Breaks in the World

Breaks in the World


The water flying over Enfield Falls generates a dull roar as the ivory foam crashes into sandstone interwoven with crumbling shale. Even from atop the rim of the gorge, plants and trees tremble under the powerful falls’ reign. As the erratic trail rises and falls, alternating between mud and concrete, I notice that the tiny Lady Ferns’ browning feathers, which are its lanceolate leaves, are pointed down, slumped. Light illuminates autumn’s splendor across the valley, and I notice how dissimilar that side is from ours. I wonder if we picked the boring side to hike up.
The sky is pale blue on the opposite side of the creek, but blindingly blank above us. Across the water, a wall of pale rose, peach, and varying tones of green brightens as the sun shoots out from behind the white half of the sky. The trees towering above us, however, seem either long dead or unchanged. At least that satisfying spring scent of cool dirt and rotting leaves lingers in the air, regardless of which path we chose.
Soon our trail fully disappears underneath a bed of yellow leaves sprinkled with charred bronze spots of decay. The water sounds close, but is lost in the collage of trunks and branches, and its presence fades as our elevation rises. Soon all is quiet except for the rustling of survivors, those leaves clinging to life as the branches try to shake them free. As I experiment with various light settings on my digital camera, a familiar sound breaks the eerie silence. The explosive groan fades into a diminuendo, and I know what my boyfriend is doing even before glancing over in his direction. Fifteen yards ahead of me, Todd’s eyes are wide with expectant eyebrows, and he is wearing a queer half-smile in an unconvincing attempt to soften the impact of his crossed arms and impatient exasperation. “Youuuuu and your stupid camera,” he sighs as I catch up to him (only after I captured the brilliance of the colors the way I wanted, of course). I laugh lightly as I retire my camera to its case for a few minutes and slip my arm around his waist.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have given it to me, then!” Every time we go hiking with my camera, this fact kicks him in the ass. I’m all about the athletic aspect of scrambling up steep terrain and refining my agility by crossing streams on fallen trees, but if I’ve remembered to grab my camera, it’s all over. I know I can be annoying if a shot comes out wrong and I have to adjust my settings, sometimes a few times for one photograph. But I also know Todd realizes that stopping to absorb the beauty surrounding us is hardly something to get angry over. That’s why, this past August, I secured my camera case to my climbing harness as he lowered me down a steep Adirondack cliff that plummets beneath the water. I made him wait in belaying position at the top while I took one of my new favorite photographs; the photo peers up the sheer stone wall, with my left hand in view, gripping a crevice, and the blue rope disappearing with the cliff’s edge into the distant sky. Even Todd was impressed with that one. So, usually, I can get away with thirty seconds here, and a minute there during our hikes, pausing for photography without hearing one of Todd’s infamous minute-long groans.
As we continue up the trail, a family of four approach from the opposite direction. “This trail leads to a dead end, doesn’t it?” The weary father jokes with us, and we exchange a few passing words about which way they should go at the fork. Todd and I swap expressions of shock once they go by.
“People in Ithaca are actually friendly today?” Todd checks with me, making sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Strangely enough, in this excessively liberal, environmentally friendly town chock full of soy milk-drinking, organic-produce-trading, Green Star (a local politically correct food co-op) addicted hippies, we have been burned too many times to count by fellow hikers. We’re not expecting a welcoming parade or anything, but a mere “Hello,” or some eye contact accompanied by a slight smile never killed anyone on the trails in our native Upstate New York. We imagined that Central New York wouldn’t be any different. Contrarily, even when we make the first gesture acknowledging passing hikers in Ithaca, they often completely ignore our generous “How ya doin?” and walk right on by without so much as a glance.
“Maybe it’s something they ate this morning,” I suggest with innocent enthusiasm as I playfully push Todd behind me attempt to race him up a slight incline. He hasn’t bothered to quicken his pace, however, so I whip out my camera once again.
“What are you even taking a picture of? There’s nothing even-”
“Don’t complain or I’ll shove you off this escarpment!” I interrupted. “I’m photographing the topography. What is this, an esker?” Though my research into gorges has expanded my own knowledge base, Todd took several geography classes in college, and he conveniently doubles as my very own, personal natural history tour guide.
