11
“Which way, my man?” Brett says to Lennon, adjusting his backpack at a crossroad. “There’s no sign.”
“That’s the literal definition of an unmarked trail,” Lennon says.
Brett laughs. “Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right. How did you even find this hidden waterfall, if the trail isn’t marked?”
“I read about it. The waterfall isn’t officially listed on park publications because there are bigger falls that are easier for the public to access from the main trails,” Lennon explains. “This one is inconvenient for the casual day-tripper. And when I originally found it, I was hiking from the opposite direction, so give me a second to find the southbound trail.”
It’s midafternoon. We waited until the last possible moment to leave, all of us loading up on sandwiches at the pavilion for lunch and filling up sport bottles with water. Then we had to hike back to Reagan’s car and drive a couple hours on scary, twisting mountain roads to get to a national park parking lot. From there, we began hiking marked trails toward the waterfall.
And hiking . . .
We’ve spent three hours on the trail now. I’ve never walked so much in my life. But that’s not my biggest worry. I’m starting to wonder how I’ll manage to hike back on my own to catch a bus for the star party later this week.
“This trail isn’t supposed to fork east,” Lennon mutters to himself, examining a GPS map on his phone.
“How are you even getting a signal?” I ask. I’ve checked my phone several times along the way to make sure my mom got my last text explaining not to worry if she didn’t hear from me for a few days. But nope. I might as well be holding a brick for all the good it’s doing me.
“GPS runs independently of cell service,” Lennon explains. “All my digital maps are saved on my phone. But this one is glitchy. Sometimes you can’t trust technology. Luckily, I have a backup.” He puts away his phone and digs out a small leather journal, its black cover bulging. Where my journals are neat and slim, meticulously kept, his is . . . not. Removing an elastic band that keeps the pages closed, he opens it, and I spy a collection of things: folded paper maps, park brochures, and pages filled with Lennon’s distinctive block-letter handwriting and the occasional drawing—trees, wildflowers, trail signs, squirrels. I even catch a glimpse of what appears to be a rough anime-style sketch of Sunny and Mac.
I think of all the maps he drew when we were kids. And the map he made for me, sitting in the bottom of my drawer at home. And I feel a hard pang of nostalgia.
He’s changed in so many ways. But not in this.
This is the Lennon I used to know.
Lennon catches me looking at his journal and quickly removes a folded-up paper map before shutting the cover with a forceful slap.
Silly to feel insulted. What’s in there is none of my business. Not anymore.
He spreads the map over a large rock. Deciphering a tangle of topographic lines, he traces invisible paths with one finger. “Oh, wait. I understand now. Left. We go left.”
“How can you even make heads or tails of that?” Brett says. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as you were that a yurt was a urinal, Mr. I. P. Freely,” Lennon says, folding up the map and refiling it inside his journal.
“Low blow, man,” Brett says.
“I’m just saying, if you piss on my tent, there will be disembowelment.”
Brett grins. “I love how gruesome you are.”
“Turn left,” Lennon tells him in a calm voice, but his gaze is hard as steel. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
“We’re headed left, team,” Brett calls out cheerfully to the group, hands cupped around his mouth. He takes the lead with Reagan. Summer and Kendrick follow, and I lag behind with Lennon.
Even with the weight correctly distributed, my pack is heavy and keeps slipping farther down my back. It’s a killer on legs, a killer on feet. I’m so glad I didn’t get hiking boots like Reagan, because she’s already complaining about new-shoe blisters. Besides, I notice that Lennon is still wearing his black high-tops beneath ripped black jeans, so I’m thinking hiking boots are overkill.
“You need to tighten the hip belt,” Lennon says when I try to shrug my pack higher.
“I thought I already had.” I halt and struggle with the straps. Somehow, I think one of them is stuck.
“May I?” he says, offering a hand.
“Um, okay.”
He steps closer. I inhale his sunny, freshly laundered scent. Long, graceful fingers tinker with the fastener around my waist. His hands are more sinewy than I remember. They used to be friend hands, and now they’re boy hands. It’s strange to have him touching me again. Not bad strange. And it’s not as if his hands are all over me—not that I’d want them to be. It’s just not every day that a guy is touching me, busy concentrating on a task that falls right below my breasts. He’s not even looking at them—not that I’d want him to. At least, I shouldn’t. Damn these overactive ovaries!
