Waterfall Horror by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

We were heading north on Main Street through the village of Blowing Rock (USA), when I turned our gray Kia Rio hatchback left onto Laurel Lane. Monique, my Filipina wife, said nothing. We then crossed a heavily shaded Wallingford Road. And less than 200 feet later, I turned left into the small Annie Cannon Gardens parking lot, which appeared completely full on this cooler-than-normal Saturday, mid-June morning. However, we managed to find a spot beside a split-rail fence. It was a tight fit, but we were licitly ensconced.

“Well, we’re in safely, Monique,” I said as I sighed with relief, glad to be done with driving for a while. “Today’s mission will link Charlotte with Blowing Rock.” What in the world!

“Why, did you tie a 100-mile-long string to our mailbox before we left Charlotte, Agent 33? [my no.] That spool must be mighty hot.” I just know that he is already in record mode. / I’m glad that she said ‘Agent 33’. Yes, it’s time to turn the audio recorder on. Hikers can say the damnedest things.

“Actually that piece of virtual thread is 101 miles long, Agent 32.” [Monique’s no.] 

“Did you measure, Parkaar? [my ailing alias] That’s ok; don’t answer.”

We disembarked from our car and began walking down a gravel road that paralleled a small stream. We soon came upon a wooden sign: Glen Burney Trail 

The trail looked more like a steeply descending goat path, replete with exposed roots. I could tell that Monique wasn’t too keen on going down it.

“Do we have to go down that, 33?”

“No, the directions on the internet said that we could just stay on the gravel road. That trail loops back.”

“Yey! It looks snaky down there by that rivulet.”

“That rivulet is New Years Creek, 32.” What?

“Did it just form on January 1st of this year?” Monique asked and then started laughing.

“It stated on a New Year’s Day many centuries ago.” Yeah, right.

“I’m calling B.S. [bullshit] on that, Parkaar.”

We both had a chortle as we continued walking down the gravel road. Soon we were passing a metal-signed lift station.

“What does this station lift, 33?”

“Sewage, 32”

“Holy crappers!” Monique exclaimed and laughed.

We tip-toed across the shallow brook. We were now on a dirt trail. Not too much farther, we had a wooden privacy wall on our left, right next to the four-foot-wide footpath.

Monique stopped to peer through the gaps in the vertical slats. “Wow! What a huge house!”

“Yeah, somebody scored bigtime. No financial crisis there.”

We continued on the still fairly level hiking trail for a hundred more feet. Then it began to descend. Soon we had to step over and through a notch that was cut into a giant oak tree that had fallen across the now-eroded path.

“Look, Monique, you can see where they started to cut this big tree in half. See this diagonal line here?”

“Why did they stop, 33?”

“Maybe their chainsaw’s bar wasn’t long enough. The diameter of this trunk must be over two feet.”

“The Six Pence’s [an English pub in Blowing Rock] bar was long enough.” She’s speaking for the future write-up.

Not much further down the trail, we came to a footbridge over a now-wider New Years Creek.

“The French would call this a passerelle, 32.”

“But, we’re not French, 33. Let’s just call it a chain-link-fence-sided, wooden, pedestrian overpass.”

And with that we were across the little bridge, continuing our descent into the ravine of rhododendron.

In a few minutes we had arrived at another wooden sign: Cascades.

We took a few pics. However, it was more of a winter-view vantage point. With all of the leaves back on the trees, it was hard to get a good shot of the large slanting rock.

We gulped down some iced tea. A Caucasian family of hikers, who were coming back up, accosted us.

“How much farther is it?” I asked.

“You’re more than halfway there,” the father said.

“Sixty-one percent,” the pre-teen son blurted. How did he come up with that figure? / Is he wearing a pedometer?

“Thanks,” Monique said.

We regathered our things and were off again. It was now decidedly downhill. This hike is going to feel very different when we have to climb back out.

We soon came upon our next wooden sign: Overlook.

I ventured out on the granite rock that protruded towards the creek. “Come on out here, Monique. It’s a nice view.”

“No, I’ll stay here. Thank you very much.”

