So I had to concede to myself that, strictly speaking, this was a cascade. But whatever it lacked in grandeur it made up for in approachable New England beauty. Although I had been coming to the forest for a year before stumbling upon the cascade, the thrill of discovery was worth the wait, and I was grateful no one had told me about it.
Clearly, it was no secret. Nearby, an open area had the well-worn look of a picnic ground, bicycle tracks tore across a slope, and there were "No Camping" signs, riddled with gunshots, on some of the trees.
This humble natural wonder may have a name, but I dubbed it One Man's Cascade. Its intimate scale seemed to dictate that it was best viewed alone.
Some weeks later, I was approaching the cascade on an unmarked side trail when I spied three people and a dog clambering among its rocks. Would I be a proper social animal and join them? No. The spell would be broken.
Turning up a slope, I picked up the main trail and followed the brook in the opposite direction—feeling a little cheated, debating with myself over whether to turn back. The hemlocks thinned out, giving way to sunlight and open deciduous woods, with mountain laurels lining the brook.
No one, it seemed, had passed through this placid scenery lately. As if to confirm my feeling, a pair of mallards burst up from an island in the brook. They flew high above the trees, and I lost them behind a hill.
Soon they were circling back, telling me they probably had a nest. So I moved on—happy to leave them to their parental duties, and reassured that, wherever one decides to go, discoveries await.
Robert Winkler's book of essays on his adventures with birds of the "suburban wilderness" will be published in 2003 by National Geographic Books.
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