You can hear them before you see them. The sound hits you like a crowd roaring in the forest just around the trail head. Then, as you turn the corner of South Falls Trail, it hits you full in the face: Mist rising from hundreds of feet below, and through the hazy glow, the South Falls themselves, a 177-ft. drop from a millions-year-old precipice into a churning canyon pool.
People visiting Oregon may duck inside coffeehouses to escape the rain, but as far as I can tell, they go to Silver Falls to get struck in the face with it.
It is not difficult to love a waterfall.
They are perfect short-term affairs — fast and furious drama that doesn’t leave a bad taste in your mouth.
The challenge, of course, at Silver Falls, is to love all of them — each and every one of them. To stand with all ten of them long enough to get to know their sound and fury.
The same is true of paintings — you learn most by standing there long enough to let them reveal themselves to you.
Unfortunately, on our trip to Silver Falls, we had just three hours to hike the smaller loop, which means we haven’t even seen them all yet.
(Which means we’re going back).
Remember me telling you that Jeff swam in that pool, letting the water fall 177′ onto his head. I was sure he was going to get knocked out and I would have to jump in after him. How would I ever explain it to Mary!
I know… I can’t believe it, though knowing those two, I’m not surprised really. Jeff had us pretty much ride down one in Panama last fall.