Nature Blog—Place Entry #1

Thursday January 21, 2010 10:30 am

When I decided on Bridal Veil Falls for my chosen "place" this semester, I hadn't gone to see it yet; what I forgot to take into account is that it is winter and though the snow may be melting in the valley, it's twice as deep and frozen up the canyon where the falls are. I also forgot that the falls would be mostly frozen, though that was actually a pleasant surprise because I've never examined them closely while frozen, and it's truly incredible. I'm excited to try to capture that translucent blue ice color in words. The last thing that didn't even cross my mind is that access to the falls is closed off because of the possibility of avalanches. And while I can't imagine a more up-close-and-personal way to encounter and experience nature, I'd rather not get caught in one.

So, that being said, I may spend more time in the parks next to and across the highway from the falls since the falls themselves are somewhat dangerous right now. I'm really hoping winter doesn't last too long, but it's Utah, so you never know. Two years ago, we got snow in the valley in May, so anything is possible.

As I drive to the canyon for the first time since beginning this class and choosing my "place," the heavy clouds of a fresh winter snow are still wrapped around the mountains. The western part of the sky is clearing, blue contrasting with white wisps still moving across the sky. As I drive toward the veiled mountains, I feel like I am driving into a shroud, something mysterious and familiar at the same time. The mountain reveals itself to me a little at a time, becoming more defined through the mist as I get closer. As I come near enough to make out the mouth of Provo Canyon (the space between Mt. Timpanogos and the Cascade Mountains), everything becomes three-dimensional: instead of being surrounded by a wall of gray-white, the mountains take shape, their foothills projecting from their bases, the steep sides of the canyon opening up. I can't the number of times I have driven this road, but today, it is new.

The road is winding but clear of snow and slush, and I watch for the turnoff to Bridal Veil Park. As soon as I turn off the main highway, however, the snow is four inches deep and even my snow tires are sliding around the corners. The parking lot has been blocked off with warning signs about avalanches, but I park my car next to the sign and get out to walk. Though the snow-covered branches of scrub oak remind me of Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," the air is not silent. The sound of cars on the not-very distant highway fade in and out, and there is another rushing sound up ahead: Bridal Veil Falls. I'm not sure how far I would be able to go without snow boots, so I simply stand and look and feel the cold seeping into the fabric of my clothes, undoing the warmth of my skin.

When I get back into my car, I keep going up the canyon, wanting to see the waters that usually look like a wedding veil, narrow at the top but widening to a lacy pattern on the cliff face. They don't look like that now; most of the water is frozen. The water is too powerful to freeze entirely, but part of the upper level and most of the right side are icicles. The snow piled just off the road prevents me from getting a good look at how far the icicles descend down the mountain. There is something about the frozen motion, the stop of flow and rush and roar of half of the waterfall, that is the most mysterious and shrouded thing of all.