“No, no, no. An esker is a steep sided, long sinuous ridge. This is just a gradual drop-off into the gorge—I don’t think it has a term.”
Finally, our semi-boring trail descends and we hop off the path out to the water’s edge, which finally returns. In the wavering light, the changing leaves are pulsing and glowing like burning embers refusing to die. We wander in separate directions; I take pictures of an exquisite rainbow-tinted rosette, and absorb the essence of a five-foot tall natural waterfall, uniform in height, width, and flow, resembling a man-made dam. From a miniature island, Todd views another set of cascades further down the stream. I want to go out there with him; all I need to do is walk across that ten-foot log. Yes, that slimy, bark-stripped, wobbly log no thicker than my thigh…perhaps I’ll risk submersion on a day when I am not toting my camera and notes. Todd makes his way back over to me, and we observe the world in silence for a moment until I sigh.
“I wanted to go out on that island with you, but I didn’t want to risk ruining my camera and journal,” I remark, still a bit jealous of Todd’s doubtlessly spectacular view of the falls further down the creek and mostly out of my sight. He grins sheepishly.
“Well, I’m actually pretty surprised, myself, that I made it across that log. It was pretty sketch.” Wow. Todd, the nimble creature of the woods—as he sees himself— admitted almost falling? Now I am thrilled with my decision to stay behind. He must have been in severe trouble. It’s just like if Todd tells me that something is “a little spicy.” He loves hot food, while mild salsa sometimes burns my tongue. Knowing this, however, never prevents him from saying, “Oh, it’s not hot at all. You’ll be fine,” just before spooning me a bite of chili, sentencing me to five minutes of eye watering oral pain. So now when he says, “It’s not that bad,” in regards to absolutely anything, I know that it must be horrible.
We follow the water’s edge for a few minutes, swimming through sprouting saplings and overgrown vines, until we locate what would seem to be a great swimming hole off to the side of the current, complete with a diving rock and all. This is our last new discovery; we soon cross the water and meet our usual turn-around point.
Last time we were here, we started at the top every time before. As we approached the entrance to the gorge, the softening sunlight accented the rectangular columns of interbedded shale and sandstone as our warm star prepared to dip beneath the tree line. The fragrance in the late September day reminded me of freshly cut Christmas trees. As we traversed further into the forest, leaves swished under our feet: they did not yet crackle. Dark myrtle minus its lavender flowers coated the sides of the trail before the path opened up to reveal crystal clear water moving out of the old interglacial valley and turning South. We left the sun behind; the isolating stacks of tough Enfield shale that now towered above us darkened all in sight. Walking down the path, pitches varied according to the chute channel’s force and the depth of the rock beneath the shining, humming water.
In the calmer areas, the water grew greener. The pockets and potholes worn by swirling pebbles and sand or former small falls, combined with a surreal rocky waterfall behind them, made me think that if mermaids existed they would make this their home. White flowers shaped like goldenrods invaded the stone wall; the leaves, though, were those of roses. Other flowers, colored and clustered like lilacs, also grew from the mossy wall, but their protruding, pale lemon discs demanded that attention be diverted from its lavender rays and directed toward themselves.
A breeze wound up Enfield gorge as Todd and I crossed a bridge looming over a deadly drop. From the bridge, I finally found the sun again, straight ahead, illuminating the tops of distant conifers. As we lowered ourselves into the next level of the chasm, I realized that the rock next to a smaller, gently sloped waterfall resembled a solid sandbank, changing shape and pigment with each wave that washed over it. Past its plunge pool, the contradictive combination of smooth ripples and chaotic, crashing foam fits well in the midst of jutting, rigid joint edges and smooth, water-washed potholes. This beginning section of the park boasts fractures of perfectly cleaved Devonian bedrock, made possible by both the Permian joints and the creek, which helped erode huge geometrical slabs of shale.
I love this part of upper Treman State Park. Looking straight forward after rounding the bend, one would think both the water and the trail drop off into the abyss. As the backdrop, magnificent mossy cliffs with the slightest slope carry surface run-off down into the stream. Bluebells decorated the cliff beside me that day, and before I could write a poem—I had forgotten my camera—Todd gently pulled my hand and we moved down the stairs into the void.
