This is Rhea. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People.
You never know where life will take you or whether the path you take by accident might lead you to an interesting place.
That is what this story is about.
Let's hear it. It's called Kip Takes the Long Way.
Take it away, Rosalind.
Remember, there are no pictures.
You have to imagine the pictures in your mind.
You can imagine them however you want.
All right, let's go.
All right, focus, people.
This is a big deal.
We're expecting 40 animals, so this is going to be our biggest show by far.
We need to play better than ever before.
Plus, don't forget, Wilmont from the Forest Concert Club is going to be there, and if we impress him, he might put us on the schedule.
That would be, look, I don't want to be dramatic, but this could be the biggest night of our lives.
It could put us on the map.
Totally. This could be our big break.
Kip? Kip, are you listening, buddy?
Kip, who played the tuba, was not listening.
He'd been staring off into space daydreaming about taking a just because walk in the woods.
At the sound of his name, Kip turned to Jerry, the unofficial leader of the band, and said, yep, concert tonight, dandelion t -stand.
Kip's bandmates exchanged looks.
Jerry cleared his throat.
Uh, no, Kip, it's not at the dandelion t -stand.
It's at Big Fish Pond at sunset.
Do not be late. Kip kept himself from rolling his eyes.
Who had put Jerry in charge of the band in the first place?
He didn't remember them voting on it.
Oh, and everybody remember to wear your plaid shirts and your striped trousers.
We've got to look sharp.
The bandmates packed up and dispersed.
Kip, Jerry said, before leaving, you're not gonna wander off on us, are you?
Of course not. Kip said, gently resting his tuba in its case, he felt a flash of annoyance.
Why is he checking up on me so much?
The two squirrels waved goodbye and headed into the forest.
Kip stopped at home, dropped off his tuba, and packed a few things in his satchel.
It was midday. He had plenty of time to take a walk in the woods before the concert.
Kip took a swig from his canteen, tossed some seeds in his mouth, and set off.
Within a minute, he was on the trail.
It had been weeks since Kip had taken one of these just because walks.
It was a concept he'd learned from people, a concept that had been foreign to him as a squirrel, and a concept he had since wholeheartedly embraced.
But he'd been busy lately, with the band he'd joined several months back, as well as the odd jobs he'd taken on to supplement his acorn stash.
Days had turned into weeks since he'd taken one of these strolls through the woods for no particular reason at all.
It was midday in the heart of summer, and the forest was vivid.
There was an unusual number of golden rods in this part of the woods, and they gave the effect of bright, cheerful yellow accents placed by a painter.
Kip patted his satchel, making sure he had his pouch of seeds and his canteen filled with water from the creek.
He felt something living document he added to after each just -because walk, to fill in the gaps of the forest, connecting trails he knew with ones he didn't.
It had been so long since he'd taken one of these jaunts, he'd nearly forgotten about it.
Presently, Kip sat down in a rock and pulled it out.
Kip had been planning to simply walk rather aimlessly for a bit, then turn around and go right back home.
But as he scanned his own neat work, he decided to follow one of the trails he'd scribbled down.
Perhaps he'd refine the details, add a few landmarks as he went.
He'd marked the golden rod patch on the map, so he oriented himself quickly.
There was a trail. Yes, just nearby.
He could hop on it in mere moments.
He'd take that for a while until the next big landmark, the ancient tree.
Then he'd turn around and be back well in time for the concert.
As soon as Kip was comfortably on the trail, he felt himself relax more than at any time in what felt like months.
Life had been too busy.
The band in particular had been exhausting to keep up with.
Who does Jerry think he is?
Kip said aloud to himself as he trudged through the woods.
He had developed a habit of talking to himself sometimes, just to think things through a bit.
So he continued on, soaking up the shafts of Afternoon's sun through the tree canopy, feeling as though a great weight was off his shoulders, discussing this Jerry situation with himself as he went.
The guy has no business being in charge.
He placed the saxophone.
He shouldn't be in charge of anything if he asked me.
And rehearsals five times a week?
Three would be sufficient.
As Kip scampered over fallen logs, under thickets of brambles, between narrow gates of rock, it seemed as though he could finally think through everything going on in his life.
It's amazing how when you're alone, with no one asking pesky questions or adding their thoughts to the matter, you can come to some important conclusions.
