“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.