell me." The journalist in me recognizes a story, but it's more than that. I want to understand this version of Noah, the man who carries the responsibility for others' lives on his shoulders.
He hesitates, then sighs. "Three years ago, spring thaw.
A solo hiker went out despite warnings about unstable conditions.
When he didn't check in, his wife called it in.
" Noah's gaze turns distant. "We searched for thirty-six hours straight.
Found him pinned under a rock slide, still alive but with severe hypothermia and crush injuries. "
I can see it in his expression—the weight of what comes next.
"We got him out, got him stabilized. Evacuation helicopter was two minutes out." His voice drops. "Then he just... stopped breathing. I did CPR until my arms gave out, but..." He shakes his head. "His wife was pregnant with their first child. A little girl who'll never know her father."
The vulnerability in his eyes catches me off guard—this isn't a story he tells often, maybe not at all.
"I'm sorry.” I resist the urge to reach for his hand. "That must have been devastating."
"It was." He meets my gaze. "But it's also why I do this. Why I stay. Every successful rescue is a reminder that what we do matters—that this place, these mountains, they're worth the hard days."
The passion in his voice—the absolute certainty of his purpose—makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with the altitude.
I've interviewed CEOs, celebrities, and politicians with practiced soundbites about their "calling," but none have spoken with the raw conviction in Noah's voice.
We resume our hike, the trail growing steeper as we climb. The conversation shifts to lighter topics—funny rescue stories, changes in the town, mutual acquaintances from high school. It flows easily between us, as if the decade of separation is gradually dissolving with each step.
"Your turn," Noah says as we navigate a narrow switchback. "What's it really like, the big-city journalism dream? Everything you hoped for?"
The question isn't accusatory, just genuinely curious. I consider my answer carefully.
"Yes and no." Honesty feels appropriate given his earlier vulnerability. "I love my work. The research, the writing, the feeling when a piece comes together and you know you've captured something true."
"But?" He glances over his shoulder, reading me as easily as he always could.
"But it's competitive. Cutthroat sometimes." I duck under a low-hanging branch. "Print journalism is fighting for survival. Everyone's scrambling for fewer positions and fewer bylines. The pressure never really stops."
"And the life outside work?"
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears. "What life outside work? That's the thing about competitive fields—there's always someone willing to sacrifice more, sleep less, and work weekends. Take a break, and someone's waiting to take your spot."
"Sounds lonely," he observes quietly.
The simple accuracy of this pierces me unexpectedly. "It can be. Chicago's full of people, but that doesn't always translate to connection." I hesitate, then add, "Sometimes I miss this—knowing the people around me, being known. Having history."
Noah slows, turning to face me fully. Something passes between us—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of the parallel paths we've walked, different but each with its own sacrifices.
The moment breaks when he looks past me, brow furrowing. "That's not good."
I turn to follow his gaze. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, moving quickly in our direction—too quickly.
"Mountain storm?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.
"And a fast one." His expression shifts to professional assessment. "We need to move. The falls are closer than the trailhead at this point."
We increase our pace, the pleasant hike transforming into something more urgent. The temperature drops noticeably as the cloud bank approaches, wind whipping through the trees with increasing force.
"Almost there," Noah encourages as the trail narrows further, hugging the mountainside. "Around this ridge—"
The sound reaches us before the sight—the rumbling rush of falling water. We round the bend, and I stop short, momentarily forgetting the approaching storm.
Angel Falls cascades down a sheer rock face, the water a crystalline ribbon that disappears into a pool of such a vibrant turquoise it almost seems artificial. Native wildflowers surround the clearing, their colors vivid against the gray stone.
"It's incredible," I breathe, already framing descriptive passages in my mind.
"Told you it was worth it." Noah's smile holds pride and something softer. "Quick photo op before we need to move."
I snap several pictures with my phone while Noah scans the darkening sky with increasing concern.