Nature Photo Essay: Hocking Hills Winter, Part 1

A mid January snowstorm during the night caused me to pack up quickly the next morning and head to one of my favorite haunts, Hocking Hills State Park in southeast Ohio.

Although I was a bit disappointed that Hocking Hills had only been on the southern fringes of the storm and thus had not received much accumulation, as always I try to let nature show me what she wants me to see at any particular time. This day would be no different in that regard.

I drove straight to the Old Man's Cave unit of the park. Why? Because it's the most popular area, the most famous. Although it was midweek and January, the chances of people being in the photos was highest at Old Man's Cave, and so I wanted to hit there as early as possible.

I walked past the visitor's center, along the rim, then down the trail into the Old Man's Cave. As always, the monstrous overhang of Black Hand sandstone made for an other-worldly perspective. Hallowed and holy. For the umpteenth time I wondered what it would have been like for the hermit Richard Rowe (the "old man") to live here. Here in the cave, not in a cabin on top. Why? Maybe 'why not?' is a better answer.

Near the foot of the cave was the beautiful waterfall scene that I have photographed previously and, God willing, do so again and again. Recently the park trail system was upgraded to repair damage from a major spring flood. Burly stone bridges had been built across the creek in various places. They looked good. They fit in, they blended in as much as a manmade structure could.

The light dusting of snow that managed to make it through the the tall, dense canopy of hemlock trees overhead served and unexpected purpose. I had wanted lots of snow: the more the better. But this skif of snow touched only certain surfaces. It caused them to stand out in a way that otherwise would not have been. The maze of hemlock tree roots seemingly pouring down the side of a boulder was a case in point. Every nuance stood out in a way that would not have been as obvious had the snow been either absent or thick.

Walking up the trail past Middle Falls, I approached Devil's Bath Tub, one of the most intriguing spots I could imagine. A stone bridge had been built here too, and I enjoyed the scene of a light snow dusting on the hemlock saplings, the tops of the stone walls, and the creek bank.

On the bridge over the head of Devil's Bath Tub, I angled my camera down at the spot where the creek begins its sudden plunge. The Black Hand sandstone is said to be harder on both sides here, which is why the stream has been forced to cut its way downward instead of sideways. Regardless, it's wonderful to try to simultaneously wonder about the geological causes of what's in front of your eyes, or to just forget it and wonder for wonder's sake.

Walking up to just above the whitewater and bridge, I could appreciate the stone wall and bridge from a different angle. The white-frosted wall top looked like a snake. Interesting how much green (moss, algae) is present on a mid winter day.

I completed the gorge trail hike and returned to my vehicle. On to Cedar Falls, which may just be my favorite spot in the park. I'm not sure why, since it's such a small unit. Sure, the waterfall is gorgeous, unique, incredible. I love it, can't get enough of it. I seek out those times when other people are least likely to be there. I've seen kids wading in the stream underneath the falls in summer. I've seen them throwing stones and wood to break off icicles in the winter. Yes, I was a teenage hellraiser in my time, but I've outgrown that. The wilderness changes you. You appreciate all of nature, even in an Ohio state park. Anywhere and everywhere.

I love sliding down the short trail to Cedar Falls. The winding through the massive slump block boulders that fell from the cliff so long ago. Touching the cold rock faces for support as I step up, over, down.

Finally, there she is: Cedar Falls. Tumbling down that cleft in the cliff face. Extra heavy now that I've arrived just a day after a long soaking rain. The little watershed above is emptying fast; there's a bit of turbidity apparent in the water, but not much. To the casual eye the water is clear. I have seen this waterfall rip-roaring with brown storm water, and barely trickling over the edge of the cliff. And everything in between.

Pulling myself away to continue this day's journey, I start ascending the trail back to the parking lot. On the way up, I pause for a possible shot of a scene that I'd had my eye on during the walk down. The side creek that enters just below Cedar Falls had long been a wonderful mystery to me. From a certain angle, you can look right up the stream bed with its boulders lining the banks, and the dense hemlock forests that shroud the area. At that moment, the sunlight poured through as well, illuminating the background in places. How nice. How very special. Those fleeting moments, those are often the gems.

Last (but certainly not least) on the list was Ash Cave. Some descriptions list this unit as the highlight of the park. After all, it's the biggest cave in terms of height and width. It is so easy to walk to. The trail is even concrete paved for wheelchair access. Even so, this often lonely jewel of a park unit is tremendous from many points of view. The quiet (even when others are around) brings a kind of hushed reverence. One tries to imagine the Native American religious ceremonies that were held there, as evidenced by the extensive fireplace ash piles that give the spot its name. Or at least I do.

The creek that has formed this mesmerizing alcove is tiny. If it were flowing through the woods or over a field you wouldn't think much of it. But here...wow. It's mind bending to consider what it has done over the recent eons. Cutting down through the sandstone, falling over the cliff edge, swirling, slowly wearing the stone away.

As I approach the waterfall, I try to study its structure. Due to the recent day of hard rain, the waterfall is flowing just about as heavily as it can without being in the muddy water storm event itself.

There seem to be three main parts of the waterall. There is the center part, which flows almost all the time, unless summer drought causes the creek to temporarily shut down totally. But when the flow is sufficient, as it is here, we see a secondary flow to the left, and an even more ephemeral flow to the right. The splits in the waterfall are caused by the undulations in the rock formation at the cliff's lip. It's not a flat steel blade, it's a rock layer of variable hardness.

I walk behind the waterfall. There aren't many waterfalls that afford you this luxury, and this is one well taken. The streams of water pick up the soft gray glow from the overcast skies, making them look like vertical beams of light.

The water continues to pour, hitting hard on the sand and stone at the base of its plunge pool. The sounds echo of the rock walls, mix and swirl. I try to appreciate the moment, to consider how long this event has been going on. I'm thankful for the foresight of the state government to protect this sacred place. May it always be so.

Then I climbed the wooden staircase to the top of the cliff. Instead of going over to the waterfall edge, I turned away. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I have hiked overtop the ridge from Cedar Falls to here, and didn't want to recreate that experience. For whatever reason, I chose to hike away, along the edge, then down, down, down to the valley floor again, and the awaiting parking lot. I was largely content, even if part of me tugged at me for not spending even more time in the park. To just stand still, let it seep in even more deeply. Yes, I should have done that. I will do that...another time. May there always be a next time.