I marched around the corner of the building, past the rock garden, down the path through the woods, and straight into the healing vortex. I felt no spiritual effects as I crossed through the vortex, an unremarkable spot in the woods. Lots of people believed in its power. I wished I could, but the skeptic in me refused to allow it. Every time I entered the vortex, I felt nothing but air — oxygen, nitrogen, and other elements combined in much the same way as everywhere else on the Keweenaw Peninsula. Michigan air may be cleaner than in some other places, but it held no supernatural qualities as far as I could tell.

As I exited the vortex and continued down the trail, I began to hear the rumbling of the waterfall. But this was not the sound that had drawn me here. No, I had dropped a bag full of conglomerate rocks, scattering the contents over the ground, because of another noise.

The echoing scream of a human being in pain.

I heard a scuffling up ahead. The clattering of dislodged pebbles. A splash. And then nothing, except the sound of the falls and the pounding of my own heart.

I broke through the screen of trees into the clearing surrounding the falls. The water cascaded over a twenty-foot sandstone cliff into a small pool that emptied into a stream. To my right, a wooden bridge spanned the stream. Directly in front of me, the trail led past the falls and into the deeper woods. I skidded to a halt. There, sprawled across the path, lay a man.