Ron Marquez, 62, spent 32 years leading wildland firefighting crews across Arizona and New Mexico before retiring three years ago to take a part-time gig supervising trail maintenance for the Coconino National Forest. He’d avoided local community events for the better part of eight years, ever since his wife Lynn passed from ovarian cancer, convinced any fun he had without her was some kind of betrayal. His only consistent companion was Mabel, his 7-year-old blue tick hound, and the only group he actively disliked more than out-of-state hikers who left beer cans on the trails was the local Pine Ridge HOA, which spent six months last year fighting to block public access to the trailhead at the end of their subdivision. He only showed up to the summer beer garden SAR fundraiser because his former crew chief begged him, saying they needed all the local forest supporters they could get to push through a trail expansion grant.
He was leaned against the side of the smoked brisket food truck, condensation dripping down the side of his hazy IPA onto his scarred left forearm, when a woman stepped close to avoid a group of kids darting past with melting cherry snow cones. Her bare, sun-warmed arm brushed the raised, silvery scar he’d gotten from a 2018 blaze outside Show Low, and he flinched before he could stop himself. She pulled back immediately, holding up both hands in apology, and he got his first good look at her: honey blonde hair streaked with gray pulled back in a loose braid, high cheekbones dusted with freckles, cut-off denim shorts and a faded pine green hiking tee, scuffed white trail shoes caked with red dirt. She smelled like jasmine hand lotion and citrus seltzer, and when she grinned, the corner of her mouth lifted a little higher on the left side.
“Sorry about that,” she said, raising her voice a little to be heard over the twangy 90s country cover band playing by the picnic tables. “Those kids move faster than a grass fire in July.”
Ron grunted, nodding, already mentally cataloging her as one of the HOA people he recognized from the public meetings last year. He was about to step away when she nodded at the faded Forest Service logo on his ball cap. “You’re Ron, right? The trail maintenance supervisor? I’ve been leaving messages with the forest service office trying to get a hold of you for two weeks.”
He frowned, crossing his arms. “What, you here to argue about closing the trailhead again? Save your breath. We already got the county ruling that says it’s public land.”
She laughed, loud and warm, and leaned in a little closer so he could hear her over a particularly loud guitar riff. Her shoulder brushed his bicep, and he didn’t move away. “I ousted the old HOA board last month. Those guys were power-tripping retirees who didn’t want hikers parking near their fancy vacation homes. I ran on expanding the trailhead parking, not closing it. I grew up hiking those trails with my dad. I’m not gonna lock anyone out.”
He relaxed a little, uncrossing his arms, and offered her a sip of his IPA when she said she’d been waiting 10 minutes for the beer tent line to move. She took it, her fingers brushing his when she passed the can back, and they talked for the next hour, moving to a splintered picnic table when Mabel whined to lay down in the shade. Their knees brushed every time one of them shifted, and when a pine needle fell from the oak tree overhead onto the shoulder of his faded gray flannel, she reached over to pluck it off, her fingers lingering for half a second on the warm skin of his shoulder. He kept waiting for the guilt to hit, the familiar twist in his chest that told him he shouldn’t be enjoying this, that he should go home to his quiet cabin and his old westerns, but it didn’t come. She talked about working as a part-time wildlife biologist, about how she’d moved to Flagstaff after her ex-husband moved to Florida for a golf job, about how she’d spent three weekends in a row picking up trash off the Pine Ridge trail before she ran for HOA president. He told her about fighting the 2011 Wallow Fire, about Lynn’s obsession with growing tomatoes in their backyard greenhouse, about how Mabel had followed him back to the fire camp three years ago after getting lost on a hike.
By the time the band wrapped up their last set, the sun was dipping low over the San Francisco Peaks, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft lavender. She stood, brushing crumbs off her shorts, and nodded toward the trailhead half a mile down the road. “You wanna walk the first mile up to the overlook? I wanna show you the spot I think we could add the extra parking spots. Mabel’s clearly begging to stretch her legs.”
He hesitated for two beats, his brain screaming that he should turn her down, that this was crossing some invisible line he’d drawn for himself eight years earlier. Then he looked at her, grinning, sun gilding the edges of her braid, and he stood, grabbing his hat off the table. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Mabel trotted ahead of them, sniffing at sagebrush clumps along the trail, and when she tripped over a gnarled pine root half a mile up, Ron reached out to catch her, his hands wrapping around her soft, warm waist. She steadied herself, one hand on his forearm, and looked up at him, her eyes dark in the fading light. He kissed her slow, the taste of citrus seltzer and IPA on her lips, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t apologize, didn’t let the guilt creep in. They pulled apart after a minute, and she laughed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before they kept walking up to the overlook.
They stood at the wooden rail, watching the last of the sun dip below the mountains, the faint glow of Flagstaff’s streetlights starting to flicker on in the valley below. She leaned against his side, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, Mabel curled at their feet, her tail thumping soft against the dirt. He lifted his half-empty beer to toast the faint glow of the town below, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for smiling.
