Let the record show that Hank and Lucy have now stood at a waterfall.
April took us to Cumberland Gap National Historical Park — where three states meet, history runs deep, and the waterfalls in spring are the kind of thing that makes you stop talking mid-sentence. The air smells like rain and earth and something ancient. The trails wind through green so saturated it doesn't look real.
We hiked in. The bulldogs did not complain. They did not rush. They moved at their own pace — which is to say, deliberately, unhurriedly, and entirely on their own terms — through one of the most historically significant landscapes in America.
And then we reached the falls.
The water was running full, cold, and loud — crashing down through the rocks with the kind of energy that demands your attention. We stopped. We took it in. And then we turned to Hank and Lucy for their reaction.
Hank looked at the falls. The falls looked back. Neither blinked. He sniffed the air once, decided the moment had been suffisamment acknowledged, and looked back at us as if to say are we done here?
Lucy stood at the edge of the frame like she'd been placed there by a photographer who knew exactly what they were doing. One look at the water. One look at the camera. Done.
The photo op lasted approximately forty-five seconds. It was perfect.
Cumberland Gap in April is everything — the history, the views, the waterfalls, the feeling of standing somewhere that actually means something. Hank and Lucy were there for about a minute of it. But what a minute.
The kind of waterfall moment Hank would approve of — if he could talk. He'd probably just stare at you until you started the drive home.
Lucy looked at the falls once. That was enough. She'd already made up her mind.