You could walk right past this one and never know it. Drake Falls slips down a dark step of rock below a small wooden platform, just 27 feet, the shortest drop on the whole loop and the only one with no trail swinging close, no mist on your face, no roar to pull you over. You have to want to see it. Most folks are still glowing from the falls just behind them and breeze right by without a glance, but step out onto that little deck and look: a slim, quiet curtain, more a glide than a plunge, sliding over the basalt in a hurry to be somewhere else. This falls carries a name, and behind that name waits a story worth holding for a minute up the trail. For now, give the runt of the litter your eyes first. It's earned them.
Slow your feet here, because you could walk right past this one and never know it. There's a small wooden platform off to your side, and below it, threading down a dark step of rock, runs Drake Falls. Twenty-seven feet — the shortest drop on the whole loop, and the only one with no trail swinging in close, no mist on your face, no roar to pull you over. You have to want to see it. Most folks are still glowing from the falls just behind you, and they breeze right on by without a glance. Step out onto that little deck and look. It's a slim, quiet curtain, more a glide than a plunge, sliding over the basalt in a hurry to be somewhere else. This falls carries a name, and there's a story behind it — but hold that thought for a minute up the trail, and give this one your eyes first.
