Birder's Journal: New England's Seasonal Waterfalls

Robert Winkler
for National Geographic News

September 23, 2002

Part of the charm of southern New England, where I make my home, is that
distinctive features of the landscape often occur on a human scale.
Subtle in their appeal and sometimes hidden, these special places may
not be readily noticed.

A seasonal waterfall in Connecticut's Lower Paugussett State Forest is a perfect example. I passed within a minute's walk of it a dozen times without suspecting it existed. How could someone who likes to think of himself as observant be guilty of such an oversight? There were many distractions.

The main trail in this 1,000-acre forest follows Lake Zoar, a dammed section of the Housatonic River, and threads its way through woods dominated by hemlocks that rise straight and tall from steep riverside slopes.

In places, pure stands of hemlocks unfold into the distance, and some of the trees are giants. Walking among them on a summer day, you might hear the diaphanous song of a hermit thrush—if the motorboats buzzing up and down the river don't drown out the bird's voice.

The stately trees, the rhythm of walking, the undulations of the trail, and the periodic views of the wide, slow river set between rolling hills usually lull me into a wilderness reverie. I now realize that you can hear the waterfall as you approach Prydden Brook, a mile and a half from the trailhead, but time after time I must have thought the sound was the wind, if I heard it at all.

Then one day I came to the languid brook and stopped. Instead of crossing, I wandered along it toward the river, going around a bend. Finally, I was conscious of a low but unmistakable roar. Stepping over the thickly needled sprays of fallen hemlock branches, I found myself at the top of the waterfall.

It tumbled below me for about 50 feet over a series of broad steplike rocks. Swept into its atmosphere of excitement, I scrambled to the bottom. There, I concluded that this was about the finest little waterfall I had ever found.

No artist, I thought, could conjure up the picture that nature had hung on this riverside slope. The brook threw itself down the rocks in long frothy sheets, in splashy buckets, and in pencil-thin streams. Moss-covered rocks and a fallen timber, glistening wet, filled the spaces. Silvery green hemlocks arched above the commotion.

From a fern-fringed pool at the bottom of the waterfall, the brook resumed its winding course toward the Housatonic. A hundred yards away, it blended into the river with barely a ripple.

I returned to the top and worked my way back down, noting how abruptly the water changed character. Just above the waterfall, the brook was calm—almost stagnant—and only inches deep. When it came spilling down the rocks, not only did it flow faster; it also seemed to grow in volume, as if fed by some magical spring.

A true waterfall, I suppose, plummets from a considerable height in a great display of earth-shaking power, bathing nearby admirers in benevolent spray. This was falling water of a lesser magnitude—showy rather than awesome. Standing only yards away, I felt none of its wetness.

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.