Hidden Falls

A fella I don’t know all that well called back in October. Said he and his wife wouldn’t be burning wood any more, now that they had the heat pump and all. Why didn’t I come pick up the wood that came down in that last hurricane. He had stacked it back up the holler.

And so I did, and while he was helping me load it, he mentioned that the old road there goes back up the valley to the waterfall.

“Oh, a waterfall?” I said as if I were surprised. But actually, I’d discovered it when exploring the county topo maps and then forgotten it was on his property.

I made no secret that I wanted to see it for myself. So when the fire wood was heaped high in the back of the truck, he offered to walk with me up the old road to the falls. I could have found them by myself, of course, but he seemed proud for the company that day. A shy, soft-spoken man of few words, I was pleased he sought out my companionship.

And so we set off up a good grade on what he said used to be a state road–with a route number and everything. We shuffled up the slope through a pavement of oak and maple leaves.

To tell you the truth, I was prepared to be unimpressed with his falls. Our valley becomes a ravine with its own stair-step waterfalls. Nameless Creek that runs the length of our valley drops three or four feet suddenly about every hundred yards as the clear water tumbles down toward the edge of our pasture and the confluence with Goose Creek. I expected this valley we were walking and its little waterfalls would be pretty much the same. “This all looks mighty familiar” I said to my companion as we climbed, but then the creek began to fall further below the trail.

Soon we left the old roadway to follow what appeared to be the remnants of a rock wall that made a side-spur to our left. A faint path disappeared in a thick carpet of moss and fallen leaves, leading us down toward something that long ago had been worthy of its own trail. We clung to saplings as the pitch increased until at last, we stood on a level rocky shelf between two sets of cascades. And I was speechless.

I have often walked miles through the woods of the Blue Ridge to reach waterscapes no more spectacular than this. Those named falls had their own markers on the busy roads, their own packed parking lots; they were loved by crowds of visitors, adorned with litter and signage, peopled with irreverent voices and dogs on leashes. Sometimes we destroy a place by loving it too much. Perhaps some treasures should stay buried.

This beautiful, remote and unearthly quiet place will remain a hidden shrine, the rose that blooms unseen–a local secret. I am blessed to have seen it this once.