“Look at that!” Todd exclaimed, pointing high above our heads. A tree umbrella-ed us from about 90-130 feet up.
“We could anchor there,” I thought out loud, wistfully imagining the climbing possibilities this surprisingly solid rock wall could offer.
“Yeah, it’s too bad we’d get arrested,” Todd sneered. “They wouldn’t want anyone actually having fun at a state park, would they?” He had an excellent point. National parks and forests allow visitors to do whatever they like, at their own risk, as long as they respect the land according to conservation law, acquire the necessary permits, and register for any special privileges, like backcountry camping. It seems only fair for that standard to apply to all government-protected parks.
The “abyss” turned out to be one significant free-falling waterfall, with a light ginger clay-like substance appearing underneath the water. Then it turns into a sort of slip-and-slide for the rest of the 230-foot waterfall. Here, Enfield Creek rejoins the ancient interglacial valley, which used to carry a river down the westward slope from a large, prehistoric mountain range to the east of Ithaca. Lucifer Falls is its name, perhaps because it seems as though the world ends when you are at its top, looking forward. However, the cathedral of rock, plants, and life encasing it, protecting it, proves it more heavenly than devilish.
Traversing on, we stopped to examine a thick layer of smooth rock, its level persistent throughout the gorge. Todd informed me that it is called an unconformity, a break in the geological record, indicating the occurrence of a drastic natural event during its formation, like a major flood, an earthquake, or sudden severe erosion.
Instead of turning around and hiking back up to the car same way we came, once we set foot upon the bridge that signaled our inevitable return, we lingered for a moment, absorbing the essence of the smaller cascades careened by the larger waterfall behind them. “Hey,” I nudged Todd. “Where’s my kiss?”
When we first began dating four and a half years ago, we had plenty of regular hiking spots, but our area lacked many waterfalls taller than a foot. Whenever we found one, we kissed. I thought nothing could be more romantic than kissing the one you love entranced in the white noise of a gorgeous, rushing waterfall beside you. I guess it is sort of a corny tradition, and it faded once we came to Ithaca; we can’t exactly make out for the duration of our hikes in this waterfall-abundant town. Nevertheless, once in a while one of us remembers and the magic butterflies awaken in my chest. He pulled me in and our lips met. As long as we can share our passionate wonder of nature, I am sure we can keep our love alive.
Ever since my stoner friends introduced me to the necessary process of hiking to secluded outdoor “spots” where we would smoke weed in high school, I developed an evolving attachment to the tranquility of the woods, which only grew as I explored as many trails and parks as possible. I’d always had a fascination with water, whether it was the infinite ocean, the winding pebbly creek that snaked through my childhood neighborhood, or the surreal fog that would wet my rosy cheeks and crimson nose as I gawked at Niagara Falls’ incomprehensible oblivion. I guess it’s fitting, since the English definition of my name is “dweller by the water.”
Regardless, when I realized that I would have to abandon everyone I ever knew if I wanted to fulfill my career ambitions, I knew I’d need to transfer to a college that provided the comfort of nature nearby. I briefly considered Syracuse University, because it is known for its highly prestigious school for magazine journalism. However, after realizing that I would suffocate living in a city, and empty my pockets paying for school, I moved on with my search. I applied to Plattsburgh, a New York state school with a major in magazine journalism and entire courses on writing articles about moose or wolves. It even offers a minor in Expedition Studies, which requires specialization in rock or ice climbing, sea kayaking, or ski mountaineering. Plattsburgh offers scenic mountain views, easy access to Vermont ski resorts, Whiteface Mountain, and Quebec, and of course, affordable tuition.
As an avid rock-climbing aficionado (complete with enough gear and knowledge to annually rappel down and climb Bluff Island’s eighty-foot cliff that begins even farther beneath the depths of Lower Saranac Lake), snowboarder, hiker, and nature photographer, I would have been sold on SUNY Plattsburgh. However, after being chosen for an annual ten thousand dollar scholarship for Ithaca College, another of the few New York schools with a major coinciding with my interests, I decided to strive for a writing degree from this more prominent university.
