The River and The Forest

Juniper and I were friends, once. We grew up together in the small town of Sanrigado, just north of Yellowstone National Park. Our town, although small, was always busy with tourists and travellers passing through to see the wonders of the park a few miles away.

Juniper and I loved Yellowstone. That's where we met.

Both of our families were camping there for the week, our campsites just a short walk apart. Her family stayed at the River Campsite, where a crystal-clear stream wound between the tents. My family preferred the safety of the trees, the dark, thick spruce towering above us. Watching us while we slept. Protecting us from the unknown.

My parents always called me their little sapling. They said that when I grew up, I would be strong and brave, just like the trees at our campsite. Standing firm against the powerful winds, singing their songs during the storms. When all else is quiet, they do not fear making noise.

Trees can also be dangerous.

Silently, they can take one's life. Quick and painful. Or slow and agonising.

When we locked eyes from across the river, I knew she was going to be my best friend. The old brown walking bridge connected the two campsites, our only way of reaching each other.

I remember our last day of camping together. We sat on the bridge while the river rushed beneath us. Juniper and I were only eight years old, throwing sticks into the current to see who’s reached the bend first.

Juniper always preferred the river. Free-flowing and peaceful.

"My parents told me that I am like the river," she said. "Free and playful. The water gives the forest life, and the forest gives the water meaning. It's balanced. If one disappears, the other can't survive."

Her green eyes, soft as moss, met mine, cold and blue like a waterfall. Her smile faded.

"I always thought it was funny how our eyes are swapped. Yours are blue like the water, and mine are green like the forest." She looked towards the trees lining the riverbank. "We rely on each other, Margo. Our friendship is one in a million."

She gazed up at the sky, her blonde hair falling just below her shoulders. I wished I had hair like hers. Mine was dark brown, like the dirt beneath our feet.

"One in a million," I repeated, watching my stick disappear around the bend.

That was eight years ago.

Everyone reminds me of her. They still ask how I feel now that my other half is gone. The river that made my forest grow. Her death hollowed out the town. Her parents left Sanrigado. Yellowstone closed the campsite. A memorial stood where she used to laugh.

The river that kept the town alive.

She volunteered at the animal shelter every weekend and helped in the community garden for her school project. During the holidays, we baked together and handed treats to every house in town. We gave tours to tourists, convincing them to come back next year. Afterwards, we'd climb our favourite hill and watch the sunset paint the sky.

We tried our best to make something special out of our little town. But no matter what we did—what I did—it was always Juniper who was recognised. Always Juniper who was praised. It's just how nature works.

People admire the river for how green the forest grows. For how tall the trees stand. Because without the river, there is no forest.

Her death still haunts me. We were only fourteen.

Our parents finally allowed us to hike by ourselves. They were setting up camp at the mountain campsite that year, so Juniper and I decided to hike down to our old campsites. To sit on the bridge that had joined our worlds together. The bridge where we met. The bridge where we always ended our camping trips, watching the golden sunlight slip between the mountains until the sky burned red.

That same bridge.

We set off carrying only water and snacks. It was warmer than usual, so we both wore shorts and T-shirts. Juniper wore her favourite blue Yellowstone National Park souvenir shirt. I can't remember what I wore that day.

The first stretch of the hike was steep and rocky. My shoes struggled for grip, so Juniper held my hand the entire way down. We reached the bridge just before sunset, leaving us only a few minutes before we had to head back. Our parents didn't want us hiking after dark. We stood at the edge of the Forest Campsite, where the bridge began. On the other side waited the River Campsite. Juniper pulled a blueberry energy bar from her backpack—her favourite. We stepped onto the bridge. The crunch of dirt beneath our shoes became the hollow creak of old wood.

She sat with her legs through the banister, absent-mindedly swinging them over the water. Sweat had started rubbing away patches of her self-tanner. Her blonde shoulder-length hair framed her face, and her moss-green eyes caught the evening light.

We caught our breath. I stood to collect sticks for our tradition. Three steps. The bridge groaned beneath me. The cracks should have warned me. I sat down harder than I meant to. Combined with Juniper's swinging legs, it was enough.

The bridge snapped. The sound echoed through the valley. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Her head turned towards me. Then her body disappeared. Her golden hair lifted into the air before gravity pulled her down.

I fell with her. The river was drier than usual that year. The drop was farther. The water was shallow. Just deep enough to drown someone who couldn't wake up. Her head struck the rocks.

Blood spread through the gentle current, staining the clear water around her. I hit the riverbank, the back of my head striking the dirt instead of the rocks.

The river spared me. Scratches. Bruises. Nothing more.

After what felt like forever, my vision cleared. She lay awkwardly in the stream. Face down. Hair stained red. The blueberry energy bar still clutched in her hand.

I never liked blueberry.

I pulled myself to my feet. On the outside, I barely moved. Inside, there was a war. Seconds stretched into minutes. The water carried strands of her blonde hair downstream.

I stared at her. Unmoving. Unconscious. Drowning.

And I walked away.

Maybe it was shock.

Maybe it was years of being compared to my better half. Maybe it was hearing how I was only the forest because she was the river. Whatever it was, I stood there while my best friend slowly drowned.

My hair was long and brown like the dirt. My skin pale. My eyes blue. Cold.

I climbed the riverbank. I looked back. Her body hadn't moved. I walked through the Forest Campsite. The trees stood tall and silent. The earth beneath them, dry and cracked.

I turn once more.

The river flowed on. The river everyone depended on. The river everyone praised. Now only a stream.

Weaker.

Dying.

"I woke up... and she was already gone."

I stare into the campfire.

Juniper's mother sobs beside me while her husband wraps an arm around her shoulders. I can't meet their eyes. Because I'm lying to them. My parents call a park ranger.

The next morning, they pull her body from the water. She is still bent at that strange angle. Her face still turned towards the riverbed. The bridge hangs broken in the middle, its splintered boards scattered.

That river. The river that feeds the southern side of the park. The river that holds my secret. I have never looked at it the same way again. Now, two years later, I stand where two little girls first met.

Where the bridge collapsed.

Where I lost my best friend.

The river is full this year. The current rushes side me, deep enough to have carried us both. If it had been this full back then... Maybe neither of us would have died. Clear water slips over the stones that carried Juniper's blood. Over the rocks that cradled her broken body. The river that feeds the forest.