Teneriffe Falls Trail: A Waterfall Hike near North Bend

Teneriffe Falls cascades down into a basin of snow at Mt Si in North Bend, Washington.

MOUNT SI, NORTH BEND, WA:

I’ve always found the hours before the world wakes up to be the most honest. This morning, as I drove toward North Bend under the dark fading night, I felt a familiar pull toward the gift of another journey: Teneriffe Falls. There’s a certain weight to the silence in the car when you’re heading toward a trailhead before sunrise. It’s a space where gratitude isn’t a performance but a quiet realization of the people who’ve stuck by you through the steeper grades of life. I was thinking about how some of you have walked these miles with me, not just through the photos of the trails, views, falls, and lakes, but through the messier bits of growth and grief that don’t always make it into the frame. It’s a shared journey, even when the miles are solo, and that realization sat with me as I pulled into the empty lot, ready to see what the mountain had to say about the funk I’ve been trying to shake lately.

The air at the trailhead was a crisp 41 degrees, a brisk reminder that the seasons don’t always change just because the calendar says they should. I started my ascent into a damp, heavy quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you feel like the forest is holding its breath just for you. As the sun cleared the horizon and the birds began their first set, I found myself wrestling with a trail-thought that’s been sitting in the shadows of my mind. I’ve built a life on healthy habits and activities: hiking, gratitude, music, mindfulness, staying grounded, etc. But lately, I’ve been wondering if those things can evolve into checkboxes rather than anchors. There’s a difference between doing the work and just going through the motions, and the trail has a way of stripping away the excuses until you’re left with the truth. More often, I’ve felt the absence of Kelly’s laughter, a reminder that while I’m in the driver’s seat of my future, the passenger seat still feels heavy with her memory.

Reaching the falls was a scramble through storm-damaged timber and technical rock gardens, a physical manifestation of the obstacles I’ve been trying to work through in my own head. Standing in the cold mist of Teneriffe Falls, I watched how the water carved its way through the hardest stone not by force, but by persistence. It’s easy to get caught up in wanting a radical recalibration, some grand epiphany that fixes the spirit, but maybe it’s more about the slow, steady work of grace. I passed a few groups on the way down, their laughter a subtle contrast to my own quiet, yet I didn’t feel lonely. There’s a specific strength found in these solo miles that lets you hear your own thoughts without a filter. By the time I reached the lower elevations, the day had leveled out, and I realized that being a little lost is sometimes the only way to find where the path is actually leading next.

The Journey…

I arrived in North Bend just as the sky was starting to wake up, a few scattered clouds catching that first hint of light. At 41 degrees, it was brisk enough to make me question my layers, but I knew the ascent toward Teneriffe Falls would warm me up soon enough. I was the only soul at the trailhead at 6 AM, which is exactly how I like to start. There’s a specific kind of silence before the crowds arrive, a heavy, damp quiet that feels like the forest is holding its breath. The trail started soft under my boots, lined with deep green ferns and downed timber, smelling of that rich, turned-up earth and fresh moss. As the sun officially cleared the horizon, the birds started in, their songs cutting through the stillness while I found my rhythm. I looked up through the canopy and caught glimpses of a clear blue sky, a rare gift in the Northwest that promised a good day ahead.

The climb reached higher once I hit the loop. My breath shortened as the elevation gain demanded more from me, and soon the soft dirt gave way to a more rugged, rocky path. I spent some time this morning playing a live game of Frogger, hopping across creeks that seemed to carve their own paths down the mountainside. At one point, I stood on a wooden bridge over a rushing stream, a wall of beautiful noise that felt strangely purifying, even as it overshadowed the melodies offered by the birds. Further up, the scent of freshly cut cedar hit me, likely the work of some trail crew clearing winter debris. It was so sharp and clean it made me think of the warmth of campfires in my youth, though the patches of snow in the shadows reminded me that winter wasn’t entirely finished with these higher elevations yet.

Things got interesting when I reached a connector trail marked CLOSED due to storm damage. I hesitated for a second, but curiosity won out. Navigating the tangled blowdown was a bit of a scramble with a damaged bridge and scaling fallen trees, where my approach resembled mounting a horse…with a pack on! By the time I reached the upper switchbacks, the terrain had turned into a full rock garden. The temperature dropped, forcing me into my hat and gloves just before the falls came into view. The sheer drop of the water was immense, throwing off a cold mist that soaked into my clothes the moment I stood still. Standing there, being enveloped by the fresh snowmelt runoff, I found myself thinking about how water always finds the path of least resistance, yet it’s the very thing that carves the hardest stone. There’s a lesson in that, I think.