Calm down, Everhart, I tell myself. I can’t afford to let my imagination run wild around him. The last time that happened, I ended up in his lap on a park bench with his hands up my shirt.
The strap loosens. “Got it,” he says. “How did you manage to get it knotted like that?”
“I’ve got all kinds of talents,” I say.
He makes an amused noise. “You can be in charge of tying all the tent knots, then.”
“No need. The tents Reagan bought are knot-free. They practically pitch themselves. Or so the guy at the outdoor store said. I think he may have been hitting on Reagan, though. Maybe he was just excited because she was spending so much money.”
“I believe that. Some of your gear is primo. I’d almost be impressed, if I thought for a second that Reagan knew what she was doing.”
With a sharp tug, he tightens the strap on my hip belt, and I gasp.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“Just unexpected. I think it’s okay.”
“It should be snug, but not uncomfortable.” He inspects my shoulder harness. “Okay, now these need tightening. Shouldn’t be a gap here, see?” Warm fingers slip between my shoulder blade and the strap. He wiggles them around to demonstrate, and a wave of shivers rushes down my arm.
“Tighten away,” I tell him. In a weird way, all this methodical touching feels like getting a haircut at the salon. It’s almost sensual, but not quite. Or at least you don’t want it to be. The Norwegian man who cuts my hair is older than my dad and wears a lot of rings that clink together in a disconcerting, yet strangely pleasing way when he’s using scissors. I really don’t want to enjoy sexy feelings around Einar, and I definitely don’t want to enjoy them around Lennon. Best to stop thinking about it.
“So, hey,” I say, forcing my mind to concentrate on other things. “Now that I know some of the crazy noises I heard last night were probably Reagan and Brett trampling through the campground, I feel a little better about our earlier talk. You know, about all the wild animals. I mean, I know it will be different out here, but—”
“Oh, it will be completely different,” he says, moving on to my other shoulder strap.
“But it can’t be that bad if you’re not worried.”
“Actually, I was scared out of my ever-loving mind the first night I camped alone in the backcountry. I was so convinced wolves were coming after me, I nearly wet my sleeping bag.”
I huff out a surprised laugh. “And how did you get over that fear, pray tell?”
“Knowledge is a beautiful thing. I found out that there aren’t wolves in California.”
“There aren’t?”
“Apart from a few stray gray wolves that occasionally pass through, there’s only one known pack—the Shasta pack. They’re near the Oregon border.” He tests both shoulders. “How’s that feel now? Better?”
Yes, it actually does. Way better. The backpack feels more like an extension of me rather than a punishment. It’s still heavy, but I can handle it.
“Anyway,” he says. “We’re completely safe here, wolf-wise. Better chance of spotting a werewolf.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bram Stoker?”
“He wrote about vampires.”
“Same difference.”
“Do you enjoy being wrong?” he asks.
“I enjoy your sanctimonious defense of fictional creatures.”
He chuckles. “I will gladly defend all woodland-bound fictional creatures. Werewolves, bigfoots, and definitely any wendigos. But, hey. You’ll be happy to know that wendigos aren’t native to California either. So you don’t have to worry about a cannibalistic monster eating you for dinner in the middle of the night.”
“This has been a great talk,” I say. “Thanks so much for alleviating my fears.”
He smiles down at me—the warm, boyish smile I used to know and love so well—and my stomach flutters wildly. “I live to give you nightmares, Zorie.”
“Hey,” I complain good-naturedly. “Not nice.”
“Not at all,” he says, still smiling.
And I can still feel the warmth of that smile long after he turns around to catch up with the group.
