For any ‘Twin Peaks’ fanatic (as I was in the very questionable 90’s), a trip to the Seattle region would not be complete without a glimpse at Snowqualmie Falls, that iconic waterfall that opened the credits for the David Lynch television series. Regardless of the Lynch love, this waterfall is impressive in its own right, falling 268 feet in astonishingly beautiful form. While no monster by any means, there’s something magical about this scene, particularly in the fall when so much change is afoot, when you’re no longer so sure of your stance in the world.
Standing there watching the water fall, I was transfixed by the scene. It was hypnotic, holding me transfixed, almost pulling me down along with it as I followed the droplets as they plummeted the length of the 268-foot drop. I thought of sleepwalkers and cults and pied-pipers, and wondered how far we all were from surrendering to the lull and easiness of such enchantments. If you start at the top of the running water, finding a spot of river and carefully watching it run from top to bottom, your eyes follow it at first, then your head goes down, and, were it not for the high wall and guard rail, the rest of your body just might fall along with the water. How many of us would have given in without the guard rails of others?
On this day, I manage to catch myself from falling. Above and slightly to the right of the falls, a train blows its low moan of a horn, where it would have been chugging along unseen if it hadn’t drifted its tell-tale column of smoke in its wake. It’s a scene I’ve seen before – either in book or movie or imagination: the mist of the falls echoed by the passing train – two layers of ethereal fog, and all of us watchers and dreamers caught somewhere between two worlds.
