Forever on Our Mind: Fifty Shades of Green at Silver Falls State Park
Nowhere in Oregon does modern history and natural beauty collide like at Silver Falls State Park.
87-96. Fifty Shades of Green at Silver Falls State Park
June 2016:
You’ll see every possible shade of green at Silver Falls State Park, plus many more you’ve never imagined: washed-out blooming sagebrush green, moss-covered Willamette River dock pilings green, Rogue River on a rainy day green, MAX Green Line green, fuzzy traffic light on a foggy Astoria evening green, soda-stained Portland International Airport carpet green—they’re all represented here. And of course: second-growth Douglas-fir green, itself a deep, regal hue that gives the forest an imposing air, even on the sunniest of afternoons.
These vibrant, mind-altering leafy displays crowd the park’s Trail of Ten Falls, a 7-ish-mile hiking loop that offers up-close views of—you’ll never believe this—10 full-throated waterfalls. Clovers, ferns, trees, shrubs, moss, lichen, and grass light up the trail in shades of green that have yet to be identified as it snakes through a densely forested river canyon, cuts between towering Douglas-fir trees that have stood for decades, and follows the bubbling Silver Creek.
Hours after showers nourish the park’s greenery, Dusty and I bear witness to the rain-soaked forest’s mystic displays on an overcast June Saturday.
History and High Jinks at South Falls
Our hike begins at the trailhead close enough to hear South Falls in the distance. South Falls is probably the waterfall you’ve seen if you’ve ever perused a park brochure or spent even 30 seconds on Instagram; at 177 feet, it is the second-tallest waterfall along the Trail of Ten Falls but easily the most-trafficked. The path here invites hikers to walk behind the falls (one of four such waterfalls along the loop to do so), admire the ferns that dangle from ancient basalt walls, and gaze into the wider river canyon through a thick, silvery curtain.
I close my eyes and briefly try to imagine what this site must have been like on July 1, 1928, when a man named “Daredevil Al” Faussett rode a canoe over this very waterfall and into the pool before me.
The logger-turned daredevil had paddled over a few other falls in the Pacific Northwest and figured that he'd hit pay dirt at South Falls. He approached Daniel Geisler, who owned the falls and was already charging locals to watch him shove junk cars from the top of the plume; naturally, Geisler was on board with the stunt.
When the day arrived, Faussett made good on his promise and was launched over the lip of the falls while thousands of spectators watched. It went about as well as you'd expect—and while Faussett was recovering in the hospital, his partner (whose name was never known) made off with the $2,500 that they'd pocketed for the antic. (Check out Offbeat Oregon History for more on Faussett’s thrilling stunt—and the sad aftermath.)
I peer down to where Faussett fell and let my senses go to work. The thundering falls crash into the pool like breaking waves on the Oregon Coast and with the ferocity of an April downpour in Portland.
I could watch the relentless plume, feel its mist spatter my glasses, and listen to Mother Nature sing her song all day and scream for an encore—but we have nine more falls to explore.
Feeling the Might of Lower South Falls
Next up: Lower South Falls tumbles 93 feet over a basalt shelf—offering our second opportunity to walk behind a waterfall along the trail. We shuffle through the cramped stretch of trail, bathing ourselves in the droplets that bounce off the stone wall and dribble from the rocky enclave above our heads. May I never take it for granted that I left my car not 30 minutes ago and have already walked behind two towering waterfalls.
Waterfalls Arrive in Quick Succession
We pass the 30-foot Lower North Falls and roughly a third of a mile later, take a quick side trail to Double Falls—hidden at the end of a canyon-within-a-canyon. Off the main trail and at the foot of the loop’s tallest waterfall, the hike briefly takes on an almost spiritual quality. Double Falls splits the craggy cathedral behind it in two, flanked on either side not by ornate stained glass windows, but trees, ferns, shrubs, and mosses growing out of the cliff wall. A true believer in the beauty of nature could be baptized here at the base of the 178-foot falls.
The 27-foot-tall Drake Falls beckons us at our next water break. From our vantage point—a platform above its crest—Drake Falls looks more like a rough rapid than an actual waterfall: Started from the bottom, now we … well … 27 feet above the bottom, I guess.
