It’s never a good sign when your day begins with a fight.
The morning starts with me crawling out of bed later than intended, already annoyed and already placing the blame on Will. Our bags are not packed and our lunches are not made, so I scramble to get the eggs to boil, while he answers emails. Ideally, everything would have been put together the night before, but between a full belly and a busy day, I could not be bothered. Waking up an hour earlier than I typically would, would have solved my dilemma. But I hadn’t, so within moments of us pulling out of the driveway, Will and I are arguing.
Our trip almost never happened. Almost.
By the time the city’s seen in the rearview mirror, our tense silence fades into the wind and is carried out the rolled down windows. It’s hard to stay frustrated when the wind’s in your hair and fields roll by you. Between us a mutual unspoken acknowledgement, a quiet apology only marked by my hand squeezing Will’s thigh. We are both at fault, and we know it.
When we finally pull over to the admissions to pay for our passes, we’re both eager to bathe in the glory of Dorwin Falls. The rapids could be heard over the chatter in the parking lot and highway traffic, its current fast and heavy. For a moment I linger by the car, waiting for Will to grab his camera gear. But the violence of the falls calls to me and I’m already in the park, off the main trail heading for the boulder littered shore. I want to know if Dorwin falls bears any resemblance to the paintings attempting to replicate the Canadian wilderness and its inexplicable haunting depth.
But admiring the deep shade of emerald reflected onto the river by the pines did not last as long as I had hoped. With the protocols set in place by government and park rangers, and the many families running through the trails, hogging up viewpoints just didn’t seem right. So we hurried along the trail towards a deck on the face of the cliff, the drop making Will ill at ease. It’s the first time since meeting Will four years ago that I’m aware of his fear of heights. A conversation I don’t recall ever having or noticing while living in our third floor apartment. It’s not a thought or a feeling either of us mull on for too long. Out in front of us is the very presence we drove an hour and half to see.
Sublime.
The only word in my vocabulary at the moment I could use to explain the sight before me. The white spewing river crashing against the jagged, slick black rocks with a terrifying and awe inspiring violence only the universe could create. I try to burn the scene in my mind. Etch every detail to come back to later when I’m long gone from the woods. But crowds start filing in, and I’m pulled away by Will to avoid close proximity to others.
We wait almost 30 minutes for the crowd to disperse so Will can try taking some shots of the falls. By now I’m annoyed and a little dumbfounded. While Will and I waited like we were queuing up for a carnival ride, following the recommendations on the large sign at the entrance of the viewing deck, we watched as the other visitors ignored signage and clustered together without concern for the current pandemic. Throughout the park people flocked together, and wherever we went, they followed.
For the first time, I felt claustrophobic amongst the trees.
The indie folk music stops playing when the engine cuts off, pulling me out of my thoughts. We’ve driven 40 minutes out to our next location and I’m a little wary. There’s a family celebrating a birthday at a picnic bench and a group of young guys in their raced out cars mucking about the lot. The number of people here comes nowhere near our previous stop, but my recollection of the narrow short trail running through Chute-à-Bull made me apprehensive.
We drove around the area, deciding whether we should head home, or just wait for a parking spot to free up. Some stubborn part of us did not want to give up on this park. We were already here and coming back another day just didn’t make sense. So Will backed out of the private property we’d stumbled upon, and pulled into the parking lot where a spot conveniently freed up.
The first time we visited Chute-à-Bull, we wore snowshoes to explore the dense snow packed trails. However, without the snowbanks and icy cliff sides stopping us from venturing further, the trail opened up into a new sector of the woods. One we hadn’t noticed before, and how would we? Even with the snow long gone, the trail could barely be seen. Felled trees hung off the cliff, and large boulders forced us up the banks. We weren’t sure where it lead, but once the trailhead widened, a bridge lending access to the other side of the river greeted us.
A childlike energy overcame me, and I lost all regard for the main trails, veering off along the edge of the rushing river. I felt free. Gliding down the banks, skipping over knotted roots and hopping over boulders with a rush trying to match that of the river. I wasn’t sure what I was following anymore, the river most likely, but Will and I were definitely going through places we weren’t supposed to be. The pure fear and excitement on Will’s face as he peered over the top of the waterfall and realised he was doing something he shouldn’t, sent us giggling our way down the proper path like we were being chastised by vexed parents.
Sitting at the base of the falls, our faces covered in its cool mist, a calm washes over us. Will sits behind me munching away on his granola bar as I watch the clouds pull back and give way to sunlight. From beneath the shrouded canopy of trees, the falls lit up with a ray of light. For a brief moment in my stillness, my thoughts are disturbed by a realisation, before settling back in peace.
Did I have to leave?
Note from the author:
Special thanks to William Botka at William B Photography for the beautiful pictures. If you’re interested in seeing more of his work, please visit his portfolio here or follow his instagram @williambphotographymtl.