And in that way, Kip came to his own startlingly clear conclusion.
He should be the leader of the band.
It was just at that moment, just when he decided to overthrow Jerry, that Kip heard the sound of several people off to his left, deep in a seemingly important debate.
A hotdog is not a sandwich.
I can't believe this is even in question.
I have to disagree.
Sandwich is a broad category.
Kip paid more attention to people ever since they'd introduced him to the idea of taking walks for no reason.
He always tried to remain unseen, of course.
He had no interest in scratching them all over the eyeballs, which is what he would be forced to do if they attacked.
These people didn't seem like the attacking kind.
They seemed to be taking a break from hiking, resting on some boulders, absorbed in this very important conversation.
Kip hid behind a fern.
Look guys, I can see both sides of this.
There are not two sides.
It's not a sandwich.
Bread with meat in between.
It's a sandwich. Case closed.
Kip had wondered about many things related to people over the years.
He'd wondered why they had long hair in their heads, but little on their knuckles.
He'd wondered why they wore colorful socks.
He wondered why they wore socks at all.
He had never considered whether their most beloved and curiously named food, the hot dog, which he'd seen prepared at many a campsite, was a type of sandwich.
But now, as the people got up from their rest and began walking away from him, he did wonder about it.
He resumed his walk, his mind, alive with questions.
Is a bun the same as bread?
What about the hot dog's shape?
Does that matter? But he didn't get to finish that particular question, because he had fallen, dramatically, into quicksand.
Kip was sinking. The sand was the exact texture and thickness of a milkshake.
A proper milkshake.
The kind that goes excellently with a hot dog.
Anyway, as he went down, paws grasping at the air, he realized at this rate he would miss his concert.
Help! Oh dear, hello?
Can somebody? But Kip sank beneath the surface of the sand.
A single thought bubbled up in Kip's mind as the world above seemed to drift further and further away.
Is this going to make it very challenging to overthrow Jerry?
Just as the world went dark, Kip felt something grasp, his outstretched paw.
He felt himself being pulled upwards.
A moment later he was above the sand, coughing and gasping for air.
His rescuer was a bird, flapping in mid -air above the sand, ripping Kip's paw in its talons.
The bird strained under Kip's weight, struggling to fly upward.
Kip's lower half was still beneath the sand.
Finally, finally, the bird yanked Kip's feet free and the two of them went careening through the air, landing with a thud several feet away.
Kip slowly lifted his head from the hard ground.
Something is very wrong with my paw.
There was a searing pain in his right paw.
A paw, Kip thought, a gnawing feeling settling in his tummy, that he needed in order to play the tuba.
Kip rose and dusted the sand off himself.
The quicksand was a few feet away, bubbling like a cauldron.
Beside it, peering at him with a severe expression, was a grackle.
These imperious birds, known for their tendency to prey upon their feathered brethren, always made Kip uneasy.
Ah, thank you, Kip said, for saving me.
Yes, you were in a rather dire situation, murmured the grackle, preening himself.
Hey, don't I know you, Kip said, thinking back to another walk he'd taken aimed at the mountain's peak.
I'm known by many. I give weekly talks, well attended, of course, on human behavior.
I do remember you, Kip said, nodding.
Thank you again, I feel like thank you isn't nearly enough.
Perhaps I can do something.
You needed help. I provided it.
Well, thank you, Kip said, cringing at the inadequacy of his words.
I'd better go. I have to play a sunset concert at Big Fish Pond.
Kip nodded to the grackle and turned back the way he'd come, keenly aware of the throb developing in his paw.
I'll just have to play with the broken paw, he told himself.
I'll get back in the trail and be there in… You are headed in the wrong… direction.
Kip turned to face the grackle.
I'm quite sure this is the direction I came from.
Thanks again. He turned back and continued walking, but the grackle flapped through the air and settled down in his way.
The bird stared at him, his eyes filled with pity.
You are a curious looking prairie dog.
I'm a squirrel. That explains the tale.
Look, prairie squirrel, I feel a certain responsibility not to lead you astray.
Meaning, I assume you came from that direction, but you have now traveled far enough from Big Fish Pond that it will take you longer to get back home by turning around.
You must continue. On the loop.
The loop. It encircles the crags, perilous for a small, flightless creature such as yourself.
