Etiwanda Falls

Author's Comments

The first time I walked the trail into the North Etiwanda Preserve, I was not expecting much. A waterfall in the foothills of Rancho Cucamonga sounds like the kind of thing that promises more than it delivers, and for most of the year that is exactly what happens. The cascade runs thin or not at all. The granite stays dry. The canyon keeps its quiet. Then February comes, or March, after a week of real rain, and the place transforms. I went up one morning in late winter when the storms had finally broken and the air still smelled of wet sage. The water was loud before I could see it. Fifty feet of it, threading down through the boulders, the canyon walls holding the sound and throwing it back. I set up for a long exposure and let the cascade soften into something closer to smoke than water. What I love about Etiwanda is how unremarkable the approach feels. The trail climbs gently through coastal sage scrub, the San Gabriels rising behind you, and there is no theatrical reveal. You hear the falls before you see them, and then suddenly the canyon opens and there it is, working hard against the granite. It feels found rather than visited. Go in the morning, and go after the rains. The light comes over the ridge at an angle that catches the spray, and the canyon stays cool while the alluvial fan below begins to warm. Most people will not be here. The ones who are tend to be quiet about it. There is a kind of agreement among them, unspoken, that this is the sort of place that does not need to be talked about too much.

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