Seldom Visited Falls

04/15/25

Ok, time to do this for real. Earlier start. More supplies. Focused mindset. These falls exist, they're out there, located far up the canyon, well off the beaten path. Getting to them would be an all-day excursion. We were ready for that. Hell yeah. This was happening.

These falls have eluded me for years. I've known of their existence for quite some time, just never figured out how to get to them. I've seen pictures. A few pictures. "Gah! Where is that? It looks so cool!" A huge cliff face, crumbly, sheer, dotted with moss, a white torrent of water gushing down the middle. They looked awesome. I had to see them in person. And I had ideas of where they were. Just ideas. And then came the info from the friend. And then came our excursion in the creek. And when I got home after that little outing I looked on good ol' Google Earth, searched around, and then—ZINGO—there they were. 

It had to be them. It made sense. As it turned out, the info we received from the friend was somewhat correct. These falls really did exist up a side canyon to the left, just much, much farther up the canyon than we had expected. It was looking like I was in for another long day in the creek, a modest price to pay to view the incredible. 

On April 15 I met Alex at the trailhead, both of us wearing wide brimmed hats, synthetic pants, breathable shirts, and shoes that we were alright with getting absolutely destroyed. We started much earlier this time, our packs laden with extra supplies that would help us get through the long day. The weather was cool and nice with a thin cloud cover stretching across the sky that blocked the wrath of the sun. 

The morning was slow and steady, much like it was the week prior. We walked for a ways in an unhurried fashion, neither one of us thinking much of how far we had to go. Truth be told, we really didn't know exactly how far we had to go. All that we knew was that these falls were way the hell up the canyon and that getting to them would be, as one friend who had been there put it, "an all day thing." We had prepared for that, but thinking about it was a little intimidating. Best to stare at the feet and keep truckin' down the trail.

We eventually entered the creek, stuffing the electronics in the good ol' dry bag. From that moment on we pretty much remained in the creek until we reached the falls. I don't think I've ever spent so much time in a creek. Jumping, hopping, climbing, striding, slipping, skipping, squatting—we were getting a full-body workout in that creek. So many boulders, so many slick rocks, so much deadfall and foliage and cool, clear water. Our shoes suffered through the creek, falling apart the farther we went. 

We made good time, having received our "creek legs" the week prior. If it weren't for that preliminary expedition, we likely wouldn't have made it to these elusive falls. Our legs were accustomed to the ways of the creek, and we zoomed up the canyon as fast as we could, trying to find the path of least resistance. 

The farther we ventured up the canyon, the less we saw evidence of humanity. No foot prints, no broken branches, no cairns, nothing. The canyon was a wild place, carved out and gutted by the gentle creek in which we were traveling. Huge rocks and debris from previous winter storms littered the canyon floor, offering many obstacles that impeded our progress. We took special care to look up every once in a while at the towering 100ft+ cliffs that lined the canyon, crumbly and falling apart. Wouldn't want to get brained by a falling rock now, would we?

At times the creek disappeared underground, leaving us wandering around dry boulder fields like those at the bottom of an alluvial fan. And then the creek would reappear, slowly at first, appearing in shallow, stagnant puddles. And then it was as if the faucet was turned back on and the creek would be running like clockwork, free and wild and cool and clear as ever. Frogs and fish inhabited the deeper pools, while several insects seemed to enjoy the shallower, more mellow portions of the creek. 

We had been slogging it in the creek for a while now, boulder hopping, busting through brush, scaling small waterfalls, crawling under deadfall. We came to a spot in the shade of an old sycamore tree and took the first good break of the day. I hadn't been checking the time so far and was astonished to see that we had been hiking for over four hours. Oof. That meant that we had better turn around soon, since it was likely to take just as long going back as it would going in. We planned on giving ourselves another hour to find these falls. If we didn't find them within the next hour, well dammit, we'd have to call it quits. 

