“We’re almost at the falls, wait for it,” Kyle said.
We emerged into the most stunning meadow, with yellow and orange wild flowers peeking out of the tall grasses. And there, in a backdrop so pretty it was like someone had painted it on, was a massive waterfall. The water cascading from seemingly nowhere – like the cliff needed a wee, but something much more profound and artsy sounding than that.
“That’s Yosemite Falls,” Kyle said, his voice taking on an edge of tour guide. “You should see it when it’s at full strength.”
We drove past, and I craned my neck to try and hold the view longer.
“Aren’t we getting out?” I asked, desperate to get out and be in it. So glad that I had my sketchpad with me.
“In a second, we need to park and get the bus.”
“The bus?”
“Yeah. I think the first one is at six.”
He steered us past more eye-bulgingly beautiful sights, rapping out names for them with the kind of bored-but-excited-for-you voice I used whenever I took someone to London and they were excited at seeing Big Ben for the first time.
“Half Dome,” he said, as I pointed towards a rock reigning at the top of the canyon. It looked like it had been sheared right in half with a posh kitchen knife. The sunrise turned the flat rock face orange; I’d literally never seen anything on that scale before.
“Mirror Lake is down that path,” he said, pointing to a hole in the forest. “Maybe we’ll get time to see it later. It’s incredible. Like, well, looking in a mirror.”
We drove through another meadow of wild flowers. There were photographers everywhere, crouching down with their tripods in the long grasses.
“Uh oh – the tourists are coming. The tripods are the first warning sign,” Kyle said. “We better get there quick.”
“Get WHERE?”
Just as I yelled it, we came to a built-up bit. Wooden huts sprung up everywhere. And parking spaces. Lots of parking spaces. Most of them were still empty, but the concrete in amongst all that natural wilderness jarred. Kyle parked effortlessly, with just one hand on the wheel. He turned off the ignition and grinned at me.
“To the best bit. Now, do you have hiking shoes?”
SITUATIONS THAT ARE DESTINED TO FAIL:
Me
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Surprises
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Self-preservation instinct
Twenty
Kyle still wouldn’t tell me where we were going as I scrambled into my trainers. Nor would he when we boarded the cute little shuttle bus that drove us around the park. Only when the intercom on the bus said, “Stop sixteen, Happy Isles!” did he say, “We’re here.”
He took my hand to help me down.
Two other tourists got off the bus with us, taking photos instantly. It made me sad that their first memory of this would be through the eye of a lens.
There was a sign – The Mist Trail – trailhead starts here.
“What’s the Mist Trail then?” I asked.
“It’s my favourite part of the park,” Kyle said. “But you have to do it before all the tourists arrive. You need to have the trail to yourself to really appreciate it.” He started on the trail. “You’ll soon see why,” he called behind him.
I sighed and followed him.
Initially I wasn’t that impressed. There was just a lot of uphill going on. I mean, it was pretty. There was a raging river to the right of us, and lots of big fat rocks to look at.
But mainly there was a lot of uphill.
Kyle, thankfully, stopped for a short break. I lay back against a rock and caught my breath as attractively as I could.
“I love these big boulders,” he said, pointing to a massive rock next to us. “I love thinking that they were just rolling down the cliff one day, rolling rolling, and then, for whatever reason, they lost momentum and stopped right here, and this is where they’ll stay now for hundreds or thousands of years.”
I liked what he’d said. So much so, that I patted the rock for want of something to do.
“Don’t people say it’s bad to just be a still rock?” I asked. “Aren’t we all supposed to keep rolling so we don’t gather any moss or whatever?”
Kyle looked at the boulder. “I like moss,” he said. “I like staying still… I guess that’s why I’m so boring.”
I let go of the rock. “What the hell do you mean?” I asked. “You’re not boring!” How could someone like him even think he was boring? He was, like, the main character in every teen movie. Which is what I told him. It just made him look sadder.
“That’s the point,” he said. “Everything I do is just walking a really clichéd set path, doing what everyone expects of me… I can’t see myself doing anything remarkable.”
I pulled a face. “What does remarkable even mean?”
“I dunno…” He wouldn’t look at me. “…Like you, I guess.”
WHAT!?
I perched on a fence protecting us from the river, resting my legs, staring at him in shock. “I’m the least remarkable person ever,” I said. “If we’re all living in a teen movie, I’m the helpful sidekick friend who never gets their own storyline. I’m the one watching everyone else getting asked to dance at the prom. I’m the one whose sole existence in any story is to help people like you find your way…”
I shouldn’t have said it, it came out so bitter. I was bitter though, much as I didn’t want to be. I mean, who wants to be bitter?
Kyle wouldn’t look at me for ages, and I watched the tourists overtake us, lugging their camera gear in backpacks. Eventually he spoke. “I don’t think you see yourself how I do. How anyone sees you. I don’t think you’re capable of being a supporting character in any story. It would be impossible.”
I felt like crying. Why was he saying this? Why were we even here?
“… I mean, you’re so strong…”
“I’m not,” I interrupted. “I’m the least strong person ever. I can’t even row a bloody canoe and I vomited all down myself last night because my mum wouldn’t take me to Hollywood.”
Kyle didn’t laugh. He just scrunched and unscrunched his fists, and brought the conversation back to him again.
“I don’t do anything. I don’t believe in anything. I just do what everyone expects…”
I pushed myself up so I was standing again.
“I didn’t expect you to turn up outside my window at four a.m. this morning and drive me to a national park,” I pointed out. “And I’m really glad you did. Though my aching calves aren’t so pleased.”
He laughed then, his laughter shooting down the air pockets of awkwardness that had descended around us.
“Your calves don’t know what’s coming,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m just rambling. I’ll shut up now. Poor Prom King, eh? I told you I was a cliché.”
“You’re not,” I said… Though maybe he was. Maybe I was lying. He looked and talked like all the Prom Kings I’d ever seen in American movies. And my inkling that he’d got with Melody kind of proved that he acted like one too. Though he was here with me now…and I didn’t know what that meant.
“Come on,” he said, adjusting his backpack. “Let’s keep going before I start crying about my childhood or something.”
“Well I’ve already done that on you.”
We walked through the dappled sunlight between the trees. The sun was rising higher, but it was still chilly, like when you’re waiting for an oven to heat up. Soon I heard the unmistakable roar of a waterfall. We turned a corner and came out on a cute wooden bridge that looked up to the most impressive waterfall I’d ever seen. It was even bigger than the Yosemite Falls we’d passed in Kyle’s car. We almost couldn’t hear ourselves over the noise of the churning water.
“This is beautiful,” I said, shouting the obvious.