Badger started his most recent plunge into the world of photography by capturing images of the remote waterfalls that our friends and we in Team Waterfall began visiting in 2014. I had no idea then that those epic trips with Rock Sprite Kitty Myers and our hardcore compadres would lead to my passion for the arts through the vibes of falling water.

Those early ‘schwacks into the hidden folds of the Southern Appalachians were pure exploration consisting of long days of route finding, slippery rocks, and the quiet reward of discovering rarely visited places.

The camera was simply another tool in my pack at first. Over time it became the reason for the pack. What began as documentation of remote cascades slowly turned into a way of seeing: the way light moves across wet stone, the way water softens into silk when given enough time, the way a steep, green cove can hold both power and stillness at once.

This past week, the mountains finally received the rain they had been awaiting. Streams that had been too polite all summer woke up overnight. On Friday Badger scouted the terrain, and on Saturday our goal became the saturated woods of the WNC High Country, looking for the sound of high water.

We found it.

The first drop we reached on the way north was Toms Creek Falls – a tall, multi-tiered cascade sliding down a dark, moss-streaked face. Even with the increased flow, it kept its elegant, almost formal character – long white ribbons of water threading between the ledges before gathering again in the rocky pool below.

A drive further north brought us to the turbulent waterways on the flank of Grandfather Mountain where two of our favorite creeks named Wilson tumbled hard over broken staircases of rock. The extra volume turned the usual gentle flow into a continuous, churning ribbon of white subtly mixed with a shade of brown emanating from liquid mixing with leaves, roots, and wet earth.  In the early evening, the water seemed almost luminous against the background of dark stone and deep green canopy.

At Little Wilson Creek, we paused for a quick selfie, both of us grinning in the damp air, the waterfall continuing its work behind us. After more than a decade of these shared trips, the simple act of standing together in front of moving water still feels like coming home.

Rock Sprite and Badger find a waterfall day respite (photo by Thomas Mabry)

For Badger, these rainy-day returns are more than nostalgia. They are a deliberate circling back to the source of a creative life that began with wet boots, a backpack, and a tripod, and the decision to point a lens at places most people never see. The waterfalls have not changed their essential nature. They still demand attention, still reward patience, and still offer the same quiet invitation they did in 2014: to slow down, look carefully, and let the falling water do the rest.

On a gray Saturday in August 2026 after a good week of rain, that invitation was answered once again.

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See more of Thomas Mabry’s photography on Honey Badger Images.on Instagram.

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