Palouse Falls

The water tumbled over the cliff and crashed into the plunge pool two hundred feet below, sending a wave of mist up through the canyon toward where I stood. The sound was loud and filling, giving this place a sense of wonder. I had come to Palouse Falls to see what it looked like, and I had read how all this had formed and yet, stared in disbelief.

The cliffs were sheer, vertical, and rough textured. To the south, the canyon wove left and right for about five miles before reaching the Snake River. I stood, my hand gripping the fence at the edge of the precipice, trying to comprehend what had taken place here fifteen thousand years ago.

Before the great floods, the land was much more nearly level, without this canyon running through it. Then the Missoula floods began. Over thousands of years, repeated torrents came crashing out of Idaho and across Washington. Some of that water swept through this area, carving out the canyon and river bottom.

It must have been astonishing to see—a torrent towering over my head and crossing the valley, churning and plucking basalt from the walls before carrying it downstream. Geologists believe the original cataract was much farther south, near the Snake River. With successive floods, rock was torn away and the falls retreated upstream until reaching its present location.

A zip and a small squeak caused me to turn. Six White-throated Swifts flew below my position in the canyon, zipping left and right as they caught insects. These migratory birds spend the summer here and nest in crevices in the walls. They were one of the species I had hoped to see.

I followed one swift as it flew down the canyon, twisting and turning. My friend, Carla, was also watching these aeronautical wizards. I touched her arm, “Let’s go to that lookout point.” A hundred yards along the precipice was a rock projection that might give a great view of the canyon. 

The river curved left and then sharply right, zigzagging through a canyon four or five hundred feet deep. The walls preserve one basalt flow above another, each the remnant of molten rock that spread across Washington millions of years before Ice Age floods tore open the canyon. In May, the sagebrush and grasses were green, though they would dry and turn brown as summer progressed. I canyon held my gaze for longer than I expected as I tried to fathom all that had happened here.