The hike down was a different experience. I passed a group from the Mountaineers and a few other hikers just starting their climb, all of them wearing smiles that reflected their own journey through nature. It’s always good to see people happy, though I found myself lingering on the contrast between their shared laughter and my own quiet. There is a certain strength found in solo miles that is difficult to mirror in a group, a way of hearing your own thoughts without the filter of conversation. By the time I made it back to the lower trails, the temperature had leveled out and the birds were back at it, providing an encore for my final mile.

Gratitude…

I left the house just before five, the kind of quiet where even the engine starting felt like I was disrupting the serenity of the morning. Soon, I found myself on HWY 18. It stretched out ahead of me in long, dim lines, the road mostly empty except for the occasional pair of headlights drifting past in the opposite direction. It wasn’t a long drive, only about an hour, but it gave me more than enough time to settle into that familiar space where the day hadn’t asked anything of me yet. Somewhere between the dark bends and the soft rise along the foothills, I caught myself thinking about the people who’ve been walking alongside me for some time. Not in a physical sense, but in the quieter way. The kind that shows up in a conversation, an email, a quick text, a question, or even just a consistent presence over time.

I realized I’d been carrying that appreciation for a while without quite knowing how to name it. It never felt like something meant for display or fanfare. No big gestures, no need to turn it into something polished. Just a steady awareness that this thing I’ve been experiencing, these reflections, aren’t landing in empty space. Some of you come along for the hikes themselves, to experience and see the trail through my lens for a few minutes. Others seem to lean into the deeper parts, the uneven terrain that has nothing to do with elevation gain. Growth, grief, the slow work of trying to understand what any of this is for. I’ve had conversations that started with a single line in my journal and ended somewhere I didn’t expect, and I’ve learned just as much from those exchanges as I have from the miles on the trail.

By the time I pulled into the trailhead around six, the sky was just starting to give up its darkness, that faint shift that feels more sensed than seen. I sat there for a minute before getting out, hands still on the wheel, letting the quiet settle in one last time. It struck me then that none of this feels like a one-way path. There’s something shared in it, even in the silence. Whether you’ve been reading from the beginning or just found your way here recently, I’ve felt it. Not as noise or attention, but as something steadier. Like company on a long journey where everyone keeps their own pace but still moves in the same direction. And for that, I felt a kind of gratitude that didn’t need much explanation. It was enough just to notice it and carry it with me as I stepped out into the morning.

Reflections…

This morning, as I stepped onto the trail, the dawn light cast a soft glow in the sky, suggesting warmth and possibility. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and pine, a reminder of the fullness of nature that surrounded me. I set out with a trail-thought lingering in my mind: joy had felt elusive lately, and I wanted to explore what might be tipping the balance in my otherwise stable life. Each step felt deliberate, my boots keeping time with the forest around me.

As I made my way through the trees, I thought about how life keeps swinging between light and shadow. I’ve kept up many good habits that enrich my days, keeping me connected to gratitude and the grounding force of nature. Yet, those moments of funk still creep in, sometimes clinging to my spirit for longer than I’d like to admit. I’m not complaining; I’m simply curious about the patterns that emerge, and I had wondered, have I reduced these good behaviors to mere checkboxes, a way to prove to myself that I’m doing the work? I found myself pondering the nature of habits and whether they carry an expiration date.

The trail twisted and turned, mirroring the complexities of my thoughts. I recalled past hikes where I’d felt a surge of clarity, moments when the weight of my questions felt lighter among the trees. Today, though, I sensed a deeper yearning. I couldn’t help but feel the absence of Kelly, her laughter echoing in my memories. It’s hard to shake off the bummed-out feeling that lingers when I think about how much I miss sharing the seemingly insignificant nuances of life with her. Nuances, I’ve learned, that aren’t so insignificant. I resisted the temptation to fall into a victim mentality, firmly gripping the steering wheel of my life, but the truth is, I can’t help but feel the void.

Reaching the falls, I paused to take in the view and let the gentle mist touch my face. The falls rose toward the sky, indifferent to me and inviting all at once. It struck me that even those who move through life with purpose will encounter obstacles along the way. Today’s trail-thought didn’t present a neat solution but rather a quiet acknowledgment of my journey. Maybe sometimes, it’s just about extending grace on the tougher days, recognizing the effort needed to maintain balance. The trail called me forward, and I felt a gentle nudge at my back, a reminder that it’s okay to be a little lost sometimes.

As I continued my descent, I allowed the forest’s wisdom to seep into my thoughts. Maybe I didn’t need a radical shake-up to recalibrate my true north; perhaps what I needed was to sit with these feelings, to let them unfold naturally. I noticed the balance between striving for joy and accepting the moments of discontent. The trail led me onward, each step a reminder of resilience, a blend of curiosity and humility carried through the day. The path continues.

-Ken