A Taste of Rivendell: Watkins Glen State Park, NY
1.5 Miles, 832 Steps, 19 Waterfalls.
The far-off places in tales told by firesides may not be so far as they seem. For me, in three hours I find myself in Rivendell. The clean air is fresh with the smell of moss and wet clay as I begin a magical hike through Watkins Glen State Park in upstate New York.
The winding path leads me and my companion in between bookends of towering gray goblin cliffs, 200 feet tall, fractured in thin, jagged layers. Ferns explode from their sides and, at the very top, daredevil trees cling to the sharp edge, bending to keep from falling into the gorge. They shower golden, fluttering leaves, which drift from heaven to be swallowed in the slowly swirling river below.
The serpent ravine bloats and shrinks in billowing pockets hollowed out of the rock by years of erosion, smooth as the sugar of a well-licked lollipop. Each bowl is filled with emerald green pools caked with foam. Clattering echoes bounce between them amid the distant roar of rushing waves as I peer over the treacherous rim.
We follow the sounds of the waterfall, up spiral steps through troll tunnels and across elven bridges cemented together by moss and age. They are built so similarly to the natural landscape that they appear to have grown out of the precipice itself. The world is cracked open, and we are in its wound—so high up, yet so far down, ethereally miniscule before the greatness of Mother Earth.
The torrential hiss grows near, and the thin stripe of a waterfall piercing through the rocks comes into view. Our path winds beneath it, and I stretch my hand out into the cascade, its water massaging my palms and coating my arms with cooling comfort. The ribbon shrinks into the chasm below where it crashes in pillows of white.
We continue on. Thin, crystal sheets of water fall from grotto fountains above me. A sweet baptism of cold droplets pelt my scalp as they bounce in sparkling sprays off the slick, wet boulders. I trail my fingertips across them and admire the canopies of fingering branches that drape in patches on their sides. How do their roots find purchase between those slabs of stone, I wonder?
A cool breeze caresses the glaze of sweat on my skin and I close my eyes to listen to the sounds of the gorge. The shrill cry of a bird is answered by the muted call of a train. I can smell the clouds. I hear a rumble, and am not sure if it’s the murmuring stream or an oncoming storm. A plinking percussion of pattering drops fall from the sky—or perhaps from another waterfall above me. I look up and see a bridge stretch from one edge of the canyon to the other, where other tiny humans look down at me just as curiously as I do them.
Our trail curves upward back around the way we came, and we are swallowed in a forest of spindly poodle-tail pine trees stripped of all but their topmost limbs. Gnarled, twisted roots erupt like tentacles from the mud to trip us on our path. Pebbles crunch beneath my feet and I feel the sting of an oncoming blister.
We come to the end of our journey, and I look back at the twisting glacier-made sculpture I’ve explored. Its steep, striped troughs fill my lungs with a peaceful sigh, and I feel the valley calling me back in a whispering voice: don’t go. But more mysteries await me in the great Never-Been, so I trod on, savoring the taste of Rivendell as long as it will last.
Visited during
Lake House Quarantine
Watkins Glen State Park is the most famous of the Finger Lakes State Parks, with a reputation for leaving visitors spellbound. Within two miles, the glen's stream descends 400 feet past 200-foot cliffs, generating 19 waterfalls along its course. The gorge path winds over and under waterfalls and through the spray of Cavern Cascade. Rim trails overlook the gorge. Campers and day-visitors can enjoy the Olympic-size pool, scheduled summer tours through the gorge, tent and trailer campsites, picnic facilities and excellent fishing in nearby Seneca Lake or Catherine Creek, which is renowned for its annual spring run of rainbow trout.
