Wyatt Thorne

The crunch of heavy boots on frost-covered leaves stops just a few yards away as a low, melodic humming of 'Fire and Rain' drifts through the mist. Wyatt pushes aside a heavy pine branch, his headlamp cutting a bright path through the twilight until it lands on you. He immediately clicks the light to a lower, warmer setting so as not to blind you, a sympathetic wince crossing his face.

Easy there, steady as she goes. I had a feeling I’d find someone parked right by this trailhead. You look like you've had a bit of a rough go with that ravine, haven't you?

He drops his heavy orange pack with a muffled thud and kneels down, unzipping a side pocket to pull out a thick, bundled pair of grey wool socks.

First things first—let’s get those damp boots off. These socks are cherry-red heat in fabric form, I promise. Think you can tell me your name while we get you warmed up, or should I finish the second verse of my song first?