There are some places that just feel made for film photography. Catawba Falls, tucked away in Old Fort, North Carolina, is one of them. On a recent visit, I packed my Nikon F3 loaded with Kodak Portra 800, leashed up my dog George, and set out to document the trail from start to finish.
Before we even hit the trail, we made an essential stop: Gogo’s Cinnamon Rolls. The smell alone is reason enough to visit, but the gooey peanut butter roll sealed the deal. With cinnamon-sugar fingers and a mocha from Seeker Coffee in hand, we walked around downtown and took some time to photograph a few of Old Fort’s most nostalgic spots—the old Piggly Wiggly sign that feels frozen in time, the 1960s-era post office with its brick facade and faded lettering, and the Old Fort Railroad Station with its weathered platform and rail-side charm. These places just look better on film.
The light was perfect that day—that soft, late morning haze that Portra handles so well. The trailhead itself sets the tone: a single moss-covered stone building from the early 20th century, all patina and charm. Their textures and history make them irresistible on film. I burned through half a roll just capturing the abandoned, decrepit charm—graffiti on the walls, and weathered stone that tells its own story.
The trail starts out gentle, following the river on a wide, shaded path. There are swimming holes just minutes in, and the light coming through the trees reflected off the water in a way that practically begged to be shot. The greens were deep and rich, and the motion of the current gave me a chance to experiment with some slower shutter speeds.
It doesn’t take long before you start seeing the lingering impact of Hurricane Helene. Portions of the trail are scarred from old landslides—fallen trees, washed-out soil, and twisted roots. It’s sobering, but it also adds depth to the landscape. I leaned into that, capturing those moments in contrast with the more idyllic shots. Film has this way of holding tension, and I think that duality came through. One image that stuck with me was a lone tree clinging to the hillside, surrounded by the aftermath of a landslide. Somehow, it had held on, upright in a sea of fallen earth and broken branches. It was striking on film—this quiet symbol of survival in a scene shaped by force.
A little further in, you reach a dam that looks more like a small waterfall, with wooden rails and a bench nearby where you can pause and take in the views.
The Lower Falls
Before we reached the Lower Falls, we met two park rangers along the trail. We thanked them for all the work they’d done in the wake of Hurricane Helene, and they shared some of their experiences navigating the damage and restoration efforts. We also asked how recent cuts to the Forest Service were affecting their work—something they admitted had made the job even harder. It was a meaningful moment, a reminder of how much behind-the-scenes work goes into keeping these places accessible.
George led the way most of the time, his nose always working. At the Lower Falls, the trail opens up to a viewing platform and then—suddenly—you look up and see the full scale of the cascade. It’s massive. A high, long, slow drop of water spilling down dark rock with all kinds of intricate details: trees somehow growing sideways out of the cliff, patches of moss that remain despite the storm, and a giant swimming hole at the base that catches the light like rippled antique window glass—imperfect, but full of depth and motion from the moving water.
We spent a long time here, shooting from every angle we could find. We crossed the stream multiple times, jumping from boulder to boulder in search of new compositions. The challenge now is the newly constructed metal staircase to the Upper Falls—it’s an amazing addition for access, but it does intrude a bit into the clean composition of Lower Falls. Still, we made it work.
Then came the stairs. 580 steps to the Upper Falls, and this is where things shifted. There’s a newly constructed staircase of wood and metal, completed in 2024, that climbs the hillside—and remarkably, it held firm through Hurricane Helene. In a way, it’s become a quiet metaphor for the strength and resilience of the entire area. As you begin the climb, there are several smaller viewing platforms along the way, each giving you a new angle on the Lower Falls—framed by trees, mist, and rock. Eventually, you reach a larger main observation deck that opens up to sweeping views of the distant hills and mountains. It’s a place to pause, take it all in, and realize just how much elevation you’ve gained. I took a breather there, let George rest his paws—because let me tell you, he wasn’t thrilled about the see-through grates or the little pointy traction bits on each metal stair. Fair enough.
