We pulled over in Glencoe in front of a rather majestic peak so that my father could stretch his legs and wake up. It was only upon getting out of the car that we realized that just behind the car, in a cove on the side of the road, was a waterfall. We took the 5 minutes to climb down and sit by the pool, and Scott was most helpful in getting me across the slippery rocks safely. The water was freezing cold, of course, since it was probably melted snow from the mountains.

It wasn’t a particularly grand waterfall (as waterfall standards go). Every year I go to the getaway, and there’s a waterfall about the same size a bit of a walk from the campsite. This was a waterfall maybe twice or thrice my height onto a pool of water, bottomed by some kind of stone which, when wet, uncannily resembled brick.

I’m not entirely sure why, in the midst of a land of such astounding beauty, a waterfall that pales in both size and grandeur to much of what I’ve seen here was able to effect me as much as it did. I think it was because in another time, another place, I would take great lengths to trek to such a waterfall and admire its beauty. In this land, such beauty is hardly a thing of notice, shoved behind a roadside where few people are likely to notice it. It’s a semi-precious stone in a land of diamonds; astoundingly serene yet unworthy of notice.