Ninety-three feet of water pours off the lip in one broad, unbroken sheet, and the path doesn't stop short of it. The trail curls right in beneath the rock overhang at Lower South Falls, so for a few steps the whole creek falls past your shoulder while a dark ceiling of stone presses close overhead. This is the second walk-behind on the loop, and it's a wider, lower room than the first, less a cathedral than a long stone gallery you walk straight through, the rock underfoot dark and shining and worn smooth by a century of boots and spray. Watch the sheet stay whole near the top, then fray into ribbons and mist before it lands well out past you in a churn of white. Mind the cold, too: the air drops a good ten degrees the moment you step into the shadow.
Down you go — and here she is, Lower South Falls, ninety-three feet of water pouring off the lip above you in one broad, unbroken sheet. The air's heavier here, wetter, the creek louder where the walls close in. And the path doesn't stop short of the water. It curls right in beneath the rock overhang, so for a few steps the whole creek is falling past your shoulder while a dark ceiling of stone presses close above your head. This is the second one the trail leads you in under, and it's a wider, lower room than the first — less a cathedral, more a long stone gallery you walk straight through. Slow your feet here. The rock underfoot stays wet year-round, dark and shining, worn smooth by a hundred years of boots and spray. Look up as you pass beneath the overhang: that ledge is what shelters you, the whole creek leaping clear of it and landing well out past your shoulder in a churn of white. Watch how the sheet stays whole near the top, then frays into ribbons and mist as it falls, never quite reaching the bottom as one piece. Mind the cold. The air drops a good ten degrees the moment you step into the shadow of all that water, and it'll find the back of your neck before you're through.
