We found this place decades ago, unexpectedly.
We had been exploring the eastern slope of Laurel Ridge, riding the thumper up old logging roads, shutting down often to wander in the thickets of wild rhododenron, blooming white in the dark forest. And we heard it, the muted rush of water and gravity.
Drawn to water as we always have been, we followed the sound into the forest. In less than 100 yards, the ground dropped away, and we stood at the top of Cole Run Falls and the ravine below it.
Ever since, we have considered it a holy place.
The state has it listed now. The road has been graded and graveled. A routed sign directs visitors through the hardwoods. Humans have carved their names into trees. A sock lies with crayfish in a vernal pool beneath water striders.
That sadness aside, the motion of water, the mist in the shadowed air, the trees rising into the sky, still elevate our consciousness, pilgrims that we are.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
