The Waterfall Project: Roaring Brook Falls


“The world is emblematic. Parts of speech are metaphors, because the whole of nature is a metaphor of the human mind.”

“I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part of God.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

Dear S,

You chose this trail with confidence on a day I felt uneasy.

Roaring Brook Falls was on a list we found online while waiting to see the chiropractor. This hike was just the two of us, on the Thursday that was actually your first day of summer vacation. The trail head is in a residential neighborhood, and the hike appeared to be short, based on the very vintage looking map a few feet from the spot where we parked our car.IMG_2274

I felt weird that morning because I had had one of those incredibly vivid dreams that happen right before you wake up. The dream was about your dad, and in it he needed help, and in it, you were grown and he was a child. I wrote the details down in a note on my phone; they seem incoherent right now, and the specifics will stay locked away until I can think them through.

We ate a small lunch in the car before we started our hike. You finished quickly and ran out to read the sign and decipher the map, while I ate celery sticks and Baby Bell cheese. (This is Day Four of my sugar free/ gluten free cleanse. I am a bit grumpy and I miss bread, ice cream, and doughnuts.)

We walked over a concrete bridge that cut across a pond (a reservoir, maybe?) and took pictures of the calm water. We looped around an abandoned tennis court- the vines creeping through the net and the weeds sprouting up from the cracks in the pavement seem like a too-perfect metaphor for leaving the residential and entering the woods.


Rebecca Solnit has an incredible collection of essays called As Eve Said to the Serpent: On Landscape, Gender, and Art and I read a bunch of them at the beginning of the summer. The first essay in the collection, “The Bomb: Lise Meitner’s Walking Shoes,” opens with the line, “A sentence, or a story, is a kind of path,” and that feels like an epigraph for this waterfall project.* Solnit goes on to write about Thoreau’s famous talk-then-essay “Walking,” which describes Nature as a holy place, and walking as a way of “being somewhere, but not necessarily getting anywhere,” because walking is great for thinking. She points out that there is shift, though, in Thoreau’s words. In his praise of wilderness and celebration of the West, he is, contrarily, also applauding man’s technological progress, which, of course, is synonymous with destruction. “I must walk toward Oregon, and not toward Europe. And that way the nation is moving, and I may say that mankind progresses from east to west.” And here we are, you and I, walking through the forests of New England, not praising advances, but, in some ways, escaping the modern. Except that we aren’t. You play games on a handheld Nintendo while I drive our car to these trails. We have cameras and an iPhone in our pockets. And I am writing here, on a blog, from my laptop.

I feel a little like I am searching for Emerson’s transcendental moment, that old transparent eyeball that absorbs rather than reflects. I want to hike these trails and be fully with you, in the woods, exploring. And yet, as we’re walking I wonder- is it possible to absorb without reflection? It seems to me that Emerson must have reflected on all that he took in from nature in order to write his book. Perhaps then, like Thoreau, this waterfall project, or rather the writing about this waterfall project, is a looking back while moving forward. So far, we have been climbing up to look down.

Our red dot trail took a sharp right turn and the hill was right there, daunting, maybe taunting. We stopped a lot. I worried for a moment that we didn’t have enough water. There were more than a few times that we asked each other whether we should go back or keep climbing. I was grateful I stuffed extra cheese in my front pocket and jammed the bug spray in my back pocket.IMG_2285
There was a rest area marked on the map. A spot near a tree where the grass has been flattened and where you can hear more than see the falls. We rested there for a bit and left our walking sticks leaned against a big rock. It almost looks like it could be the end of the trail, but I knew that it wasn’t and we went on. And then we found it. It was dark and quiet, the falls tumbled cold and soft onto some flat rocks. We took pictures. You seemed anxious. You said you were ready to go home.IMG_2296

There are spots peppering the trail that whisper of youth. A massive stone fireplace near the base of the trail filled with charred logs, larger stumps in a half-circle in front, a few crushed cans of light beer on the ground. A narrow path that drops dramatically down to the water, where we heard the echoes of people laughing and splashing. And at the top of the path, where the falls begin to spill, a burnt-out circle, more ashes, a pair of underwear stuffed beneath a rock, a bottle cap.

When I was twenty-one I went cross-country with your dad. We had two-months worth of supplies crammed into the backseat of a Pontiac Sunfire, an atlas, and National Geographic’s Guide to National Parks. Your dad rode shotgun and I drove. We hiked The Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, Capital Reef, Bryce Canyon, and Zion in Utah, The Grand Canyon in Arizona, and the Redwoods in California. We were very young, perhaps reckless, and searching. There are pictures in a box in the attic and someday I will show them to you.

