Chapter 15
The thing about Secret Falls is that they don’t warn you that the real secret is the trail back out.
It’s less of a hike and more of a survival course designed by a demon with a fondness for mud.
Red dirt sticks like cling wrap, vines lash out like bullwhips, and the mosquitoes are so bold they fly directly into your mouth just to prove their dominance.
So. Very. Gross.
So far, I’ve swallowed three.
The return journey on this trail of tropical doom proves even more treacherous than our original descent into jungle hell.
The rain has started, and what began as questionable terrain has transformed into knee-deep mud with the consistency of chocolate pudding and the temperament of quicksand seeking revenge against tourists in inappropriate footwear.
The young, spry hikers disappeared into the distance approximately thirty minutes ago like athletic gazelles fleeing a natural disaster, while our senior hiking club—consisting of Bertha, Ruby, Lani, and yours truly—brings up the rear at a pace that makes glacial movement look like Formula One racing.
Bertha moves slower than molasses in January, as if each step requires strategic planning and possibly divine intervention. Her shoes are now disguised as mud boots, and her face has achieved the color typically associated with tropical medical emergencies.
“This is all your fault,” she gasps between labored breaths, still committed to blaming me for geological formations and weather patterns beyond my control. “If you’d been a proper wife, none of us would be dying in this red dirt hell.”
Honestly, the woman has always been a Johnny One-Note.
“Yes, Bertha, my domestic failures definitely caused the formation of this hiking trail. I’m basically a geological supervillain.” I can be a Johnny One-Note, too.
Ruby and Lani trail behind us, their struggle up the trail resembling interpretive dance about the dangers of outdoor recreation.
Ruby clings to Lani’s arm, clearly having discovered that flip-flops weren’t designed for jungle expedition survival, while Lani mutters creative profanity about never again leaving the resort for any reason involving voluntary suffering.
A chicken appears on the trail ahead of us and clucks our way, conducting its own evaluation of our hiking progress. It examines our mud-covered group with the critical eye of a wilderness guide who’s decided we won’t make it out alive.
“Even the poultry is judging us,” I say, watching the chicken shake its head and disappear into the jungle like a feathered critic who’s seen enough amateur hour entertainment. Believe me, I have, too.
I glance over at Bertha and decide this enforced proximity provides the perfect opportunity for interrogation disguised as helpful hiking companionship. It’s time to see what my ex-mother-in-law really knows about Alana’s business practices and family financial management.
“So, Bertha,” I say, trying to sound friendly enough while helping her navigate a particularly treacherous root system, “what did you think of Candy’s business manager? You seemed to have some strong opinions about her involvement in the wedding planning.”
“Erwin was such a twit when he agreed to let her on board with the wedding planning. She was a business manager, not an expert on walking down the aisle. That boy was too trusting, as usual,” she pants, having enough oxygen for character assassination but not enough for actual hiking.
“Always has been. Alana had him completely fooled with her professional expertise nonsense.”
“How so?”
“She was bleeding him dry with her ridiculous fees and constant additional services. Everything required special handling, extra payments, and premium upgrades. She had him convinced that a proper wedding required enough flowers to stock a funeral home and enough food to feed half the island. He shared all of the receipts with me as he always does.”
She shoots me a look that assures me she saw each of my credit card bills, too, which doesn’t surprise me. The woman showed up on our honeymoon and asked to sleep on a cot in the room.
“But Erwin started asking questions eventually, right?” I prompt, because evidently, I’ve committed to conducting this interrogation while avoiding tropical obstacles and gravitational challenges.
“Yes, finally,” she grumbles. “He started demanding itemized receipts and questioning every expense after I told him to. That woman didn’t like being held accountable for her spending sprees one bit.”
“Oh? How did she react to that?”
“Like a spoiled child being told no for the very first time. She threw tantrums about artistic vision and creative control. She started making threats about what would happen if he didn’t pay her full fees.”
A gecko on a nearby branch nods sagely at me, agreeing with this assessment.
“What kind of threats?” I ask, stepping carefully around what might be a very small landslide disguised as a trail feature.
“Oh, the usual dramatic nonsense,” Bertha waves her hand and nearly topples both of us. “Canceling vendors, ruining the wedding, making sure everyone knew he was impossible to work with. It was your average professional blackmail wrapped up in artistic temperament.”
We pause for a moment and take a seat on a fallen log that’s older than all of us combined. Ruby collapses beside Lani as if her legs have just reached their tropical operational limit.
“Never again,” Ruby declares for approximately the fifteenth time. “The next time anyone suggests an adventure, I’m suggesting we scope out eligible bachelors at the resort pool instead. Much better view, significantly less mud.”
Lani grunts. “And we have perfectly good ice cream at the resort, too. What I wouldn’t do for a triple scoop of chocolate with cookie dough.”
“It’s pineapple upside-down cake with vanilla for me,” Ruby whimpers.
