High Falls Gorge in Wilmington (News photo — Oliver Reil)

To walk into High Falls Gorge in Wilmington is to step into the old world. Here there are no roads, no cars, no plow trucks or cellphones. Here there is only time, etched into the walls of the gorge as a lasting reminder of our fleeting personal histories.

After the Yaktrax were secured on my big logger’s boots by the staff, I slung my camera bags over my shoulder, strapped my backpack on tightly and headed out the back door of the welcome center on state Route 86. I was grateful for the added footwear; I would have certainly ended up on my seat without it.

A footbridge took me across the West Branch of the AuSable River. Looking upstream, the entire valley was laid out in front of me. Through falling snow, I peered out at the side of Little Whiteface Mountain, which I followed west to Sunrise Notch. I wondered what the valley used to look like before Route 86 carved its way through. I got the impression that it hadn’t changed much at all.

That’s a special trait of the Adirondacks, the ability to make a person feel as if they have traveled back in time, into a grand, untouched wilderness. Even in the most densely trafficked areas of the High Peaks, I’ve had moments of profound solitude, as well as a bone-rattling bear encounter in which I was woken from sleep by a curious bear sniffing my head.

Feeling small, I stepped off the bridge and continued east along the base of Little Whiteface. I reached a fork in the trail, at which I turned right. The AuSable’s leisurely amble was now a turbulent roar as it dropped into the gorge. Ice formed on every possible surface, stained brown by the river. The water ran around and under huge bulbs of ice and snow before plummeting down High Falls into the churning cauldron below. The ice along the base of the gorge looked like snow-covered spray foam. Even in the throes of winter, the gorge earned its native name, “The Ancient Valley of Foaming Water.”

High Falls Gorge in Wilmington (News photo — Oliver Reil)

I was reminded of my time in the Narrows of Zion National Park in the summer of 2018. Though exponentially larger than the gorge, the walls of the Narrows share a similar sense of eternity. The biggest difference between the two after size, for me anyway, is the mode of travel. In the gorge, one must remain on walkways to avoid almost certain demise. In the Narrows, travelers must strap on sandals or water shoes and wade their way through the canyon’s waters. In my time there, I did a fair amount of swimming, sometimes up to my chin. Looking down at the icy, frothing water below me now, I was grateful for the railings.

The infrastructure was minimal; enough for safety but not enough to drag the gorge into modernity. Looking down at the water, it was easy to forget about the railings. I continued along the walkway, which ran along the interior wall of the gorge. The main falls behind me now, I focused in on the outlet of the gorge.

I stepped onto yet another bridge, this time over the end of the gorge, where the AuSable resumed its normal flow. I stood, transfixed, by what is likely an overlooked piece of the natural wonder.

Again my mind began to wander, this time to the Raquette River. On my last Raquette outing, I canoed for six days from Long Lake to Moody Falls, just below Carry Falls Reservoir. The first half of the trip involved the quiet flow of the Raquette between Long and Tupper Lake. But once past the Piercefield Dam, the river turns to whitewater.

The transition between the two is what came to mind as I stared down at the dark water leaving the gorge. I recalled the adrenaline crash after a particularly dicey rapid as we eased into flat water once more.

High Falls Gorge in Wilmington (News photo — Oliver Reil)

As I watched the river find its way over boulders and around snowy banks, the world seemed to get quiet. Only two other people had shared the gorge with me that morning, and they were long gone.

Watching the river flow away from the bridges and walkways, cruising out into the trees, it was as if nothing else existed, just me and the wilderness; exactly the way I like it.