I have written several posts about waterfalls because they are among my most favorite elements of nature. I have driven, hiked, and climbed on many occasions to reach them. I have seen everything from little trickles of water falling from rocky ridges in the mountains of Appalachia to white misty veils crashing from great heights at Yosemite, Yellowstone, and the Columbia River Valley. I have been mesmerized by all of them.
When my wife and I had an unexpected opportunity to visit Niagara Falls as a result of being in Erie, Pennsylvania, we both agreed it would be worth the two-hour drive around the Lake Erie coast to see this iconic natural wonder. Like the Grand Canyon and so many other magnificent landmarks around the world, photographs and videos simply cannot capture the grandeur of something so massive and powerful. Seeing the scope of the falls, hearing it, feeling the moist air and spray on your face, and even feeling the rumble of the crashing water is impossible to replicate electronically.
With almost 76,000 gallons of water pouring over the edge of the American falls every second, the volume is quite hard to imagine. Yes, that’s over 4.5 million gallons a minute! The water is about two feet deep at the crestline, which gives the edge of the falls a deep emerald hue. It is stunning. The deepest section of the Niagara River is just below the falls. It is so deep that it equals the height of the falls above, which is 170 feet. Upstream from the falls between its northeastern banks and Green Island, the Niagara River rumbles and rolls as it makes its way to the main attraction.
Niagara Falls has never been on our bucket list of places to visit, mainly because it seemed too much like a tourist trap. However, we were pleasantly surprised. There are plenty of chain restaurants, souvenir shops, and other retail vendors nearby, but the American side of the falls is bordered by a state park that makes no attempt to outshine the headliner. The Canadian side is full of high-rise hotels and some casinos, which is probably an enticement to cross the border for some visitors. We were perfectly content with the marvelous wonder of Niagara Falls with very few distractions. If you can stand on the observation deck beholding that vista and not say “wow,” I’m not sure what would impress you.
Waterfalls are a recurring theme for me in this blog. I am drawn to the sound of rushing water: waves crashing on the shore; rivers and streams; fountains in ponds; and waterfalls. I have hiked miles just to hear water running over rocks into a natural pool or to see it cascading over boulders. If possible, I take photographs when I find these bold exhibitions of nature. I often make videos too. Sometimes I will pause for a few minutes, or more, to simply look and listen. There is something about the sight and sound that soothes me and helps me appreciate how much beauty there is on this planet. For this post, I have collected photos of a few of my favorite waterfalls.
When I look at waterfalls, I am reminded how all life on Earth originated in the water, how essential water is in sustaining life, and how much of our bodies are composed of water. I think about how rapidly running water has been a source of power for people for as long as civilization has existed. I am amazed that the same liquid that quenches our thirst and caresses our skin can, over time, wear down and erode some of the hardest substances on the planet.
I have chased waterfalls in so many places in the United States, from coast to coast. I have stood in awe with throngs of other sightseers in national parks gazing at some of the largest falls in the country. I have visited state parks and scenic byways, looking skyward as the spray falls over cliffs to jagged rocks below. As magnificent as the most popular waterfalls are, I am still humbled and even mesmerized by a small stream spilling over a ridge deep in the forest. I can’t help wondering how long water has been flowing at such places. I am often by myself when this happens, which always presents an opportunity to reflect on how lucky I am to be alive and how precious the short time is that I have here.
I had the pleasure of spending a long solo weekend in Mountain Home, Arkansas, earlier this summer. I began taking solo weekends about five years ago, in my mid-fifties, to recalibrate my head, get creative with writing and music, devote large chunks of time to reading, and explore the outdoors hiking. My wife is an incredible partner who not only tolerates these self-indulgent excursions but encourages them. I’m a lucky guy. I have written posts about previous solos, which have taken me to places like Cherokee and Blowing Rock in North Carolina and Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. This trip to Mountain Home was my first solo weekend in Arkansas and my first time doing so in an Airbnb.
