The Washington mountains loomed like silent giants, their peaks dusted with late summer snow under a sky that bled twilight purples. Neal, his calves burning from six hours of relentless trail, trudged toward the Pine Hollow Hut, his pack heavy but his spirit light. At thirty-four, he was no stranger to the grind—his sporty frame, lean but not carved like some gym bro, was built for this: long hikes, fresh air, and the ki...