Page 47 of Rescued By the Mountain Guide

Jackson shifts his weight, discomfort evident in the subtle movement. "Thought you might want the experience. For your next article maybe."

Professional justification. Safe, contained, emotionally distant.

"My flight's early tomorrow." The excuse sounds hollow even to my ears.

"Back by sunset." His gaze finally settles directly on mine, something unnamed flickering behind his carefully maintained neutrality. "If you want."

The sensible answer is no. Pack, sleep, and prepare for departure. Don't prolong the inevitable farewell. Don't collect more memories to ache over during sleepless nights in Burlington.

"Let me change." My words escape before wisdom can assert any control.

Twenty minutes later, we're in his truck, climbing the now-familiar mountain road in silence punctuated only by occasional directions as we approach a trailhead I've never visited. The distance between us on the bench seat feels simultaneously too large and not nearly large enough—his presence both comforting and excruciating in its temporary nature.

"Different route than Lookout Point." Jackson's voice breaks the extended silence as he parks at a small clearing where only trail markers indicate human presence. "Less dramatic elevation gain, more diverse terrain."

Professional guide voice. Mountain man dispensing wilderness wisdom. Emotional barriers firmly intact.

The trail begins through a dense pine forest, with dappled sunlight creating intricate patterns across the needle-covered path. Jackson walks slightly ahead, setting a pace considerate of my shorter stride without being condescending. His backpack looks different than yesterday's—larger, containing what appears to be more than emergency supplies for a four-mile hike.

"Why Mirror Lake?" The question emerges as we enter a meadow bursting with early alpine flowers pushing through melting snow patches. "Of all the places to show me on my last day."

Jackson's stride falters momentarily before resuming its steady rhythm. "Told you. Best reflection of the mountains. Worth seeing."

"There are dozens of spots worth seeing in these mountains. You've mentioned several." My persistence surprises us both. "Why this one specifically?"

Several moments pass before he responds, his gaze fixed forward on the trail ahead.

"Personal reasons." The admission emerges reluctantly, each word seemingly extracted with great effort.

We climb in silence after that, the trail winding through changing ecosystems—dense forest giving way to rocky outcroppings, meadows yielding to streams fed by melting snow. Jackson maintains a steady pace, occasionally pointing out features I'd likely miss without guidance—rare flowers, wildlife tracks pressed into soft mud, rock formations shaped by millennia of harsh weather.

The final ascent steepens considerably, requiring my full attention to navigate the path safely. Jackson's hand appears at particularly challenging sections—offered without comment, withdrawn the moment balance is secured. Each brief contact sends unwelcome electricity through nerve endings that should know better than to respond.

"Almost there." His voice carries quiet anticipation as the trail crests what appears to be a natural ridge.

Then suddenly, breathtakingly—Mirror Lake appears below, a perfect oval of crystal water nestled in a natural bowl of mountain terrain. The lake's surface reflects the surrounding peaks with flawless precision, creating the illusion of mountains growing both upward and downward, meeting at the water's perfect plane.

"Oh." This inadequate syllable escapes on my expelled breath, wholly insufficient against such overwhelming beauty.

Jackson stops beside me, close enough that his arm barely brushes against mine. "Worth it?"

"Beyond words." The truth spills from my lips unbidden.

His smile appears briefly, genuine pleasure at my reaction warming his features momentarily before disappearing behind his typical reserve. "Best spot's this way."

He leads along the lake's perimeter to a natural stone outcropping extending slightly over the water. The view improves with each step, our perspective shifting to capture additional mountain reflections in the lake's still surface.

At the outcropping's end, Jackson removes his pack, extracting what proves to be a small picnic—sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, thermoses of hot coffee, and chocolate chip cookies that look suspiciously like Mabel's recipe.

"You planned this." The observation emerges softer than intended.

Jackson arranges items on a small travel blanket with uncharacteristic care. "Thought you should experience one proper mountain meal before leaving."

The consideration behind this gesture tightens something painful in my chest. Each kindness makes leaving simultaneously harder and more necessary—because kindness isn't enough. Because sandwiches and spectacular views don't equate to genuine wanting, to partnership, to future.

We eat in companionable silence, and the mountains provide a visual feast to accompany our physical sustenance. Birds wheel overhead, their calls echoing across the lake's pristine surface. Occasionally, small fish jump, creating ripples that momentarily distort the perfect reflections before stillness returns.

"I've been coming here since I was six." Jackson's voice breaks the extended silence as he offers unusually personal information without any prompting from me. "My grandfather showed me first. Said it was magic—two worlds meeting at the water line."

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