Still, if not for Ithaca’s extraordinary natural environment, situated at the bottom of Cayuga Lake and with its multitude of gorges, waterfalls, state parks, nature preserves, and opportunities for various kinds of outdoor recreation all contained within barely ten square miles, I can’t imagine having left the only town I ever lived in, by myself. Solitude is not so undesirable—for a natural-born dweller by the water, at least—when your legs are dangling over the edge of a waterfall, reading a book, knowing that the same water will soon pass your apartment’s balcony.
The only times I ever felt a twinge of loneliness while in nature was when I’d be at the edge of the lake doing homework. The clusters of kids scattered alongside the shore drank a few beers, laughed, and made me realize how much I took days like that for granted back home. So when my equally nature-enthusiastic boyfriend found a job here six months later, I was thrilled to have a hiking buddy. I never did feel comfortable alone on secluded trails in densely wooded forests. It’s just another consequence of living in a violent society where women are continuously victimized: Even in our most comforting environments, female nature lovers, and women in general, can never fully relax.
But during my first six months in Ithaca, I habitually sauntered down the three blocks separating me from the mouth of the heavily trafficked Cascadilla Glen, and found myself loving life. I splashed through the shallow creek, climbed up small shale cliffs, photographed towering shale columns against the deep blue sky, read for school, wrote essays, and sometimes just zoned out on the sun-warmed slates of rock, letting Cascadilla’s first large waterfall engulf my attention with its gentle, endless sigh. When Todd visited me on the weekends, we explored Lick Brook’s clandestine waterfalls at Sweedler Nature Preserve (part of the Finger Lakes Land Trust), which we discovered with the help of a Finger Lakes trail guide.
Like most Finger Lakes gorges, Sweedler’s microhabitat formed during an interglacial period (between two ice ages) when a newly liquefied stream cut through layers of shale. This new stream created the new, upper flume, and then united with the old, vast gorge filled with debris deposited by the retreating glaciers. Similar to Lucifer Falls at Treman State Park, a great 140-foot waterfall, mostly freefalling, signifies the conjoining of the two epochs. Equipped with our Gore-Tex hiking shoes and not much else, we still climb this series of waterfalls from below the sun’s reach, skipping from slimy ledges to steady rocks within the gulch, rather than follow the beaten path (which rarely offers a scenic view).
We immerse ourselves in nature, accepting the inherent danger of death and injury, as does the life that flourishes and perishes inside the gully. Our deft and arrogant actions are also appropriate according to our namesakes, as Todd’s name translates to “fox,” and my name, spelled correctly, originates from an Irish Gaelic word for “brave,” or “warrior woman.” Every time we sneak into the gorge from the rim trail, we enter a universe not quite our own, but one we do our best to adapt to. We risk our lives, all for the opportunity to feel alive, to feel like a part of the natural world. And, of course, to splash in the puddles with our cool waterproof shoes!
We have always been sort of reckless in our outdoor adventures, but without venturing off the trail we would be just like everyone else. And we most definitely do not aspire to conform to any mold. At twenty-three and twenty-two, respectively, Todd and I are determined to never grow up or follow the rules. We actually got scolded early this past summer when the Finger Lakes Land Trust steward’s friend noticed we were illegally climbing up a dirt/shale wall on the right side of the huge waterfall. Neither Todd nor I have ever had a significant fear of heights, but the Sweedler Preserve has more than one way of scaring its explorers.
The night was upon us as we pressed on, stepping up the shale staircases that became more evenly toned with each passing minute. We could still see where the water poured, but slick rock threatened to send us smashing into jagged walls or tumbling down a few shallow cascades at any moment. Once we reached the natural amphitheater featuring the impressive waterfall, we kicked through the inch of water flowing beneath our feet and examined the curious rock piles. There must have been fifteen of the stone stacks, much more than I usually see at Cascadilla Gorge. None of my photographs captured their essence well because it was too dark; using the flash merely washed the color out.
