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Holly Kays photo
Under Winter's Spell
My hiking partner Arti explores the frozen landscape.
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Holly Kays photo
Under Winter's Spell
The river teased us with glimpses of ice and frozen flows.
As winter settles into the mountains, I dream of spring flowers and warm sunlight—yet I hope for falling snow and sparkling ice. In my opinion, the worst kind of winter is the mediocre kind, the kind that plods along with early darkness and vaguely chilly air but resists the cold temperatures necessary for any real magic to happen.
The cold outside on this particular day was anything but mediocre. I’d spent most of the past week indoors, blankets my armor against the single-digit freeze that assaulted the brick walls outside. As the weekend drew near with temperatures stubbornly holding below freezing, a warm excitement pushed against the cold threatening to invade me. Surely, this continuous freeze had created some beauty out there in the woods. I would spend my Saturday, I decided, in search of the holy grail of any winter season—a frozen waterfall.
Despite the forecasted high of 27 degrees, I managed to find a couple friends—and their three dogs—willing to make the 5-mile hike with my pup and I. We set off beneath a pure blue sky lit by a heatless sun, my toes developing a chill even while still in the car, shrouded in thick socks. The curvy mountain road assured us that we were on the right track, its seeping rock faces transformed into walls of ice.
A gust of wind greeted us as we tumbled out of the car. I zipped my coat tight around me, adjusting the combination of hat and neck scarf I’d devised so that only the absolute minimum amount of skin would be exposed to the elements. But then we started walking, and I was surprised at how quickly warmth started to gather between my layers. Soon I was pulling off my gloves, then my hat, unzipping my parka and putting the neck scarf in my pocket.
The waterfall was at the end of the trail, but the river teased us with glimpses of ice and frozen flows from the outset. There’s a place not too far from the trailhead where the forest opens up to reveal a steep, steep tumble down to the river far below, and today that river was constrained by a border of ice, thicker and whiter along the banks and progressively thinner until reaching the center, where the water still ran freely.
The river itself stayed mostly hidden for a while after that, but evidence of the deep freeze was everywhere. Rock seeps along the path had frozen over, a beautiful combination of ice blocks and hoarfrost and glazed puddles, and on the trail itself frozen water accumulated to create sheets that resembled miniature skating rinks. The remains of a days-old snow dusting still appeared here and there, pockets of powder buried under leaves or in the shadows of rocks where the stingy winter sun would never shine.
It was all gorgeous, but these sights were really just low-key opening acts compared to the double headliners that would anchor the afternoon.
The first of those headliners, a waterfall that in warmer conditions cascades softly down a series of moss-covered rocks on the opposite bank, delivered its show in complete stillness. It was all frozen, the gentle cascade stopped time and again by the deepening cold, resulting in layers of frozen water that together made one thick, textured, icicle-laden sheet. White discs of ice ringed rocks in the river blow, only a small stream of blue-black water winning its fight for freedom.
It was dramatic, sure, but nothing compared to the grand finale.
Cullowhee Falls is impressive even on an average day. Though it typically handles a relatively low volume of water, the stream spills 150 feet over the cliffs of the Tuckasegee Gorge in a two-tier drop before crashing down into the rocky canyon below.
Today, however, the scene resembled some artificially created movie set more than a product of natural topography. The center stream was still moving, but it was hemmed with a series of frosted icicles that grew ever thicker and longer, merging into each other to create a continuous covering on the rock face.
The small beach—where on warmer days I’d enjoyed many a trail snack, watching the water cascade and thinking thoughts that I’d like to believe were somewhat deep—was on this winter day frozen into the pool of water below it in one frictionless ice sheet. I took a tentative step on the edge, planting one foot, then two, and, seeing no cracks form, testing out a jump. The ice held, and while I wasn’t quite willing to risk stepping out toward the center, the dogs had no such qualms. Ignoring commands to come and sit and stay, their paws slipped haphazardly across the surface as they explored this curious new substance, the ice thankfully holding their weight.
I, meanwhile, did some exploring of my own, following my pup up and over a few dry rocks before dropping my jaw as I encountered the place where everything was ice. An inches-thick sheet covered the rocks before me, continuing out to the water itself and up the icicle-hung falls. If there had been just one single ray of sun glimmering into the canyon, the magic would have been complete. But in the deep of winter, that’s an elusive wish. The sun was already sinking, half out of sight behind the trees.
In January, though, the sun is not the reining power—instead it’s the alluring charm of ice and snow. Eventually, somebody suggested that we should perhaps think about leaving, and I begrudgingly agreed. It’s probably good that I wasn’t there alone. Left to my own devices, I would have stayed, staring, until the spell of winter grew too powerful to escape.