And for a moment it seemed like that would be the case. Not long after we finished our little break we encountered the crux of the day, a section of creek that I called "The Boulder Problem." It was a dry, steep section of creek, littered with gigantic boulders bleached by the sun. Some class 3 scrambling was required to move through this problem, severely limiting our efficiency through the canyon. Wandering through this hodge-podge mess of boulders was taking a lot of time. I began to wonder that if the creek continued to be like this for much longer, we definitely wouldn't make it.

Looking down at "The Boulder Problem"

But then, after surpassing this obstacle, I noticed the canyon narrow to a chokepoint. Beneath this chokepoint appeared to be a drop-off. Much of it was obscured by trees, but I had a feeling that what I was looking at had to be these elusive falls. I shared this idea to Alex, and he said something like, "it better be." No time to waste. We continued past the boulder problem towards the chokepoint, the canyon getting much steeper the farther we went. 

The creek reappeared beneath our feet, gushing in small torrents down the numerous boulders that inhabited the canyon floor. Foliage soon began to choke the canyon, blocking out the light of day. A sound reached our ears, not very loud, but unmistakable as nothing other than that of a large waterfall. We scaled a few more boulders and then reached a flat area, the creek running steady and calm. A small, fairly deep pool of emerald green water was before us, flanked in a semicircle by young sycamores and California bay leaf. And yeah, towering above all of this—at last!—were the elusive, magnificent falls. 

Water seeped out of the rock, dripping down the face of the cliff like a million little tears. Moss and other delicate foliage dotted the face, dripping with moisture and shining bright in the cloud-filtered light of the sun. Numerous, miniature cascades poured down and around the cliff, feeding the small pool at its base. The place looked a lot like Weeping Rock in Zion National Park, just without all the red sandstone and tourists and easy access and whatnot. This place felt isolated, wild, yet strangely peaceful. There was a feeling about the place that was simply indescribable. Was it the beauty of the falls? Their isolation? The knowledge that very few people have ever seen them? I couldn't say. I just sat down, ate a sandwich, and stared at them for a long time, admiring every little feature, every detail, cementing the picture of these falls in my mind. 

Alex cracked open a pilsner and ate some mustard "to help prevent cramps." We both walked around a bit, trying to see these falls from every possible angle. They looked a lot different from the pictures I had seen, but then again, those pictures were fairly old. Nature has a way of changing things; ain't nothing permanent in nature. 

We looked around, taking a bunch of photos. I scampered on over to the base of the falls, above the pool, and got a nice cold shower. The cloud cover had now thickened, and the water chilled me to the core. Thoughts of splashing into the pool at my feet, which just a few moments ago seemed very inviting, now seemed like an endeavor in misery. I scurried back to where I ate my sandwich and jumped around, wishing for nothing but warmth. 

Bird nest

We stayed at the falls for almost an hour, enjoying them as much as possible since we knew that neither one of us would likely ever see them again, especially how we were seeing them at that moment. Another good winter storm and the whole area will change again. Who knows? That pool might disappear, the trees might be washed away, the falls might even take a whole new shape. We soaked up as much of the scene as we could. But we had to leave at some point. Couldn't stay there forever. And so, with one last look, we waved goodbye to the falls and slowly made our way back down the canyon. 

Going back down the canyon was the same as it was going up. The same boulders, the same deadfall, the same brush, just a different direction. Alex impressed me by descending the boulder problem with a beer in his hand, although there was one spot where I had to hold it for him. We made it back to the trailhead in about the same amount of time as it took us to get to the falls, the whole day taking just under ten hours. Alex and I bumped fists and parted ways. And that was that—finally, after all these years, we'd made it to these elusive, seldom visited falls. And they were every bit as amazing as I imagined them to be. 

In my hunt to find these falls, I discovered a phrase that was repeatedly used in conjunction with them: "if you know, you know." So in keeping with the ethos that surrounds these falls, I've explicitly excluded any obvious information as to their whereabouts. Where is this "creek" and "canyon" anyway? I ain't gonna say. Part of the allure of these falls is their confidentiality. It keeps them quiet and secluded, unburdened by the negatives of popular visitation. I believe that those who put in the effort to find these falls on their own are likely to treat them with the respect and courtesy that they deserve. And I'll leave it at that.