The little
valley leading to Fort Harry Falls is short and easy – rocky, mossy, and open. There
is some rhododendron on the upper, side slopes of this valley but the lower
parts near the creekbed are blessedly open and tangle-free. The incline is a
bit steep in a few places, so there’s always the possibility of a slip and
tumble, but these steep spots are never more than a few yards in duration. It’s
the kind of walk you can do in tennis shoes (during warm weather) but probably
not sandals. There will be a few moments of heavy breathing, but you’ll sweat
only if you are visiting during summer or you are wearing a bit too much
clothing on a cold, winter day.
I suppose there
could be a rattlesnake or two in among the rocks during the green months – it
has that sort of jumbled, snakey look to it – so if it weren’t winter, I’d be
poking carefully with my walking stick and looking to see if anything slithers
or rattles. In other words, the best time to visit this spot is probably
November to March, when those cold-blooded critters will be cloistered away,
doing whatever it is they do during the cold months, trying not to freeze to
death.
I trudged and
slid up the valley through the snow and arrived at the base of the cliffs in
just 15 minutes. These cliffs are perhaps 60 or 80 feet high and are mostly
vertical and even past vertical so the water really does fall rather than
cascade. During warmer, less-slippery months it’s possible to crawl and slide to
the thin veils of water at the base of the falls, but today there was too much
ice both above and below. But not enough ice to form a solid column of merged
stalactites and stalagmites of frozen water. The ice column I had hoped for was
not to be.
Instead, there
were hundreds of five or six foot, dangling icicles scattered across the upper
reaches of the cliffs and a ragged, car-sized block of ice at the bottom. Even
without an ice column, it’s an impressive scene – the kind of place you vow to
come back to during other seasons to become better acquainted. After all, every
outdoor lover needs a secret spot with which he or she is comfortable and well
acquainted; the kind of spot you could show to a friend or keep all to
yourself. And either way, you’d feel no guilt.
Perhaps the most
impressive part of the day was caused by the fact that this is a south-facing
valley. Today’s temperatures were gradually rising into the 40s, and the
mid-day sun was shining directly on the cliffs. So the melt was on. Icicles
were dripping, then cracking and falling onto the ice slab and rocks below.
Most of the falling ice was thin icicles that would clatter and tinkle like
delicate wind chimes as they cracked and shattered. Occasionally a thin sheet
of ice, maybe the size of a piece of notebook paper, would float and flutter
down – something I had never seen before. I didn’t see any of the large icicles
break and crash, but during my walk back to my truck I heard a couple of
shotgun blasts that were made not by guns but by large icicles crashing and
exploding on impact on the rocks below.
I’ve seen the
same thing happen on sunny, winter days at Alum Cave Bluff just a few miles up
the road. It’s an intimidating moment – even more so if you’ve just walked
through the line of fire without thinking about it. You noticed all the
shattered pieces of ice on the ground as you followed the trail into or out of
the huge, rock alcove, but you didn’t think about what all that broken ice
meant. A few moments later, when you see or hear a huge icicle fall and
shatter, you realize that you’ve barely avoided being crushed by a hundred
pound spike of ice. Timing is everything: in comedy and, apparently, in
cheating death. [To be continued.]
