Copper Falls State Park

The dark rock of the gorge is some of the oldest exposed stone in the region, part of the ancient volcanic and lava formations laid down more than a billion years ago when the North American continent was pulling apart along the great rift that created the Lake Superior basin. Long afterward, the region carried a history of copper in its rocks, and small-scale copper mining once drew prospectors here, giving the falls their name.

The gorge itself was carved as the Bad River and Tyler Forks cut down through that hard rock, aided over the ages by the grinding of glaciers and the rush of meltwater. The result is a steep, narrow canyon walls of dark stone, far deeper and more rugged than most Wisconsin rivers manage, where the tea-colored water drops in a sequence of falls and cascades on its way toward Lake Superior.

This is Ojibwe country, part of the homeland of the Anishinaabe, whose Bad River Band lives nearby and whose reservation lies downstream where the Bad River reaches Lake Superior. The river and its watershed hold deep importance to the Bad River people, who have long fished, harvested wild rice, and cared for these waters, and who remain present and active stewards of the land today.

The name Bad River is a European rendering of an Ojibwe name for the river, and the whole region carries the layered history of Native life, the fur trade, logging, and small mining ventures. A visit to the falls is a chance to appreciate a landscape that has been known, used, and honored by the Ojibwe for a very long time, and that remains central to their community.

Copper Falls became a state park in the 1920s, but much of what visitors love about it was built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps, the Depression-era work program that put young men to work building parks across the country. At Copper Falls they constructed trails, stairways, overlooks, log footbridges, and rustic stone buildings using local materials and skilled hand craftsmanship.

Their work has aged beautifully, blending into the forest and gorge as though it grew there. The log bridges over the river, the stone observation tower, and the concession building are enduring examples of that Depression-era park-building tradition. Walking the loop today, you follow paths and cross bridges shaped by hands nearly a century ago, part of the quiet pleasure of the place.

The forests of the park are classic Northwoods, a mix of maple, birch, aspen, hemlock, and pine that shelters white-tailed deer, black bear, beaver, and porcupine, with the possibility of otter along the river. Bald eagles and ospreys hunt the water, and the woods fill with warblers and thrushes in the warm months. The tea-colored river holds trout and other fish in its clearer stretches.

The seasons transform the gorge. Spring snowmelt sends the falls roaring at their fullest, summer brings warm days ideal for hiking the loop, and autumn sets the northern hardwoods ablaze in red and gold, framing the falls in color. Winter is quiet and cold, icing the gorge walls and hushing the falls, and while trails grow slick, the frozen canyon has a stark beauty all its own.

The closest Boutel™ stays, so you can turn this stop into an overnight. Each is an independently owned, editorially selected place to stay.