The hike back down was harder than the hike up. I taught you to walk sideways, so your feet and the trail are perpendicular. You held onto my elbow for stability, white knuckled, and I guided you as best I could down the dry dust and skidding pebbles. It was both exhilarating and scary, I think.

Once we skidded back down to the tree line and righted our feet, you relaxed. The trees were dropping seeds so furiously that it sounded like it was raining. The noise was distracting, or maybe it was attracting, because at that moment we were solely and acutely aware of nature. That’s when I noticed that our trail ran parallel to an overgrown gulch. A scar on the land created, maybe, by a glacier or running water that no longer flows. It was a deep cavern filled with tall grass and tangled weeds- evidence that something massive and perhaps destructive, had shaped the land.

When we got home we ate strawberries in the hammock. I asked you what you thought about our hike, worried that the tricky terrain might have deterred you from wanting to try any more trails. You swung your arm over the side, absent-mindedly plucking at the bits of grass that grow under there, and said, “It was kinda tough, but the reward was beautiful.”


*Solnit, Rebecca. “The Bomb: Lise Meitner’s Walking Shoes.” As Eve Said to the Serpent: On Landscape, Gender, and Art. Athens, GA: U of Georgia, 2003. Print.

4 thoughts on “The Waterfall Project: Roaring Brook Falls

  1. Oh how I love this. And why I don’t know was I distracted wondering – was this before or after I saw you? It had to be before, and yet the experience is so rich and moving that somehow I can’t reconcile that it happened before I saw you two that day here in the concrete jungle, but with plenty of hiding spots and secrets, too, but that I’m only reading it now. Like I have to re-insert it back into that brief afternoon visit. My distractions that weren’t attractions, my gleefulness in getting to see you, my gratitude, but the little whisper of a visit was sort of disorienting, too. You used to be a compass for me; meeting on 9th ave in Hells Kitchen a clearing, a landing, a re-grouping, a place to begin moving forward again. And yet here you were then gone off to trails trickier than you expected off to paths real and metaphorical, entwined. You have such precision here in this piece. And I love so much how you observe, how you seem to have absorbed what Sarah wrote about (who was she quoting? now I forget) in terms of just giving us what you see, not interpreting it. You both interpret and also just let be. I love when you wrote about S seeming nervous but you didn’t try to change that or dig into it or twist him out of it. You just accepted it. Many times I’ve noticed that (to me) sudden switch, where happy energy seems to change. And I wonder: why? But maybe the why of that is not a question that leads anywhere fruitful. Maybe the is is more than enough, even without the reward (though we can always hope for one).

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Good god, how I miss you, and those Hells Kitchen days (those tacos!) and the time we carved out to whip out notebooks and write furiously and share ideas- new ones coming out before the old ones were finished.
    This week I got a rejection that stung more than it should have, and your comment here has helped push that cloud of post-rejection doubt away. Thank you. You always seem to know when I’m ready to quit.
    That all too brief meet up a few weeks ago was a little disorienting, wasn’t it? Too fast. Too much spinning around us. This post was definitely before then, and I am way behind in writing about that NYC day, and there is so much to say.
    That sudden switch, where happy energy seems to change, yes- why does that happen? When it happens to S, I wonder what deep things he must be thinking about, and then I wonder if maybe he’s just hungry. Worrying about the big and little problems never seems to change.


  3. Oh my God how perfect it was to come and see this comment. Reminds me of how Sarah wrote that these blog exchanges are the closest thing we have now to letters. Amie you just made me laugh so happily at my kitchen table under and awkward deadline (so of course what do I do? go and find my favorite blogs and hope for word from you…). I laughed so hard about that visit being disorienting. Too fast. Too much swirling. You are just so dead on. That it was. There was a franticness to my feeling about it -needing too much from the quick visit with all the craziness. Needing that grounding again from the Hell’s Kitchen days & the tacos and the notebooks covered with ideas…Reading this makes me more convinced than ever that we must do the Writing Wednesdays…should it be in a room? A bar? My livingroom? I love the idea of writers’ salon…no pressure…no sharing necessary even…just the together-ness of it, the camaraderie and holding each other accountable and the community…miss your writing & you even more…

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh Rach, I am just now catching up on comments here and on your blog project (where you have so much incredible writing happening) and this. I miss that night we had in Midtown and formed our tiny army, I mean writing group. It needs to happen again soon. These comments feel like letters. Public though, I guess, so more like (digital) postcards?


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