“The trailhead.” He hops out and grabs a backpack from the truck bed. “Come on. It’s worth it, I promise,” he says as he opens my door.
The trail starts out easy enough, with a gradual incline, towering pines and oaks, and dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead. Birds call to each other in the branches, and somewhere in the distance, I hear running water. I’m just hoping I don’t see a bear.
Wyatt sets an easy pace, checking every few minutes to make sure I’m okay, which I am. Barely. I know he could be going a lot faster. He’s more experienced at this. I’m not exactly out of shape, but I’m not used to hiking uphill for an extended period either.
“You doing okay?” he asks after about ten minutes.
“Fine,” I say, only slightly out of breath. “How much farther?”
“We’re about halfway.”
“Oh. Halfway. Great.”
He grins. “Do you want to take a break?”
“No, I’m good. Let’s keep going.”
We climb higher. The trees change as we ascend, more evergreen. The air gets cooler and thinner, and my legs are burning, but in a good way.
“So what’s at the top?” I ask during a relatively flat stretch.
“You’ll see.”
“Why are you still being mysterious?”
“Well, do you want me to ruin the surprise?”
“Yes, actually. I’d like to be prepared.”
“Life doesn’t work that way, Eleanor. Sometimes you have to trust the process.”
I think about that as we climb. About trust. About letting go of the need to control everything, the need to know everything, and plan everything. About how terrifying and freeing that is all at once.
We reach the top, or what I assume to be the top, and the trail opens up into a clearing. But Wyatt doesn’t stop. He just keeps going, following an even narrower path that cuts through the trees. Then I hear it. Water. Not the gentle murmur of a creek, but something louder.
The trees thin out, and suddenly we’re standing on a flat expanse of rock at the edge of a waterfall.
I stop walking and just stare.
The waterfall isn’t huge, maybe thirty feet high, but it’s absolutely perfect. Water cascades over dark rocks into a clear pool below, surrounded by moss-covered boulders and ferns. It looks like something out of a children’s storybook or a painting. The mist from the falls catches the sunlight, creating tiny rainbows hanging in midair. The sound is incredible, constant, and soothing.
“Oh,” I manage to breathe out.
“Yeah.” Wyatt comes to stand beside me. “I thought you might like this.”
“Like it? Wyatt, this is…” I trail off, searching for the right word. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It’s also a secret. Well, I mean, not a secret exactly, but not many people know about it. It’s not on any of the tourist maps.”
“How did you find it?”
“My grandfather brought me here when I was a little kid. It’s something only the locals really know about. He said it was a special place, somewhere to come when you needed to think, be quiet, or just remember what matters in life.” He sets down the backpack. “I come up here sometimes,” he continues, “when things get too loud in my head.”
I look at him and understand what he’s telling me. This is his place. His sanctuary. And he’s sharing it with me.
“Thank you,” I say. “For bringing me here.”
“Come on. There’s a spot over here where we can eat.”