* * *
A few minutes into the next leg of our hike, the unmarked trail bends upward, and we’re now battling an uphill climb. One that’s rocky and dry and uncomfortably warm as the temperature rises with the elevation. But halfway up, we enter a forest of red firs. Their branches are heavy with pinecones, and they help with shade . . . just not with the incline. Hiking on flat ground isn’t so bad; hiking on an incline with rocks poking the bottoms of your shoes is torment of the damned. I concentrate on Lennon’s bear bell. Its jingle, along with my own bell’s answering jangle, is strangely soothing, and this reassuring rhythm helps me put one foot in front of the other.
It could be worse. At least I’m not hungover like Reagan, who is complaining about her head and already had to stop and lie down for fear of being sick. She’s also irritated at Brett, who claims to be feeling fine and won’t stop teasing her. I watch them chatting from a distance and try to judge whether they appear to be any different after partying together last night. It’s hard to tell.
I check the time on my phone. Lennon’s “it’s only three hours” hike is now becoming closer to four. The trail has leveled off, which is good. No more climbing uphill. But my upper thighs are on fire, and I’m going to have to pee soon. Just when I don’t think I can hike another step, Lennon’s head lifts.
“Stop,” he says to the group. “Listen.”
We listen.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
We all look at each other. And then I do hear it. “Water,” I say.
“Waterfall,” he corrects, a victorious smile breaking over his face.
We follow him through a grove of trees that seems to be getting thicker—so thick that I’d have trouble believing there’s water here somewhere if it weren’t so loud. But then the grove parts, and we step onto the green bank of a river. And there it is.
Lennon’s waterfall.
Misty white water drops from gray, rocky tiers and collects in a blue-green pool. Enormous round rocks frame the pool and dot the small river that flows away from it, creating a natural stepping-stone bridge that leads to the other bank. Sturdy ferns gather around tree trunks and bright green moss creeps up the sides of stones.
It’s not a big waterfall, but it’s private and lush and lovely.
“Whoa,” Brett says, looking around appreciatively. “It’s even better than I hoped.”
“It’s beautiful,” Summer says. “Look at the water. It’s so clear.”
“Our own private piece of paradise,” Reagan agrees. “Screw you, Muir Camping Compound.”
Kendrick points to a narrow path that leads up the left side of the falls. “Looks like you can go to the top and dive off. That’s so cool.”
“What do you think?” Lennon asks near my shoulder.
“I think it’s like a dream,” I tell him honestly.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding satisfied. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
We’re all exhausted and relieved to shuck off our packs while Lennon explains the lay of the land. Since he’s camped here before, he’s scoped out all the nooks and crannies. Across the stepping-stone bridge on the northern side of the river is the best place to gather firewood. Where we’re standing is a good area to set up our tents, and the campfire can be built inside a granite shelter, where massive boulders form a natural barrier.
“Look,” Lennon says, almost excited—almost. He pretty much operates on one even frequency. He kicks away debris on the floor of the granite shelter to reveal ashes. “No digging a pit. It’s already here. We just load it up with kindling and wood, and voilà. Instant kitchen.”
“Sweet,” Brett says.
And the grove of trees behind us that we just passed through is our designated toilet area. It’s downhill from the water supply, semiprivate, and has plenty of soft ground for digging cat holes, which are exactly what I suspected. You dig, do your business, bury it. This is part of a backcountry agreement among hikers called Leave No Trace. You’re supposed to leave a campsite in the same condition it was when you arrived. This means not destroying anything, no cutting down trees, always putting out fires, and no trash. As in zero. Technically, we’re supposed to carry around used toilet paper in a zip-top bag until we leave the park or find a designated trash bin. This is referred to as “packing it out.” When Reagan balks at this, Lennon points out that it’s illegal to leave trash out here. But I’m with Reagan. I’m not carrying around dirty toilet paper in a bag, and I’m certainly not going to go au naturel and wipe with leaves. I’m not a barbarian. Lennon admits that, though it’s not strictly legal, the alternative is to use biodegradable paper, bury it deep, and cover it well. Good enough for me.
