Trillium Falls

Back when I was in law school during the Mesozoic Era, I would often work very late nights, regularly into the wee hours, before heading back down to Hyde Park on the IC. Our office was on the southern side of the loop on LaSalle, just a short walk from Maury's Deli, where they served up excellent Chicago dogs, and ginormous sandwiches. Before it got too late, I would usually hop over—no Door Dash back then—grab a sandwich and a couple of Heileman's Old Styles to go. I'm a little pickier about my beer these days, but I will always have a fond place in my heart for HOS, for the memories of those times, and for their ads on TV that featured images of streams and waterfalls flowing through sylvan glades, and one time, featuring Vangelis' 

Morning light streams through the redwood canopy and illuminates Trillium Falls in Redwood National & State Park.
Ampliar
Trillium Falls

There is a moment on the trail when the forest changes its quality of sound — not louder or quieter, exactly, but different, as though the redwoods themselves are cupping something. Then you round the bend and Trillium Falls is there: a cascade of modest scale but enormous presence, tucked into the forest like a secret kept only for those who walk in.

The falls were still mostly in shadow when this was made. Morning light had reached the canopy above the crest but had not yet descended to the floor below. The water catches that glow as it comes over the top, and the long exposure has pulled the cascade into silk — smooth and continuous — the broken flow settling into a dark, still pool at the base. The moss on the surrounding rocks is so saturated a green it seems lit from within. Every surface that is not water is wet, glistening, alive.

There were other visitors on the trail that morning. You would not know it from this image. A waterfall in a redwood forest has a way of drawing your attention so completely inward that the rest of the world quietly recedes — footsteps, voices, everything. What remains is the sound of the water and the sense, difficult to name but impossible to miss, that you are in the presence of something that has been here a very long time.