My accommodations were perfect. “The Attic” is a recently renovated upstairs apartment over several professional medical offices located a few blocks from the quaint downtown square of Mountain Home. My host was a gracious and extremely attentive woman whose brother had just opened a new location on the square for his business, Rapp’s Barren Brewing Company. This modern rustic brewery occupies the Baker Building, the oldest on the square that dates to 1892 according to some sources. Rapp’s Barren was the name of a trading post near this location settled in the early 19th century by a legendary European character named Henry Rapp. White settlers probably considered the land in this region of the Ozarks to be barren because it was composed of tall prairie grass with very few trees. By the time the town was incorporated in 1888, the name had changed to Mountain Home. At any rate, I made more than one stop at Rapp’s Barren Brewing Company during the three days I was in the town – great spot.
In addition to playing my guitar for hours each day and reading a good novel by Ron Rash, I drove outside of town to explore this scenic part of the Ozarks. Mountain Home is positioned between Norfork and Bull Shoals lakes and is flanked by the White and North Fork rivers. Obviously, Mountain Home is a popular destination for anglers and those who enjoy other water-related activities such as boating, skiing, paddle boarding, and floating. Campsites are abundant along the banks of the rivers and lakes.
I was particularly interested in hiking, which on my first day led me to David’s Trail along the shore of Norfolk Lake about nine miles east of town. The trail honors the memory of David Floyd, a local outdoor enthusiast and community activist. I took a four-mile trek in and out from one of the trailheads, which gave me great views of the lake and several of its tributaries, in addition to some lovely plants, a timid snake, a well-camouflaged deer, and a couple of pileated woodpeckers that refused to let me get close enough for a photo. The portion of the trail I hiked had some moderate hills and featured some shady fern banks and moss-covered rock outcroppings that were lush and green. I never saw another human being the whole time I was on the trail. It was a warm morning, but I was in the shade of the tree canopy for most of my hike. I felt invigorated and extremely hungry afterwards.
On my second day, I took another short road trip to see the White River. Meandering its way 722 miles through Arkansas and Missouri, the White River is ranked as one of the top trout fishing waterways in the country, although white bass, catfish, walleye, and sunfish populate the river too. The river also presents the opportunity for one of the most common pastimes in the Ozarks – floating. Climbing in a canoe, kayak, or johnboat and letting the river carry you downstream at a slow, relaxing pace has been a popular form of recreation in the Ozarks for ages. I visited Buffalo Shoals access area at the little hamlet of Buffalo City where the Buffalo River merges with the White River just south of Mountain Home. Stair Bluff rises 689 feet along the southside of the White River and is a spectacular site. There is a parking area at the river’s edge with access to boat ramps and a sandy bank. I enjoyed watching families wading and fishing in the chilly water while others launched canoes and kayaks and drifted with the current. I found several other walk-in access points for the White River, where I could soak up the tranquil environment all alone.
In an unpublished journal, the famous naturalist John Muir wrote a brief sentence that has become one of his most famous quotes: “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.” I suspect many people realize that, to get in touch with ourselves in a profound way, we must be reminded occasionally how small we are. We need to take external journeys to probe internal mysteries. We search for our place in the realm of nature. These solo weekends that I am privileged to experience allow me to go out, then go in, and come back home with a new perspective on just about everything.
I took a recent business trip to Connecticut, a state I had never visited. I flew into Hartford and drove an hour or so to the charming little hamlet of Cornwall in the northwest part of the state. I stayed overnight in a garage apartment of the across-the-street neighbor of the person I was there to see. This was late September and a chill was starting to settle in the air, though the leaves showed not much sign of color yet. I had just enough free time while I was there to spend a few hours driving around the countryside and was delighted by the abundance of forests and hills in which the small towns in that portion of the state are nestled.
Again, I found myself wandering around in places where it is nearly impossible to take a bad photograph. I somewhat regret that wall calendars are no longer very useful in this age where today’s date is so easily ascertained with a mobile device regardless of one’s whereabouts. The vistas afforded me on this trip could fill up the top half of wall calendars for decades to come. This covered bridge, which I crossed a few times, is a perfect example, along with the river that flows to and under it. The bridge was built in 1841 in Litchfield County, in the Berkshires region of Connecticut, to cross the Housatonic River. With the last remaining fog of morning rising from the water and through the trees, the image below looks more like a painting than a photograph.