One of the stranger sides of human behavior that I’ve observed as a travel writer is our collective incuriosity about venturing beyond superlative destinations. Take waterfalls. In most states, the tallest cascade is a landmark that commands seasonal audiences. It occupies seemingly limitless real estate on Instagram and TikTok. The competition for parking spaces, trail permits, and adjacent lodging grows each year. And yet, the masses keep chasing that one, big-ass waterfall; like a bunch of tipsy arisotracts on horses, hunting a fox on a British nobleman’s estate. Meanwhile, the second tallest waterfall in the state goes unseen and unappreciated, living in its sibling’s shadow.
This is Second Waterfall Syndrome, and it’s a sad situation for pretty much everyone involved. A really tall cascade isn’t necessarily going to be the most visually stunning cascade in the state. Dryad Fall, the tallest waterfall in New Hampshire, is a 300-foot monster when there’s a lot of snowmelt during spring. But during the summer and fall, Dryad dries up and becomes little more than a damp cliffside. Another drawback with chasing the tallest waterfall is the crowds themselves. When I visited Moxie Falls, the tallest waterfall in Maine, I found myself waiting in a small queue for the observation deck that overlooks the falls. And when I finally got there, I was less captivated by the waterfall itself and more terrified for the teens who were swimming in the dark pool beneath it, paddling closer and closer to the gigantic plume of water spilling into the pool, which was torrential and powerful enough to have drowned a moose. Second Tallest Waterfalls can sometimes offer an experience that more closely resembles what we imagine when we hit the road searching for a king-sized cascade. And back in early June, I decided to seek the towering, elusive #2 waterfall in the Nutmeg State.
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