My partner first brought me here a few years ago, when I was going through a rough patch. Maybe it was after my dad died, I’m not sure; I just remember that sorrow, fatigue, aplatissement were my overstaying guests. My partner thought that maybe I would like the view at Inglis Falls, or that something might distract me while she shot a few pictures.
A low wall surrounds the gorge where the water skips down a steep staircase till it reaches the Sydenham River. It actually does look pretty, with a limestone cliff backdrop and cedars and the remains of the mill at the top and a respectable volume of water. A bridge across the river at the top of the falls can extend your visit along a few Conservation Area walking loops or a section of the Bruce Trail. In low season, you don’t even have to pay for parking.
But it wasn’t the look of the place that caught my attention that first time; it was the sound. As I leaned against the wall, I relaxed into the waterfall’s voice as if into a pillow, and it sang a healing song, and smoothed the lines from my brow. I could feel the sound entering my ears and slipping smoothly down my bones into each limb.
Today we came to visit it again. My partner spent an hour capturing the ice ornaments and frozen foam while the dog and I walked a three-kilometre loop over hard white crust. Then she and poggles headed for the car while I went to the lookout. The voice of the falls came to me again with its healing. Time disappeared, nothing remained but its song.