Kip gulped the crags.
He'd heard of them.
A rocky area in the center of the forest known for being dangerous.
But it's midday. I have plenty of time to get back this way.
It seems you have lost track of the sun's clock.
The grackle gestured at the sky.
Kip glanced up and gasped.
How had the sun gotten that far across the sky?
Kip shook his head and looked again.
He was confused from falling in the sand, from hitting the ground so harshly.
But no, judging from the sun's position, it was late afternoon.
The concert, he whispered.
It struck him then.
Just how much time he'd lost his musings about overthrowing Jerry.
He'd walked right past the ancient tree, the landmark at which he should have turned around.
He peered into the forest, searching for a glimpse of it.
All he saw was dense foliage, impenetrable green.
I am uncertain as to whether you can make it there by sunset at all, the grackle mused.
But I am certain you will not make it back by going back the way you came.
As I said, the loop will take you around the crags and back to the area you seek.
The loop, Kip repeated, a sinking feeling in his stomach joining the throb in his paw.
Just stick on the trail you're on.
You might not make it, but it's the closest you'll get.
The grackle lifted up from the ground.
Oh, and by the way, the grackle called out as he flew away.
It is a sandwich. Trust me, I'm an expert.
With that, he was gone.
It was at that moment, as Kip took his first few steps on the loop that he realized his satchel, his snacks, his water, and his paw -drawn map were all at the bottom of the quicksand.
Despite the fact that it was growing ever late in the day, his paw and pride had been wounded, and he was without water or a map, Kip tried to keep his hope alive.
He kept to the loop, putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to pay attention to the sun's steady westward trajectory.
Squirrels are territorial, sticking to one general area.
Kip had a territory, usually.
Part of the thrill of his just -because walks was to go beyond it, to explore parts of the forest that belonged to other creatures, other squirrels.
He was in one of those parts now.
He'd never been. And yet, he kept walking straight into a mud patch.
Kip slowly made his way through the sludge, and as he did so, he imagined himself showing up at the concert, not in a plaid shirt and striped trousers, but covered in mud with a broken paw.
The dark thought made him chuckle in spite of himself.
Hmm, what's that? A thin whisper of a trail, nearly invisible, broke off from the loop, directly ahead of him.
Kip followed it with his eyes.
In the late afternoon, without the harshness and glare of the overhead sun, he could see precisely where it headed.
The cracks. Kip could make out a tall rock face, perhaps twenty yards off.
If I could just cut through the crags, I'd make it to the concert.
Maybe I could still have a shot at being the leader of the band.
Kip took a single step off the loop.
The narrow trail felt hard beneath his feet.
The crags were so close.
He was a typical squirrel, exceedingly agile, exceptionally coordinated.
He could balance on the most slender of branches.
He took another step.
It would be so easy.
The stories are probably overblown, Kip thought to himself.
Squirrels are always trying to make their tails taller, more exciting.
Another step. But something stopped him.
Completely stopped him.
He didn't move another inch.
For a long minute, he simply stared down the trail.
He imagined himself dangling from the edge of a rock face.
No shortcuts, Kip said aloud.
He turned around and resumed walking on the loop.
Kip's heart leaped when he heard the familiar sound of water rushing over rocks.
It sounded exactly like the fork in the Great River.
Kip had been there many times.
The fork, as the forest creatures referred to it, was the spot where the split in the Great River closed, and the two halves came together as one.
It was a rocky area.
Kip liked to set up a hammock on the bank near the rapids and listen to the water.
The fork was very close to Big Fish Pond.
It was the reason the pond existed at all, because a small tributary meandered off it, bringing water to the pond.
Kip stopped and listened.
Yes, it's definitely the fork.
He glanced up and saw the sun sinking low and the sky turning from blue to a hazy orange.
In a few minutes it would be sunset, but he was going to make it to the concert.
He dashed through the fork, rushed home to grab his tuba, scampered the pond, and arrived fashionably late.
Kip was nearly bowled over by relief as he struggled through a tangle of prickly brambles, pushed through a wall of thick shrubs, stumbled over a series of sharp edged rocks, rounded a corner past a massive pine tree, and...
and fell off a cliff.
Well, a ledge. He scrabbled at the air with his paws and caught hold of a tree root.
