Father & Son Journey to Upper Dill Falls

As a nature photographer based in Asheville, North Carolina, I’ve spent years chasing waterfalls and waiting on just the right light. But some of the most meaningful moments don’t come from the perfect shot—they come from who you’re with when you take it. Recently, I set out with my 10-year-old son, Christian, on an afternoon adventure to photograph waterfalls in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We headed for Lower and Upper Dill Falls in the Nantahala National Forest, tucked away off the gravel roads near Balsam Grove. I had hoped for a quiet day of waterfall photography, but I got much more than that.

Christian’s more of a video game guy than a trailblazer. Like many kids his age, he’s used to the comfort of home and a controller in hand. Hiking in 80-degree heat and summer humidity wasn’t exactly his idea of fun. But I wanted to show him the kind of beauty that can’t be found on a screen—the kind you feel in your bones when you round a bend in the trail and see nature showing off. So we packed up the gear, loaded the car, and hit the trail together.

Our first stop was Lower Dill Falls, an easier hike that’s perfect for beginners and families. The trail is short, winding gently through dense forest until it opens to a beautiful 50-foot waterfall cascading into a shallow pool. Christian was in good spirits, tossing stones and asking questions about the camera while I set up a few long exposures. The light was soft, filtered through a green canopy, and everything felt still and peaceful. It was the perfect warm-up, and I could tell he was starting to enjoy himself.

Then we turned uphill and started the climb to Upper Dill Falls.

The trail to Upper Dill Falls is steeper and more rugged. Roots and rocks twisted underfoot, and the climb pushed Christian harder than he expected. The heat and humidity made it feel like we were moving through molasses. After just a few minutes, he was winded, red-faced, and drenched in sweat. I asked him if he wanted to take a break—or even turn around. But he shook his head. “I want to see it,” he said, and kept walking. That moment made me proud beyond words.

Step by step, he pushed through. When we finally reached the top, we were greeted with a scene that felt like it had waited just for us. The water tumbled over moss-covered rocks in delicate curtains, the sunlight breaking through the trees in golden shafts. I waded out into the stream, feeling the cold mountain water rush over my boots. Carefully, I set up the tripod, adjusted the camera, and took the shot. The moment was everything I had hoped for—still, sacred, and full of wonder.

Christian stood next to me, quiet now. The struggle of the climb was gone, replaced by awe. In that moment, he saw what I see. Not just a waterfall, but a glimpse of something greater. Another masterpiece from God’s gallery, captured forever.

That day wasn’t just about waterfall photography in North Carolina—it was about connection, perseverance, and showing a young boy what it means to chase something real. We walked back to the car tired but smiling, a little stronger, a little closer, and with a memory neither of us will ever forget.