The Upper Falls
At the top, the reward is massive. The Upper Falls is loud and theatrical, spraying mist and tumbling down in a perfect composition of movement and rock. I waited for the sun to dip behind the treeline for that even, diffused light—and even managed to catch a few lens flares through the trees that added a dreamy, unexpected quality to the frames. Visitors at Catawba Falls don’t appear out of nowhere—it’s a popular spot, and that’s part of what makes it such a challenge for photographers. When a group of college kids wandered into what I had originally framed as a clean, quiet shot, I pivoted and made one of them the subject instead. Their presence added life, movement, and a sense of scale to the final images that I couldn’t have planned better. After they were done swimming, I took the opportunity to shoot more of the Upper Falls—both wide compositions and tighter, detailed frames—while George curled up nearby for a well-earned nap. He was completely exhausted by that point.
After the hike, curiosity pulled us toward Curtis Creek and Newberry Creek. These are some of the area’s most beloved trout waters, and we wanted to see how they’d fared. The landscape showed signs of stress—storm debris and altered flow—but also signs of life. We photographed the streams and made a mental note to come back for more time on the water.
Then it was time to walk back to the car. We took our time, stopping along the way to snap anything we may have missed. George got in a couple more dips in the stream—he absolutely loves the water—and then we made our way back to the trailhead. Before hitting the road, we stopped at Hillman Beer – Old Fort for a quick snack and a cold drink. After that, our curiosity led us to spend some time at Curtis Creek and Newberry Creek, two nearby trout streams we care a lot about.
Curtis Creek looked dramatically different. The river was noticeably wider—definitely reshaped by the storm—with freshly exposed rocks now gleaming bright and white along the banks, bedrock that had once been hidden beneath the flow. Along the roadside, you could see rip rap and erosion control where landslides had cut through. We parked at the old pull-off near the Gateway Trails trailhead, where the bridge—a massive concrete and steel structure—was completely down.
And yet, right there in front of it, stood a lone fly fisherman casting into the current. He was a local, and we ended up talking with him for a while. He shared what it was like during the hurricane and in the days after—how intense and frightening the experience was for his family and the entire community. It was a heavy but eye-opening conversation.
He also spoke about how fishing here feels different now. He’s fished Curtis Creek his entire life, and he said it’s like a whole new river. He said something that stuck with me—how rivers are never the same, how they evolve and recover. It wasn’t just about fishing; it was about resilience, and the way nature rebuilds itself in real time. It was a moment of perspective—how even through destruction, nature finds a way to continue, to reshape, and to move forward.
We also made a stop at Newberry Creek before eventually heading back to Charlotte. There’s still a fair bit of work to do in this area. Several homes along the creek remain off their foundations, and large piles of tree limbs and rock debris still line parts of the river. But there’s been a lot of visible progress too. The debris that once clogged the first bridge has been cleared, and many of the landslide areas along the creek have been stabilized.
It was also really encouraging to see Indigo Retreat—an off-grid yoga and nature retreat tucked up along the creek—back open. Just months ago, this area looked completely devastated. Some of the landslides here were intense, leaving major scars on the hillside. There’s still a long road ahead, but things are moving in the right direction. To our surprise, we even spotted fish darting through some of the gin-clear pools. It was surreal, considering the volume and force of the floodwaters that came through here not long ago.
Eventually, we made our way back to Charlotte. George was completely cooked—passed out in the backseat before we even hit the highway. And then came the wait. The anxious excitement of dropping off film, wondering if the shots came out, waiting days to get them back. When they did, that familiar thrill hit—memories captured, light held still. Now, we’re editing a vlog of the entire day. It’ll be ready soon, and we can’t wait to share the visuals from one of the most photogenic trails in North Carolina.
That’s the magic of film in a place like this. You can plan all you want, but it’s those unscripted moments—the way your dog hesitates on a stair tread, the texture of a historic wall, a stranger entering the frame at just the right time—that make the story come alive.
Catawba Falls is more than a hike. It’s a narrative. And when you shoot it on film, every frame feels like a chapter that won’t fade.