Knowing that we’d already be hiking back to the car in darkness, we decided not to hesitate returning to the land trail. Retracing our steps down into the gorge was not as simple as usual. Though I never actually fell, my feet swung upward and my arms circled, like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel, more than once. But as I approached the biggest drop that we needed to wriggle down—without getting wet—a mauve ribbon at least two inches around let the current sweep its squiggling self downstream. The lack of light made the snake’s pale pink body stand out as I watched it fall through the crevice I was just about to use as a hold for lowering myself down the waterfall. After searching for hours on the internet trying to figure out what kind of snake it could have been, I’ve given up. No snakes known to inhabit this area of the country have solid pink or tan, or even gray skin. It most certainly wasn’t a black rat snake or a ring-necked snake, which are the only ones listed to inhabit the preserve by the Finger Lakes Land Trust. Maybe one day the mystery reptile and I will meet again.
Though sacrificing the seclusion Lick Brook Gully offers, sometimes Todd and I hike up Buttermilk Falls, one of the state parks—the other being Taughannock—that I visited five times during one summer in high school. Now that we have an array of known gorges to choose from, however, we tend to stick to ones that don’t feature reminders of consumerism.
* * * * * * * * * *
As we reach the top of Buttermilk’s first main waterfall, we should be distancing ourselves from material goods and all reminders of civilization, but instead my sight falls upon an empty Mountain Dew bottle. Then, a used Aquafina water bottle peeks out at me from under the leaves dressing the top of the steep slope leading into the heart of the gorge. The insolence of these littering hikers is astounding. If you’re out here, you must appreciate nature, right? The tiresome, relentless climb up the falls’ side isn’t particularly enjoyable. So why are hikers destroying the scenery and harming the environment by chucking their garbage wherever they please?
The best part of all, though, about reaching the top of this most brutal section of the trail, is the picturesque view. In dead center view, Home Depot rewards us for our completion of the exhausting climb up the gorge. Moving on in disgust, I focus on the better, calming aspects of the state park. The dark, narrow crevice we are about to enter looks cool and inviting to my clammy skin. Fallen trees in the gorge remind me of propped up toothpicks; hundred year-old trees are so tiny in relation to the grandeur of the rock around them.
Hopping off the path once the drop-offs ease up, we walk in the water, once again as giddy to be dry as children in a puddle with their yellow rubber boots. A few scattered sugar maples accent the water with their fallen fluorescent leaves. Though it is now October, the creek is still relatively warm, and feels amazing on my face. Playing in the water for a moment, I peel leaves from a submerged boulder. They float now, and after swirling together in a miniature whirlpool, a ruby leaf parts from its companions. Defiantly crimson against the earth tones in the water, my renegade leaf deftly escapes the downward current that sweeps the rest over a small sandstone ledge. Dancing and twirling up the brook, it seems as though even gravity is too mesmerized by this waif—sneakily escaping obliteration—to perform its duties. Like a torpedo on a sightseeing excursion, the flimsy yet determined sugar maple leaf never wavers in its path, but turns slowly as though it wants to observe all of its surroundings, as well.
Halfway submerged in ancient mountain river water, however, the leaf cannot discern the approaching waterfall. Despite its endurance, the leaf lacks the salmon’s ability to wriggle its way up the spout to the next stone shelf. Immediately, the pounding water sucks it down, snapping it—and me—from all delusions that perhaps this leaf could flee the power of a force able to shape and dispose of solid rock. For a moment, the jewel is lost. But then a flash of burgundy from beneath the foaming surface catches my eye. The leaf still dances, hopeful, but I see that it is sinking into a prehistoric pothole, and will be trapped in darkness. Sliding under a crevice in the bedrock, its color fades to an earthy russet. But it still dances.
Todd wanders over and I rise. Words cannot accurately describe the amazing scene I just witnessed, so I say nothing and we move on. There is something appealing to me about observing natural wonders alone and in secret. When it happens, it is as though Mother Nature, with specifically your presence in mind, has gifted you with a private performance that only you will ever be able to fully appreciate. Sometimes when I spot a shooting star, I resist the urge to tell whoever I am with, fantasizing about the possibility that I am the only person in the world who happened to see that instantaneous flash of burning matter. I’m one of those people who think that falling trees do make noise, even when no one is in the forest. So many amazing natural events occur, on our own planet, that we never see—but that doesn’t mean they do not exist. Maybe that’s why I feel so privileged when I observe extraordinary natural happenings: so much already goes unnoticed.
