Stepping Stones

I discovered Bingham Falls when I was nine years old, all ponytails and quick comebacks as I
battled to keep up with my older siblings. We stumble out of the crowded car off the side of a main
road, racing down a poorly marked dirt path. Our laughter echoes off the trees and rocks, eyes wide
as the foliage parts to reveal a forty-foot rumbling wall of water. Sandals are discarded onto a
sun-warmed boulder and we climb down to the waterfront. We hold hands up to the blinding sun,
though the ice cold water seems undeterred. My siblings' long limbs reach from stone to stone,
gingerly testing the algae-slick and slanted rocks, and I refuse to be more than 2 steps behind. In no
time my inner ballerina leaps from stone to boulder, faster and farther to each rock, not sparing a
second on a single surface. Apparently I needed to be humbled and humbled I was: one mischievous
stone sent me down to the river bed, clothing soaked and cheeks burning with unshed tears. My
siblings' cackles sink me deep into my own little pool of shame.

We eventually left, bodies dripping and teeth still chattering. The older sibs continued to
jeer, so I sulked back to the car, face red-hot, resolved to hate the stupid waterfall.
Somewhere I read that humans crave nature. It ties into our core existence, calling us back
to what life once was. It’s a string that pulls our chests towards the surf, digs our toes into the dirt.
Certain and unwavering, that craving. Smooth tranquility is the reward for every moment spent
soaking in the sun. No matter where life steers us, earth always welcomes us home.
And just like that, Bingham Falls soon became an annual family tradition. We crafted little
traditions, much as gentle waves wash over stones: we’d scream as we bounded down the trail, lay
shoes on the same smooth rock. Again and again, I’d fall into that bone-chilling current, wade
around a bit then head home. I’d tell myself, “this is the year I stay upright!” in self-delusional hope
of returning to the car in a dry shirt. On our fourth visit, my oldest sister skipped the family trip for a pre-college camp. Then I
lost two more siblings to hectic schedules of highschoolers, and by the sixth summer, I was left to
walk the falls path alone. The backseat was empty; I missed my need for silence almost as much as
missed the noise. I almost didn’t bother stepping into the water.

Then came summer number seven. I was joined by my older brother, as he had taken the
week off from his internship to visit his favorite sister in Vermont. Tradition broken, we didn’t plan
to end up back at the falls, instead soaking up the sun around town. Without all four siblings, it felt
like every corner would simply unlock old memories. The falls belonged in those memories, in hot
summer days filled with shoves and grins, with splashes and sun-baked sneakers. No sense in trying
to recreate them, no reason to taint them with desperation to retrieve what was no longer in reach.
But somehow, on our last day in Vermont, the car rolled to a stop right off route 108.
A quick detour, one might call it. We stepped out of the car, the summer heat now replaced
by a light breeze from the setting sun. The entrance clearing was unmarked, same as always. The
path too; deja vu lingered at the back of my mind while I sought to focus on anything other than the
emptiness in the air. It was quiet. My brother had bounded ahead, not too far off, but out of sight. No
cars sped down the road. The only sounds from the falls were of the water. Did anybody still come
here? Hands stuffed deep in pockets, I walked in silence down to the water. My sneakers got left on
the same rock as always; even climbing down to the water invoked muscle memory. I waded over
the rocks, easily navigating to the biggest rock, right in the heart of the falls. All the rocks around felt
sturdy - nothing missing or out of place. There was only one thing to do then. Taller than ever, I
raised my arms high. Then, I sat down cross-legged and listened.

The five o’clock wind ruffles overhead. There’s a low hum of insects laying low until
sundown. The water pounds against the pond, a symphony of nature overwhelming the senses. A
constant and familiar chill runs through my bones - the water hasn’t gotten any warmer in the past
years - and my stomach aches for the dinner postponed by our little detour. I find myself forgetting
entirely about my brother, forgetting about everything else. Though impossible to totally rid myself
of the nostalgia, I feel light and serene inside, as if the rock I finally climbed onto had become my
anchor of solidity.

Eventually hunger wins, and we make our way back to the car and then to dinner. Every step
I take now feels purposeful, even as my head floats into the trees and wants to stay forever. More
than once, I pause to admire views I’d so often walked aimlessly by.
Bingham Falls was never love at first sight, but it seems through hate, regret, and nostalgia,
just like all the stones and boulders we stepped on, we got there in the end.