The cities have always been my home. Accessible. Loud. Crowded. A little dirty. I worked there, shopped there, wandered late-night corners and coffee shops with bad lighting and good music. And I loved it.
But somewhere in the middle of all that, I learned to love something more. Something quieter.
Chattanooga had that special blend — a city, yes, but one with mountains on every horizon and ridgelines that whispered to you if you were paying attention. You could finish your shift and be at the river’s edge twenty minutes later. You could spend a weekend in a bookstore and the next in a gorge. It made space for both.
There were nooks and secret crannies scattered all over. The kind of places with no signs. No parking lots. Just a slight thinning of the trees — a hint that someone had been there before you, and you were invited to follow.
One of my favorite places to visit was a secret: just two car-sized dirt pull-offs on the side of a mountain ridge. No trail marker. No name. If you knew where to look, you'd find an overgrown path that some stranger had beaten down years ago. It led to a rope tied to a solid oak, hanging over a fifteen-foot drop. Not exactly welcoming — but reliable.
If you trusted the rope and made your way down, a stream waited at the bottom. No trail followed it. But if you hiked far enough — through three miles of fern-bottomed forest — you'd find a waterfall. No name. No sign. No map. Just mist. Just quiet.
I never took pictures. I only shared it once — passed down from a friend who trusted me with it, and whom I trusted in return. It was a sanctuary. And in a way, I think it still is.
That place is out of reach now. Life changes. Jobs move. Roads bend. But a part of me is still there — still standing in the cold stream, still watching the light filter through leaves older than I’ll ever be.
These are some photos from around that time. Not of the secret place — that’s still sacred — but of the quiets that taught me how to pay attention.
There are places that don’t leave you. They just wait — quietly — for you to remember.
Until next time, stay warm and toasty.
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