The forest is quiet. The sun pierces through the open canopy, bathing the ferns and wildflowers in warmth. The trunks of trees have been scorched and charred from wild fire. An eagle screeches in the distance - hidden from sight. The only other sound is the breeze as it weaves its way through the branches of the giants standing watch.
The trail climbs through this forest - sun, shade, sun, shade. It skirts the edge of a cliff face - a long way down, and a long way up. Eventually it descends back to the canyon floor. A little further and a new sound begins to emerge from trees. Water in motion. The creek is shallow, but cold and flowing quickly. The trail climbs a hill alongside the creek. The further up the hill, the more the rapidly the water is flowing down it, cascading over the rocks and feeding the ferns and mosses along its sides. The sound of the water is now unmistakably that of a waterfall. It emerges through a narrow gap in the cliff face above and plummets some 80 feet to the creek below. Fed by the snow melting off the nearby foothills of Mt. Hood, the water makes its final drop before it meets and mingles with the Columbia River a little north of here.
The sight of a waterfall is always a little breathtaking, whether staring at the grandiosity of Niagara, or a simple, elegant and much lesser known falls like that of Dry Creek Falls, near Cascade Locks, Oregon. There is something magical about a waterfall in the forest. It feeds our primal connection to nature - our need for water to survive and cleanse. A reminder that we are part of nature, and not the controller of it. It is a reminder of the nature of time and the course of life.
On a more personal note, my mother passed recently. She loved waterfalls - whether the tropical waterfalls of Hawaii, or the waterfall that displayed itself in her backyard mountains after an Arizona monsoon. She appreciated nature and the beauty of our world. I share that with her, and I loved sharing my photography with her. Thank you, Mom. These are dedicated to you.