It is our last hike before we will need gloves and hats in order to brave Ithaca’s brutal winter gorges. Acid rain and frost wedging have transformed the limestone beneath our feet to a cracked, pock-marked slab of rock: a perfect textbook example of chemical and physical weathering. Todd and I submit to the dreary weather, and our conversation is limited. We make observations about the contrasting microclimates on either side of the gorge, and express disbelief over the fact that the youngest layer of rock in the gorge was once mud composed of algae and marine organisms’ skeletons and skulls. The scattered informational signs mounted on podium-like stands tell us all of these facts. Though we’ve read these before, we can’t seem to generate much conversation that’s not prompted by the weathered signs. It could be that we are slightly hung over and paying for our determination to spend at least one of our days off hiking. But our tired, melancholy demeanor is not helped by the sad truth: Taughannock Falls State Park is no longer radiant with pumpkin and scarlet-dressed trees. Even the freshly transplanted rows of seven-foot tall Eastern hemlocks are withered. Despite both of us being born in Rochester, we’ll never get used to New York’s long, hard winters. This winter, though, will be especially difficult—as was last year’s—without a decent mountain nearby. Snowboarding always gave us one positive aspect of winter to actually anticipate. This year, unfortunately, we just have to endure the misery.
A needed symbol of strength appears across the water. A baby sugar maple retains its merlot-stained leaves amongst the vast ravine of barren oaks and maples, as the gorge’s last deciduous tree to resist the dulling cold. Perhaps its youth and naivety allow it to press on after the older trees give in to the inevitable, static gloom of winter. But maybe it knows what is to come, but refuses to surrender its last reminders of color for five months without a fight. If only Todd and I could shake some of our own cynicism for a booster shot of enthusiastic resolve to make the most out of what we have.
Sunlight rolls down the ravine and a distant crow honks, reminding us that despite appearances, life and hope persevere. Kicking through piles of dry leaves like fluffy powdered snow, I begin to look for beauty rather than death and stillness. As I look closer, I realize the maple may not have to wait until spring for color. Watching two currents merge to form a “V” pattern in the water, the light enhances the slate blue tone in the middle of the creek, and dark amber hues appear along the edges of the water. Continuing on, the varying saturation in the blues and greens I see in the water make for a dazzling display of a steel, peacock green, and cerulean shaded creek bed. Rounding the bend, no deeper than an inch of water washes sideways onto the bumpy limestone.
Water is so unpredictable; its random patterns are always changing even when pressure and the surfaces it flows over are controlled and stable. Despite physics lessons, I’ve never been able to comprehend that once a drop of water joins a puddle or the ocean, the droplet does not remain together as the same group of molecules. People don’t merge with other people when they’re pushed together in a crowd! Taughannock Creek’s ripples are no more significant than Cayuga Lake’s sloshing waves on a choppy day, but they capture my attention because they flow away from the middle rather than downstream. I wonder if we will ever decipher the incomprehensible paths that water molecules travel. I suppose we have to figure out our own patterns as emotional beings first.
Todd and I reach the upper gorge, but the 215-foot falls’ frigid spray is far-reaching and foreboding. Boulders lying to the sides of the water are soaked all the way to the footbridge, which is washed away nearly every year. We briefly observe the impressive cliff before us, made of Sherburne sandstone, Geneseo shale, and Ithaca shale, before we excitedly hasten our return to our warm house. I guess we’re kind of like water: our moods and behavior can easily modify even when our external environment remains unchanged. In the car, we covet the heat and turn up the music. There comes a point, even for nature lovers, when enough is enough. We spend the rest of the night huddled together in toasty blankets and in front of the television, joyfully frying our brains with crime investigator shows featuring predictable plot lines and corny one-liners. I think we’re done hiking for the season—that is, until the waterfalls and trickling runoff freeze into massive, awe-inspiring (photogenic) icicles. Maybe we’ll try ice-climbing this year—after all, what good is winter if we can’t enjoy the outdoors?

Sources-
Derek Doeffinger, "Waterfalls and Gorges of the Finger Lakes"
O.D. von Engeln, "The Finger Lakes Region: Its Origin and Nature"