This place lies so far across my country from where I am now. A magical place etched by time and the passing of water that moves endlessly down. Winding through stone, collecting debris with each passing storm, yet ever moving. Steps take us along, beginning at the top and moving down or the choice of starting low and rising, always the choice. We only move as fast as the slowest soul that creeps along in this magical place, crowds that stop to capture moments on their camera, or the photographer that sets up a workshop it seems to grab just that right image.
We are patient here. We wait and move one step at a time, so many of them, some slippery with the damp splashes of water, some dry and crumbling with the ghosts of a thousand steps before. We stare down and listen to the rhythm of the rushing water as it echoes all around us and we stare up at the narrow slice above where we can see the blue of the sky watching us down below.
This place draws in the people young and old and as you watch the water rush by behind a waterfalls, you feel as if you are a part of this world, this place. Every step you climb you feel your breath coming faster, so many steps, and the muscles of the legs ache when you think you can go no farther, around the bend more steps descend and you smile as a new view lights your mind and as the sun slowly begins to go down you know the time is now to finish the final steps, to let the moving water rest undisturbed from view and to let the night creatures take over and walk your steps unencumbered.
Image taken at Watkins Glen, out in the finger lakes of New York a few years back. A wonderful wine country, scenery to die for and a place of moving water that bids you to stop and stay a while.