Making her way

Originally published 9/9/19

Waterfalls are a spectacular occurrence. In them Mother Nature has created a magical and entrancing creature that draws us to them, like a mystical magnet. You hear a waterfall long before you see it; Mother tries to keep the secret as long as she can, but the rush of water falling off a cliff and hitting a pool below is a noisy business. Coolness also proceeds the waterfall - misty bits escape the fall or bounce back up from the impact and permeate the air, a refreshing relief on a hot September hike in the south. Mother cools your hot skin, letting you know she's here to provide a needed escape for body and soul. Approaching the waterfall brings urging excitement, knowing something magnificent is about to emerge from the woods you might feel a little lost in, as you've been dependent only on the periodic hashmark trustily placed by an experienced hiker who cared about these woods long before you did to guide your way.

At the upper fall you don't see the fall; you see it as the creek it is, wandering slowly on its merry way, blissfully unaware of the coming precipice. It cannot hear the coming roar of the fall and it does not know its own fate. But the end is near, or what appears to be the end at the edge, where it seems to stop. I suppose that's why mid-millennium explorers thought Mother was flat - the horizon of a waterfall looks much like that; the water just stops, ceases to exist.

The dry Upper Falls of Greeter Falls. Grundy County, Tenn.

But for the noise you hear of it crashing somewhere, to a bottom that must exist on the other side, below the trees whose tops you can still see. To walk to the edge, to peer over, however, suddenly brings on a bit of anxiety, fear, that perhaps you too, will go the way of the water, to the end where the noise begins. All of sudden it doesn't seem like such an enticing place to play.

When you continue the trail, though, you descend to where the mist finds you, cooling your skin and coating the rocks. You watch your step carefully, thankful for the cool, excited to see the end result where the water changes color. It rushes off the edge of the cliff, jumping happily into oblivion, cheered on by the shrieking hysteria of children always gathered at the bottom of any waterfall in amazement at what Mother has created. She turns the water from foamy white to green, clear water and calms the fall immediately to a welcome pool, where there is no more fear. Here there is an intense desire to go towards the waterfall, to stand under it, like a shower that you won't have to take later, because you've been baptized by water that has jumped off the side of the mountain for you.

Sometimes, there is a secret place behind the fall, where, after having walked magically through the fall, you can hide from your mom or dad, or your friends, and huddle behind the fall, like in the movies. It's wet, always, there, and slicked with plantlife that tries to grow despite never seeing enough sun. And it's loud back there, the water echoing off the wet rock, Mother talking with the rocks, and the bugs, and the slimy growth. Here you can hear nature in conversation.

At a waterfall you can sit and try to figure Mother out, try to figure something out. How this water gets here, how I got here, where it goes from here, where I go from here. You can see so much water falling, mist rising, trees growing, and rocks marking the time, yet you can only see a limited distance ahead, as the water continues on somewhere else, around the bend, slinking down a bit as gravity and the topography take it further away from you. There are still rocks forming its path, fallen trees in the way, but its future disappears from you very quickly. So you turn back to the waterfall, to what you know is happening now. The water that is coming over the edge, the mist that is cooling you, the curiosity of wondering what cut that rock so decisively 10,000 or a million years ago so that the water has to jump off to continue its path.

Without regular rain, there's less water, so the noise is muffled, the mist lighter, and more rocks show themselves. Mother feels safer, so you crawl around on the rocks, as they've had time to dry, and the moss has stabilized, so your footing is sure. At the upper falls, you can even crawl over to the edge to see what's below. Less water means less chaos, and more room for confidence in navigating the curiosity. But less water also leaves you with a sense of missing out on the whole thing. It's not all there; you know you're not seeing the entire show, that this is a stand-in, the understudy of the big show. So, a little disappointment sets in. It's not all there, you're missing out.

Left: A dry season exposes stories in the rocks. The hat is my dad's. He wore it when we hiked in the woods as kids.

But Mother has exposed to you rocks not usually seen, her wrinkles of time that tell the story of the water she's held, the life that has passed, the marks it has left. We try to cover those up, mostly, with collagen fillers, magical creams, colored makeup, and soft white lights. Low water exposes all of the crooks and crannies, the history of what has happened in this place, over the last 10 million years. Man has only recently happened here, and that's somewhat of a relief. You hope man doesn't happen here, very much. It's best, we have to, let Mother have a place where she can do what she wants, where she can show us the glory of what she can do, given time and space.

So I sat on the edge of Mother's dry cliff, and marveled at her ability to persevere, to persist, to ignore and accommodate all the things around her. Not insisting on her way, but making her way. Allowing a set of stairs to be built by man, nestled into a narrow opening in the rocks, so kids can get to the bottom of it and marvel at what she's done. In the drought she exposed herself, the lines cut into her rocks by millennia of water flowing by, telling the story of what has happened here.

Sitting on the edge of the dry Broad Tree Waterfall. Grundy County, Tenn.

She is patient. She will wait for more water, and for now she will do with what she has. A smaller, less spectacular waterfall continues to fall over the side of the mountain, and it follows a narrower path around the bend. She still receives visitors, opening her arms in a different way, the rocks enjoying the sun they know they won't see in a few weeks when it begins to rain again. Perhaps it gives them a chance to clean out their pores and let the wind take away the drying mud that turns to dust, cleaning its surface and readying Mother for a new season of water.