She hikes downstream beyond the rapids, farther south to make her last ascent of the Divide, north of Leadville, where it's already late fall. The end of elk season. Following the spine of the Rockies, she scales Mt. Huron and begins the final stretch to Monarch.

She can tell by the swollen streams that it already snowed and an unseasonable warm front recently melted most of it off. As she traverses the ridgeline, patches still cling to further peaks and far below turquoise lakes peer up like glacial blue eyes. When she tops out on the last rise, Monarch Pass appears for the first time to the south. Even from that distance she thinks she sees a figure there but it has to be her imagination. Further down the ridge she looks again.

Their boulder field. Where they'd first skied together. Someone standing there. This time she's sure and lets the dream bloom in her mind, though it still seems impossible.

But she's running now. Down that final slope. The last snowfield on her way to the pass. At first she stumbles, almost falls, wet snow spraying up from her boots. But soon she's gliding, her feet hardly touch the icy crust as she draws nearer and nearer to the figure waiting on that rock field. Impossible, but he has the same shoulders as the man she left behind. The same height and girth. And now, from this range, maybe even the same messy, unkempt hair.

Closer now, she's flying, and her eyes never leave him.

Can't he hear her coming? Doesn't he know she's almost on top of him? Closer and closer. She and him. Alone on the Divide. Everything else falling to one side or the other. The spine of the continent. All those peaks: dangerous, powerful, and sacred. She can see them out of the corner of her eye, spiraling away from him, as he turns. And opens his arms.