That was one of only two photos I took of October back then. I must have looked at it a thousand times after I left California, and every time I did, I saw so much more than her face and body in it. I saw her spirit, the way she had seen mine. As if she were lit from within. Other times I looked at that photo and saw the future. I saw how careless I was with her. How stupid.

She said we needed a pic of the two of us together and motioned for me to stand next to her. Then she gave her phone to an older man hiking nearby, and he snapped a shot of us side by side, October’s arm thrown around my shoulder, my hands deep in my pockets.

We lost track of time in the forest, and the last tree we visited was the albino redwood. On our drive up that morning, I had predicted that Albino Tree would be October’s favorite.

“You were right,” she said as we stood beside it.

“Naturally. It’s the weird one.”

“You’re calling me weird?”

“I’m calling the tree weird. Then again, you once had me film you standing on your head reciting the Declaration of Independence.”

“Touché,” she laughed.

Albino Tree was tiny compared to the others—only about sixty feet tall—but it was exquisite, with white, frosty leaves due to its inability to make chlorophyll. Sometimes called the forest ghost, Albino Tree appears to glow when the light hits it just right.

October said Albino was her spirit tree and contemplated filming it to use in a selfie. “Cool or dumb? I can’t decide.”

“Cool,” I assured her.

She nodded and proceeded to record a long, static shot of the tree, though why she trusted my estimation of cool is one of my life’s great mysteries.

By the time we got back to the car it was after four, and we still needed to find a place to stay and get some food before we were ready for the mushrooms. I drove us back toward the highway while October used her phone to look for nearby motels. She found a place in Miranda, right on Avenue of the Giants, promising quaint cottages in the middle of a forest. She called the number on the website and booked us a two-bedroom bungalow with a fireplace and a kitchen and told them we’d be there soon. After she hung up, she said, “Judging from the price of a two-bedroom cottage, I suggest we don’t get our hopes up for luxury.”

I shrugged. I’d sleep in a muddy trench if it was surrounded by redwoods.