One would not expect an 18-inch waterfall to be such a speech impediment.  Yet if you attempt a conversation in the vicinity of this small cascade, you must either be within two feet of the listener – or shout.  Shouting at someone more than 15 yards away is almost futile.  The most you can hope to do is turn their head so you can signal something with your hands. 

There are channels and ripples and bubbles gurgling everywhere, but that one 18-inch overhang overpowers all these delicate sounds.  There are two 6-inch stairs preceding the main falls, but even the din they contribute is minimal.  It is almost as if Red Creek at this junction decided to tell everything to be quiet.  But there is more to it than the SHHHHH of the gallon after gallon of water plunging over the edge.

This, the Right Fork of Red Creek winds and spins its way across a massive bed of red-brown sheet rock speckled with green algae for about thirty yards before it meets a jagged end.  The drop may be less than two feet, but at  that point the sheet rock cuts back beneath itself, forming a small darkened cavern that arches from one shoreline to the other.  The cavern acts as a giant crescent-shaped kettle drum that resounds the low rumbling of the water churning beneath the surface.  It is this rumbling combined with the higher pitched SHHHH that handicaps verbal communications.

Up on the bank adjacent to the perpetual noisemaker is the spot we chose to pitch our tents.

                                                                        (Will Kuhns)