Starry Eyes(39)

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.