Brett is walking around with his phone, recording video of the waterfall as he narrates. When Brett finishes, Lennon suggests we get busy setting up the base camp. But no one is interested in doing this. Reagan just wants to rest, Brett wants to swim, while Summer and Kendrick are dying to explore the top of the waterfall. It’s like herding cats, and when Lennon gives up trying and heads off on his own to claim a spot for his tent, I feel as if I’m stuck in the middle. I know he’s probably right, that it’s already past five, and we only have a few hours of sunlight to get everything done. But at the same time, I’m exhausted and ache all over. And it’s hot. So hot, Brett is already stripping down to his shorts and wading into the edge of the river.
“It feels amazing, guys,” he reports, pushing wavy brown hair away from his forehead.
I watch him splash through water that covers his ankles. It’s not as though I’m staring. I’ve seen it before. Despite getting kicked off the soccer team, he still has a beautiful soccer body—one that he’s comfortable displaying to the world. Literally. His Instagram is 75 percent Shirtless Brett Seager selfies. But he’s now informing us that he’s ditching the shorts to swim in his boxers.
“We’re all friends here, right?” he says, grinning at me as he hops around on one leg and tries to remove his shorts without getting them wet. “You coming in, Zorie?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I brought a bathing suit, but where am I going to change into it—the woods?
“I am,” Reagan calls out, sitting down to unlace her boots. Then she says to me, “I saw you getting close and comfortable with Lennon on the hike. Maybe you should go keep him company.”
Her tone is playful. Confusingly so. She knows Lennon and I don’t talk. She doesn’t know about the Great Experiment. And Lennon and I were only talking on the hike. Not flirting. All he did was adjust my pack! So why is Reagan’s comment making me feel so guilty? I double-check that Lennon is out of hearing range. I think he is. He’s already found a flat piece of land for his tent and is unloading his pack.
“Don’t you agree, Brett?” Reagan says louder.
He cups his ear. “About what?”
“That Zorie should help Lennon,” she says louder.
Oh. My. God. Please shut up!
“If Lennon wants to play good little Boy Scout, let him. There’s plenty of time for that later. Right now, I’m thinking about a line Kerouac wrote in The Dharma Bums: ‘Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that’s the way to live.’ ” Brett wads up his shorts and gestures toward me. “Catch!”
I lunge awkwardly to snag them midair. Brett cheers, and then swivels around and wades into the waterfall pool.
“For the love of God, put your eyes back in your head,” Reagan tells me.
My attention snaps to her. “I’m not—”
“You are.” She takes off her hiking boots, and then says in a lower voice, “I told you before we came on this trip that I didn’t want it getting awkward. You promised it wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t ask him to throw his shorts at me!” I whisper back.
“Just watch yourself.”
I’m irritated now. And suspicious. What exactly did the two of them do last night when they were gallivanting around the campsite like teenage winos? I want to ask this, but I settle on, “Why do you care?”
She pulls off her T-shirt. She’s wearing a bikini top beneath it. Her sigh is long and weary. I think she’s still hungover. “You’re taking this the wrong way. I’ve had a shitty morning, and an even shittier summer.”
I blow out a hard breath. “I know you have, Reagan. And I’m sorry about the Olympic trials.”
Her cheeks darken. “I don’t want your pity.” Almost immediately, she seems to realize that she’s snapped at me and closes her eyes briefly before speaking in a lighter tone. “I just want everyone to enjoy this, okay?”
“Me too,” I say, confused. “What does that have to do with Brett?”
“Look, you aren’t the only person to take a bite out of him. Summer’s been with Brett too.”
“What?” This is . . . news to me. My awkward conversation with Summer about Brett and Lennon pops into my head, and now I’m wondering why she didn’t mention this.
“I just don’t want you to be territorial and get your feelings crushed like you did this spring after that party.”
Is she trying to save my feelings or hurt them? Because she’s doing a pretty good job at the latter. And how was I being territorial, for the love of Pete?
Reagan is already jogging toward the waterfall. And I’m left confused and stinging, guilty about something I didn’t even do . . . and irrationally jealous over that Summer tidbit.
I glance back at Lennon, who is busy clearing away rocks to make a place for his tent, while Brett is whooping loudly beneath the mist of the waterfall, begging for Reagan to take his picture.
All this time, I’ve been freaking out about wild animals. Maybe I should have been concentrating on the bigger threat: trying to figure out where I fit into civilization.