I then noticed some more hikers coming up. They were a multigenerational mixed-race group.

“Are you sure, 32?”

“I’m very sure, 33. Be careful! Come back here, kano.” [American in Philippine slang]

I then realized that one misstep could result in a fatal fall. They really need an extreme-fall-hazard warning sign here.

“Ok, 32, coming back.” Why did he call her 32?

“Good idea, 33.” Who are these two?

We marched on. It was relatively level for a while. Then we began to switchback towards the creek, finally arriving at yet another wooden sign: Glen Burney Falls   

Glen Marie Falls

“Well, it’s decision time, Monique. Which one first?”

“Which one is linked to Charlotte, Parkaar?”

“Glen Burney, 32.”

“Ok, lead the way, 33.”

We hiked less than 70 feet to the base of Glen Burney Falls. It was a convex waterfall; the water trickled down a massive curved rock. It was about forty feet tall.

“Well, way up there is where the tragedy began 85 years ago, Monique.”

“What tragedy, Parkaar?”

“The tragedy that ended in the death of a true heroine, Agent 32. Her name was Lillian Arhelger. She was a University of Texas graduate who came to Charlotte to teach physical education at the old Central High School. [now a part of Central Piedmont Community College’s Central Campus] She had taken the Myers Park Girl Scout troop up to Blowing Rock on a Sunday in June of 1931.”

“She slipped and fell?” Monique asked while looking up the waterfall.

“Yes, but she did so while trying to rescue one of the girls who was starting to slide off. She grabbed the girl’s hand, but it was too late. They both went over the curve. The girl survived, but Lillian wasn’t so lucky. Her body slammed into these rocks. A branch in the plunge pool protruded through her skull.” How gruesome!

“Oh, my God! How awful.”

“I believe the girl survived, because she landed on Lillian; thus, she was spared impact with the boulders and large limbs at the bottom.”

“I bet those girls were traumatized for life. I bet they replayed the fatal slide scene every night before falling asleep. And, I bet they had nightmares for a long time, 33.”

“Yeah, probably so, Monique. That moment when they knew they were going over the edge must have lasted for an eternity in their minds.”

“The fall must have felt like forever, 33.”

“Yeah, the forty feet must have felt like forty seconds, 32.”

Unbeknownst to us, an older Caucasian couple had come up behind us and overheard our conversation.

“A lady and a girl fell off this waterfall in 1931?” the white-haired, ball-capped, lanky man asked.

“Yes, the girl lived, but the lady died,” I said. “There’s a reflecting pool in Charlotte in her memory.”

“Oh, we’re from Charlotte,” the older, neatly dressed lady announced. “Where is her memorial?”

“In Independence Park,” I said.

“Oh, we know where that park is,” the older gentleman barked. “We live in Eastover.” [a neighborhood near Independence Park]

“The reflecting pool is just west of Hawthorne Lane,” I said. “If you go up to the miniature waterfall, you’ll see an old brass plaque with her name on it. However, a word is misspelled.”

“We’ll certainly check that out when we get back,” the older lady said. “Thanks for telling us about this. These waterfalls are too risky to walk on.”

“They certainly are. I’m in the safety field, so I can’t help but see hazards everywhere. But, you want to keep it as natural as possible.”

“Yes, you do,” the older man agreed.

“We’ll get out of your way now,” I said. “We’re going to check out Glen Marie Falls before we hike back.”

“Hey, when you notice the misspelled word on the plaque, post it on the psecret psociety Facebook page,” Monique requested as she handed the senior fellow a card.

“Ok, but I really don’t do the Facebook thing that much,” he replied.

“I’ll post it,” the lady said.

We said our goodbyes. Then we went down to Glen Marie Falls and stood on the top of the large gray rock. I bet they are now wondering: What in the hell is psecret psociety?

“Hey, Parkaar!” Monique shouted.

“What, Monique?”

“Don’t get too close to the edge.”

“It’s dry. I don’t see any moss or slippery algae, 32.”

“Neither did those girls back in ‘31, Agent 33.” 31-32-33.