Logging Threatens Silver Falls
Even if the waterfall isn’t among the eight or nine most impressive we’ll see all day, it’s a minor miracle that Dusty and I are here at all.
The first European-Americans settled and began logging in the Willamette Valley in the late 1800s, and it wasn't long before they sharpened their axes for the forests around us today. They established the first homestead at Silver Falls in 1883, and the nearby community of Silverton became a booming timber town until the Great Depression cratered the local economy in 1929.
With no big trees left to cut, hundreds of thousands of stumps littered the newly barren slopes surrounding the waterfalls. Wildfire had taken its toll on what remained. Farming played a part in devastating the once-verdant canopy. Even so, local photographer June Drake saw the potential for a generational comeback and led the charge in 1931 to purchase land around the waterfalls for future use as a park. Silver Falls State Park was officially established in 1933.
In 1935, members of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) arrived at Silver Falls as part of an effort to jump-start the U.S. economy after the Great Depression. Over the following seven years, CCC crews built park structures, created trails that reached the park's signature waterfalls, installed bridges, replanted trees, and rehabbed the scarred landscape.
Eighty years later, Silver Falls is considered the “crown jewel” of the Oregon State Parks system—and welcomes more than 1 million visitors every year.
Back on the Trail, an Abundance of Natural Beauty
Soon after, we stop not for water or to catch our breath, but to listen to Silver Creek bubbling in the background. A few birds chirp in the distance, and an occasional wind gust slithers through the forest canopy. Dusty remarks, not incorrectly, that the scene sounds like one of those “natural soundscape” CDs people listen to while falling asleep.
In the distance, Middle North Falls tumbles 100 feet over a basalt shelf. We follow a spur trail behind the waterfall. Dusty might remark upon the waterfall’s impressive power, but he’s drowned out by, well, the waterfall’s impressive power.
Maybe a half-mile further along, the 30-foot Twin Falls is sliced in two by a rock in the channel—hence its name. It’s not even lunch, and this is the seventh waterfall we’ve seen all day. I’m running out of superlatives to make sense of it all—a problem I’m grateful to have.
Natural History, Beauty Collide at North Falls
In another mile, we arrive at North Falls, the eighth of 10 waterfalls on this trek and the tallest since Double Falls.
The yin to South Falls’ yang also invites hikers to walk behind its rainy drapery—but the similarities end there. The cliffs behind North Falls retreat some 50 or 60 feet into the crag behind the cascade. The greenery, so vivid and common elsewhere along the trail, fades into the darkness with every step. It disappears entirely, replaced by matte gray rocks, an unnerving dampness, and a muddy path when we reach the furthest point behind the falls. It feels like we’re walking into the mouth of a giant.
Below us, the path slopes gently to the base of North Falls; above us, the damp rock walls are broken up by circular cavities. As Dusty explains, these cookie-cutter holes of negative space are where lava flows engulfed living trees thousands of years ago. We peer into the teeth of history, doing our best to ignore the scents of mold and marijuana wafting through this cave-like setting.
As we ascend a series of stone steps and crowded switchbacks en route to the canyon rim, the roar of the waterfall fades into a whisper.
Wrapping Up an Epic Adventure
A side trail takes us to the base of Upper North Falls, which tumbles over a bulbous rock shelf and into a quiet pool at our feet. It’s right around midday, just before the summer solstice, yet the sun has scarcely touched this emerald forest. I take a deep breath; everything around me smells like it just came out of the washing machine.
Our final stop along the loop is Winter Falls. A leaky faucet at the height of summer, the 134-foot Winter Falls on this June morning hugs a mossy rock wall as it trickles like garden hose runoff into nearby Silver Creek.
On its own, Winter Falls is a fine enough side-quest. But it cascades meekly in an apologetic manner, as if to acknowledge its own impotence. You can practically hear the waterfall anticipating our unmet expectations: “Look, I get it! I’m sorry! Come back in fall, I’ll get my shit together by then!”
Winter Falls represents a mellow comedown from the euphoric highs that preceded it, but I’m not ready for this trip to end. We could hike to another 10 waterfalls and would be no less amazed by any of them.
The chilled breeze does its invisible dance as we admire this jade gem one final time. We resume our hike and return to the trailhead.
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