Instead, I climb to the top of the waterfall and look out over it. From the vantage point, the surroundings are breathtaking. They are also exactly what I thought they would be. I sink down to sit on the rock and watch the men there with me.
Xavier carefully walks over stones that lead across the water while Sam crouches at the edge of a shallow pool near the side and fills his hands with water to splash over his hair. Dean picks one of the rocks jutting up out of the middle of the rushing creek and sits down so he can dip his hands in the water.
I open my phone and look at the images of the waterfall from Adrian's project. There are several of them, dating back far into the history of the mountain and tracing forward. Adrian took a lot of care to find pictures that were taken from as close to the same angle as possible, to show the changes of the trees and the rush of the water. But it also highlights how people behave when they come to a waterfall.
In three of the images, a young man stands at the top of the falls and looks out over the water just as I'm doing. I can only enjoy it for a few seconds, then I make myself pull up the last picture. It's a map showing the location of the skeletal remains found scattered in the woods. I rest the tip of my finger on the map where a symbol indicates the waterfall.
Darkness is starting to gather at the edges of the trees, and I call down to the guys.
“You ready to head back?” I ask.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Xavier asks.
“I think so,” I say.
It's almost dark by the time we make it back to the cabin, and I go to the desk as Sam and Xavier start putting together something to eat. Dean comes into the room.
“What did you find?” he asks. “I know you figured something out.”
“Do you remember coming here when you were little?” I ask.
“I think so,” he nods. “But it's those kinds of memories that you are pretty sure you have, but you're not totally confident about them.”
“I think that's the way most of them are when you're little,” I say. “For instance, I know I went camping with my parents. And I knew we were in this park sometimes, but I don't remember a lake. I don't look around and get any impression from here.”
“I do,” Dean says. “I think that's why I came back. I was pulled back here by those memories.”
“Why did you come that summer? You said you were with your friends and nobody else knew you were here. Why did you come here?” I ask.
“Growing up wasn't easy for me,” he says. “You know that. I was going through a lot and struggling to deal with it all. And instead of finding constructive ways to deal with it or looking for help, I did everything I could to escape. That summer my mother was trying to get me more under control. She could see that I was getting older and it was just going to get worse if I didn't straighten up. What I saw was a hypocritical addict trying to force me to do what she never wanted to do. So, I pushed back.
“We had a fight one night. Looking back on it now, I realize it was probably the same kind of fight we all have with our parents. Maybe there was a little more of an edge to this one because of the realities of who my mother was and the dynamic of our relationship, but it wasn't anything extreme. Only, that's the way I took it.
“I walked out of the apartment and went to my nearest friend's house. I said we should come out here and camp for a few days. He thought it was a great idea, got a couple more of his buddies, and we headed out without another thought. We brought tents, some clothes, and beer. It was everything we figured we would need. We could steal anything else we needed. All I wanted was to be out here. I didn't really know why, but I needed to be.
“Now that I really think about it, I realize it's probably because I remember being happy here with my mother. Before things got really bad for her. Before things were as scary as they got. We would come here and have fun together. I remember there was another family who was here when we were all the time. I don't know how she knew her, but Mom seemed to be pretty good friends with the mom. They were always happy to see each other and sit together on the beach while the group of us kids played.”
“How many kids?” I ask.
“A bunch,” he says with a laugh. “I don't even know. They weren't all from her family. There was a bunch of us who would get together and play. Then we stopped.”
“Stopped playing?” I frown.
“Stopped coming here,” he clarifies. “One summer we just didn't come anymore. I asked my mother why and she wouldn't give me an answer. It’s why I wanted to come back.” He shakes his head slightly. “I haven't thought about that in so long. Probably maybe a year after that picture of you and me. I was seven or eight the last summer we were here.”
I open up my computer and scroll through a few of my saved searches to find a specific article. The picture on it is a little bit grainy, but it's clear enough for him to see.
“Is that one of the friends you played with?” I ask, showing him the picture without letting him see the headline.
It's the picture that came to mind when I saw the one of Dean and me together, but it had taken