Kip dangled there, desperately clinging to the root, trying to catch his breath.
It struck him that he'd purposely avoided the crags so as not to end up dangling from a rocky ledge.
He nearly laughed at the thought, but one false move could send him falling.
He took a few seconds waiting for his breath to slow, gripping the root and getting his bearings.
Then, Kip deftly scrambled up from the tree root, back onto the ledge from which he'd fallen.
He sat, letting his little feet swing off the end of the ledge.
There was no point in not taking rest now.
From this spot, this ledge overlooking a drop, Kip took in the view.
There was certainly a lot of water, and it was certainly rushing over rocks, but Kip was not looking at the fork.
What Kip saw was terrible and magnificent in equal measure.
It was terrible, because it meant that without a doubt, Kip was not going to make it to the concert, but it was magnificent, too.
Kip had never seen one like it.
He'd seen small ones, of course, but never one like this.
He was looking at an enormous, majestic waterfall.
The ledge on which Kip sat gave him a full view of the cascade of water, crashing onto rocks far below, sending an incredible spray into the air that tickled his fur.
Above, the sun slipped behind the trees.
It was one of the most beautiful things Kip had ever seen.
The sky was awash with pastel colors.
The waterfall glittered in the fading light.
Kip imagined his bandmates settling in for the show.
They'd wait for him, expecting him to stroll in late.
Kip felt sick imagining it.
He could never be the leader of the band.
How petty he'd been.
How incredibly petty.
He could not believe he had been so absorbed in the idea of overthrowing Jerry that he had thrown his entire day off course.
If only he hadn't been so enamored with himself.
How will I ever make it up to them?
He wondered. And yet, staring out from this little perch, Kip was torn.
Had he turned back home upon reaching the ancient tree, had he not taken the loop, he would have never stumbled on this dazzling sight.
The sky turned dark, and the moon shone over the waterfall like a spotlight.
A spotlight? Yes. An idea came to Kip then, just the whisper of an idea.
He didn't know if it could work, if it could fix the mess he'd made.
But the thought of it was comforting enough to allow his mind to settle.
Kip curled up on the ledge, hugging his tail, accepting the fact that he was not going to make it home in the dark, especially without his map.
He fell asleep to the sound of the water rushing over the rocks below.
Kip stood on the ledge, overlooking the waterfall, taking in the view of the afternoon light.
It was just as beautiful as he remembered, and a whole lot more exciting with the crowd of animals perched on rocks below on the perimeter of the swirling water.
62, 64, 65, 66, there are 66 animals in the audience.
This is our biggest show yet.
I think you skipped over 63.
65 animals in the audience.
Can you believe it?
Kip grinned at his bandmates as they set up their instruments.
On the ledge, it had been three weeks since he'd slept there, curled up beneath the moon.
Three weeks since he'd apologized profusely and repeatedly for missing the show at Big Fish Pond.
Three weeks since he'd hatched a plan to make it up to them.
Kip is incredible, Jerry said, clapping Kip on the back.
All right everybody, we gotta play loud.
Can't let the waterfall drown us out.
And oh, hey, Jerry said, peering at the crowd.
Is that Willmont from the Forest Concert Club?
Can you believe he came out here?
This is our chance to get on the schedule.
Kip sighed with relief.
It had taken some convincing to get Jerry and the others on board with hosting a concert at the waterfall.
But once they'd seen it for themselves, they were enchanted.
Kip planned for the show to end just as the sun set, painting the sky brilliant pastel colors.
So it was time to get a move on.
He nodded at Tina, who played the drums.
She got up from her kit and stood overlooking the audience.
Dozens of animals sitting on rocks surrounding the waterfall.
Welcome to the Secret Waterfall.
We are the Plaid Trousers Quartet.
Oh, I think that's my band.
We're having a practice tonight.
I've got my symbols ready.
I hope you loved the story.
Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector.
My in -house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories in the internet for all of you to enjoy.
Thank you to my Little Stories premium subscribers for making it possible for me to keep doing this.
If you'd like more of the stories you love, access to Little Stories for Sleep, an exclusive bedtime podcast, and ad -free listening, join or gift a subscription at littlestoriespremium .com.
Thank you to Rosalind for the super important reminder message at the beginning, and thank you, as always, for listening in.
