There is a waterfall less than a hundred yards away from the old house where we lived as newlyweds. We moved in after Thanksgiving; when all the windows were already shut, and the house was buttoned up for another long northern New York winter. But early that spring, on an unusually warm evening, we opened the window to our bedroom and the sound of the falls flooded in.

We all probably know couples who went to Niagara Falls to celebrate their nuptials. But how many couples to you know had a waterfall in backyard serenading them for the first two years of their marriage? Maybe this is why we celebrated our second anniversary with our daughter, and another one in the proverbial oven. Having a waterfall in the back yard was the best thing about that ramshackle house; but I don’t want to give you the idea it is all that glamorous.

First, its not a big waterfall, only ten or fifteen feet of drop; and the creek that goes over its edge runs shallow most of the year; so the sound it makes is usually little more than a soothing shushing; that indescribable, yet unmistakable sound of falling water. When you think about it, a silent waterfall wouldn’t be all that great. It would still be pretty, but it’s the voices of waterfalls that makes them so loved; their voices that puts them in that elite class of things that few ever speak ill of; like sunsets, beaches, and hammocks.  

Also, in the spring, after it rained hard for a few days, and the snow started melting in earnest; that soothing voice turned angry. The throat of the little creek became swollen, and choked with icy water that made it growl, made you want to keep away from it until it calmed down. From a safe distance, we would watch big logs topple over the edge, and hear the deep thumping of boulders tumbling down the bottom of the stream bed before being plunged into the fury below.

Another not so glamorous thing about that waterfall is the location. Its near the four corners of a tired hamlet; one of those places where teenagers smoke cigarettes and old men don’t shave. The steep slopes of the cataract that surrounds it are littered with rubbish locals were too lazy to take to the dump. Also, in the summer when we went swimming in the pool at the base of the falls, we had to be mindful of the jagged sticks of rebar sticking out of chunks of concrete; the remnants of a long defunct mill that used to run off the waters falling power. But it was still a great place to cool off on a summer afternoon.

Curious thing about that falls, is that the less it rains, the colder the water gets. The reason for this seeming contradiction, is the rain water that normally runs over the dark shale rock, is warmed up by the sun, and dilutes the cold spring water that keeps that creek flowing year round. During a long dry spell, when only a drizzle of water would fall over the edge, the water would be so cold that it became painful to stay in for more than a few minutes. But that was also the best time to explore the water under the falls.

The pool at the base of the falls is about the size of a conventional in ground pool, and just deep enough to jump into feet first. But the thing I like to do most down there, was to strap on a diving mask, pick up a large stone and wade into the water. I would take a deep breath, lean forward, and let the rock take me under and then hold me to the bottom of the deepest part of the pool. I’ve always had something of a knack for holding my breath; so there at the bottom, beneath the falls, I became a visitor to an alien world, for about a minute.

But what a minute it was. After a few seconds, the trout must have taken me for a log, and would come out of their hiding places resume their foraging. Occasionally, they would dart away in a sudden burst of speed; chasing some nymph or larva my eyes couldn’t see through the saliva coated glass of the mask. Their flashes were brilliant, day glow, their spots shinning like aquatic LED lights in the bubbles.

Occasionally, I caught a few trout out of that pool, put them in a creel took them back to the house where we fried them in butter until their eyes turned white, and their tails curled. I’m not exactly sure why, but eventually I started feeling a bit guilty about eating fish from there. Maybe because I knew how fragile that micro fishery was, or maybe I felt like I was eating a pet.

We were the last family to live in that house. Today it continues to sag, continues to collapse into the forgotten. But the falls are still there. Still roaring in the spring. Still cold in the summer. Still harboring trout. Still serenading those who listen.