Middle North Falls

Look at how thin she runs — Middle North Falls, one hundred and six feet of water sliding off the rim in a single clean ribbon. She's a tall one, narrow and graceful, fanning a little wider near the bottom where the water finally hits the pool. Watch the very top of the drop for a second. The creek comes to the edge collected and quiet, then tips over all at once, and partway down the ribbon loosens — the smooth sheet feathering apart into strands and mist, the way a braid comes undone. By the time it lands at the bottom it's more lace than water. Now follow that side path along the base. It threads into a dry pocket beneath the rim, the falling water hung in front of you like a beaded screen — so for the third time today, you find yourself tucked in on the sheltered side of a waterfall, watching the day go by through it. This one's a little different from the rooms you ducked into back at South and Lower South. Those were low and close, the stone pressing near. Here the alcove sits taller and rounder, set well back, so the falls hangs out away from you and there's open air between you and the curtain. The light comes through the sheet all green and shivering. Spray drifts back into the pocket and settles fine on your sleeves, cool as breath. Stop a second on that wet ledge. The whole creek is going over your head, and you are standing under it, perfectly dry.