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“Illilouette” were names I knew from my mom’s paintings of Yosemite.
    An hour later we pulled into the large parking lot at Glacier Point and scampered up to the trailhead. I gawked at the overlook, recognizing Half Dome at once; even in profile it was unmistakable. To the right of it, I could see two thin, bright ribbons of white that had to be waterfalls.
    “Nevada Fall up top, Vernal Fall below,” Will said when I asked if either of those were the waterfall we’d be hiking to. “Illilouette, our fall, is hidden below us.”
    Knobbly domes of granite perched everywhere, the spaces between filled by the dark
    greens of pines and brush. Far in the distance I could see jagged peaks, covered with snow even in late August.
    Mickie asked politely if I wanted to walk out to Glacier Point itself. I didn’t. I said I had a memory of standing there with Mom, and she dropped it. “We should probably get going anyway,” Mickie said. “We want time to hang out plus the time it takes to hike there and back again.”
    The climb down to the creek was lovely. The path had been well-maintained. “Our
    donations at work,” said Mickie. She explained that the National Park itself couldn’t afford the upkeep on all the hundreds of miles of trails and that an organization collected donations to help out.
    We saw a few other hikers, mostly smiling backpackers coming out from the high
    country with a week’s worth of grime and sunshine on their faces. The trail was far from quiet, however.
    “Hear the waterfalls?” called Will, ahead of me on the path.
    “It sounds like the ocean—like waves crashing,” I replied. We rounded another
    switchback and the reverberation changed, becoming like a thousand voices whispering together. Nearer, I noticed smaller noises: the crunch of ground granite beneath my feet and the slap of webbing straps as my pack jostled.
    The trail descended rapidly, carving through brush and thickets. We could see the burned out remains of pines, but shade was infrequent.
    “I didn’t think it would be so hot, just hiking downhill,” I said as we stopped at an icy rivulet crossing the trail.
    Mickie smiled and handed me a scrunchy. I put my hair up, and the breeze on my damp neck felt like heaven.
    As we descended into the valley of the Illilouette Creek, the ponderosas clustered into a forest which provided shelter from the intense sun. The wind rumbled through the branches above us, and I felt small and insignificant beneath the murmuring giants. The trail continued in relentless zigzags to the creek below, changing from granite-gravel to dark, rich soil.
    And then the trail diverged, without the rusted metal trail markers we’d seen at other forks. I paused, confused. Will passed me taking the left path, and Mick passed me to the right.
    “My side has the view,” Will called back to me.
    “My way’s faster,” Mick hollered.
    I followed Will. The brush cleared and I inhaled sharply at the vista. Before us, Illilouette Creek twisted ninety degrees and plunged to become a waterfall. We stood without speaking, watching the churning water as it raced to the cliff’s edge and over falling down, down, down.
    If I fixed my eye on a bit of spray, it appeared to tumble in slow motion, like it wanted to avoid the inevitable crash. It made my throat clench and I felt sad somehow.
    “Three-hundred-seventy foot drop,” Will said. He looked over, caught my expression
    before I could hide it. “Hey, let’s go find a place to sit and eat.” He punched my shoulder and I smiled. We continued down the path, our shoes kicking up moist, earthy smells.
    Through the trees, I caught flashes that had to be water. Soon Will and I were bouldering, scrabbling alongside the creek looking for his sister.
    “Found her,” Will called to me.
    A patch of gravelly sand had collected on the side of the creek where Mickie waited, hands on hips, her back to us. We tumbled the packs off our shoulders.
    “The water’s so