I sniff at the thought because I can practically hear the coconut cream pie flavor calling my name.
“What about Candy?” I ask Bertha because I seem to enjoy conducting interrogations while my friends try to manifest frozen dairy products. “How is she handling all the wedding vendor drama?”
Bertha’s expression softens with the surprising warmth like she were about to discuss her favorite grandchildren or a perfectly prepared roast chicken—they’re about on the same level for her.
“Oh poor, Candy, bless her heart,” Bertha starts. “She tried to keep the peace. That girl has the patience of a saint dealing with all these wedding vendors and their ridiculous drama.”
“Really?”
“She kept trying to mediate between Erwin and Alana, suggesting compromises, offering to pay for extras out of her own pocket. She’s too generous for her own good, that one. Alana was taking advantage of her sweet nature something fierce.”
A rooster crows in an effort to call Bertha’s bluff.
“But Alana kept telling Candy that certain expenses were absolutely essential for social media documentation,” Bertha continues. “She convinced the poor girl that without perfect flowers and perfect food, her wedding content would be a complete failure.”
“And Candy believed her?” Honestly, you sort of do want the flowers and the food to be perfect on your big day, but I’m not giving Bertha an out.
“Candy believes everyone has good intentions. It’s charming and terrifying in equal measure. That woman was using Candy’s trusting nature to justify every ridiculous expense and upgrade.”
The trail takes a particularly vindictive turn, designed with personal grudges against human ankles and basic mobility.
We begin a descent that requires careful foot placement usually associated with rappelling down a sheer cliffside—without ropes and fancy shoes with all the necessary spikes in them.
“But I’ll tell you what,” Bertha says with a sudden vehemence as if ready to share her real feelings, “I hated that woman from the moment I met her.”
“Alana? Why?” I ask because this hiking disaster has loosened Bertha’s usual discretion about sharing family opinions—or, for that matter, sharing anything at all with me.
“I have my reasons,” she says with a finality that suggests this conversational avenue is permanently closed for construction. “Let’s just say some people aren’t what they pretend to be.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been around long enough to recognize manipulation when I see it. That woman was using this wedding for her own purposes, and it wasn’t just about getting paid for overpriced flower arrangements.”
A chicken skitters by and gives me a look that says this is your moment.
“What kind of purposes?”
“The kind that involves more than wedding planning and less than honest business practices,” Bertha says cryptically, having reached her limit for specific revelations. “I wish that boy knew how to keep it in his pants.”
So now it’s Candy’s fault Bertha is in this mess. And I’m more than glad to pass the torch.
We continue our descent through what can only be described as nature’s obstacle course designed by vindictive ancient gods, and I realize that Bertha’s hatred might be less about Alana specifically and more about her general approach to life.
Bertha seems to distrust anyone who isn’t Erwin or who threatens her control over family financial decisions.
The trail becomes increasingly treacherous as we approach a small embankment that seemed manageable on the way in but now looks like a geological challenge requiring mountaineering expertise and possibly emergency medical support, and maybe a sherpa or two.
“Careful here,” I warn, even though my own balance has been questionable since approximately the first ten minutes of this hiking adventure.
Ruby is still clinging to Lani like a tropical vine with entanglement issues while attempting to navigate the slope with the grace that comes from discovering gravity has personal vendettas against elderly women in inappropriate footwear—or lack thereof.
Lani bravely goes first with Ruby still attached, and immediately loses her footing on the slippery slope. They slide down in a tangle of limbs and creative expletives that will forever be seared into my gray matter.
“Well,” I say to Bertha, watching our friends disappear into the mud below, “that looks like fun.”
Famous last words, because the universe has been waiting for me to tempt fate while conducting amateur detective work on unstable terrain.
Bertha and I follow our friends down the embankment with all the grace of baby giraffes learning to walk.
“AARRGGHH!” we harmonize all the way down, bumping and thumping any and everything at an alarming clip until we’re tangled up in a pile at the bottom and covered in enough red mud to start our own brick factory.
“Is everyone okay?” I croak meagerly, as much as my bruised body will allow, and one by one, they all croak back. By some miracle, we’ve all managed to survive.
A rooster glides over and lands right on top of Bertha’s head, but before I can so much as smile, it lands on my noggin next, then Lani’s, and Ruby’s before crowing his lungs out and taking off into the jungle.
“Well,” I say, spitting out what tasted like a geology lesson mixed with tropical humiliation, “at least now we know who’s really in charge of this jungle.”
Ruby raises her mud-covered head and grins like a lunatic. “Best hiking trip ever!”
Even covered in enough mud to do our own spa treatments, I have to admit she’s right. We’ve survived the trail from hell, gathered crucial information about multiple murder suspects, and been personally crowned by local wildlife as champions of recreational disaster.
In paradise, that’s not just adventure tourism—that’s achievement worthy of its own social media documentation, assuming any of us survive long enough to find working cameras and decent lighting.