Silver Falls State Park

Long before it was a park, the Silver Creek country belonged to the Kalapuya and Molalla peoples, who hunted these forests and valleys for thousands of years. Under an 1855 treaty they were removed to the Grand Ronde Reservation, and their descendants today are enrolled in the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde.

In 1883 the first homesteader filed a claim beside South Falls, and by 1888 a small logging town called Silver Falls City had grown up on the land where the main lodge and parking area now sit. At its peak it had general stores, an eight-room hotel, a church, a dance hall, a school, and several sawmills. Over-logging and the economic collapse of the 1920s emptied it out, and by the 1930s it was a ghost of stumps and burned ground.

The falls had one devoted champion. June Drake, a Silverton photographer, spent decades from about 1902 onward photographing the falls and lobbying to protect them, even paying out of his own pocket to cut the first trails. In 1926 he pushed for national park status, but a National Park Service inspector rejected it: the land had been logged too heavily to meet the standard for scenery of supreme quality. It was human damage, not any lack of beauty, that cost it the designation. Drake turned to the state instead, and on July 23, 1933, Silver Falls was dedicated as a state park. He is remembered as the father of Silver Falls, and the small 27-foot Drake Falls carries his name.

The park you see was built during the Great Depression. Beginning in 1935, the Civilian Conservation Corps replanted thousands of acres of Douglas fir and hemlock and hand-built the trails, footbridges, and stonework that give the park its character. Their masterpiece is the South Falls Lodge, raised in 1940 from native basalt and timber and still standing as the park’s day lodge, furnished with myrtlewood tables and chairs made by Depression-era craftspeople. The old-growth cathedral visitors love is, in large part, a forest that people put back.

Silver Falls had its share of spectacle, too. On July 1, 1928, a logger-turned-stuntman named Al Faussett rode a twelve-foot canvas boat over the 177-foot South Falls in front of a crowd of thousands. A cable meant to steer the boat snagged near the lip, and the boat dropped flat into the pool, an impact one historian compared to a high diver doing a belly flop. Faussett survived with broken ribs. A Silverton man who was there remembered him beforehand “sitting in the canoe bracing himself with spirits,” bootleg liquor, this being Prohibition. His partner then vanished with the entire gate money before Al was out of the hospital.

Every one of the ten falls pours over the same dark rock: basalt laid down about 15 million years ago, when floods of lava erupted from vents in eastern Oregon more than 300 miles away and spread clear across the region in layer after layer. Silver Creek later cut down through those layers to carve the canyon you hike today.

The reason you can walk behind four of the falls, South Falls, Lower South Falls, North Falls, and Middle North Falls, is a quirk of that layering. A hard cap of basalt sits over softer, weaker rock beneath it. The plunging water scours out the soft layer and leaves a dry, curved alcove behind the sheet of water. Look up inside those alcoves and you may notice round holes in the ceiling, casts left where the ancient lava hardened around standing trees that later burned or rotted away.

The full loop, the Trail of Ten Falls, runs roughly seven miles along the North and South Forks of Silver Creek and links all ten drops, from the towering South Falls and the tiered Double Falls down to the little 27-foot Drake Falls. Measured heights vary a few feet depending on the source, so it is best to treat them as close approximations rather than exact figures.

The bird to watch for is the American dipper, a round, slate-gray songbird that actually walks underwater along the creek bottom to hunt insects, bobbing on midstream rocks between dives. It is one of those creatures you only notice if you slow down and look.

The canyon is owl country as well, home to spotted, barred, great horned, and the tiny northern pygmy-owl, and you may hear the deep drumming of a pileated woodpecker, a crow-sized bird that chisels rectangular holes into dead trees. In the wet leaf litter along the water, look for the Pacific giant salamander and the rough-skinned newt.

The forest itself is classic Pacific Northwest rainforest: Douglas fir, western red cedar, western hemlock, and bigleaf maple rising over a floor of moss, sword fern, and wood sorrel. Black-tailed deer are common, and black bear, bobcat, and Roosevelt elk range through the wider park, though they mostly keep out of sight.

Spring is when the falls are at their loudest, swollen with snowmelt and rain, and the canyon turns vivid green. It is many people’s favorite time to visit, with the trade-off of wet and sometimes muddy trails.

Summer is warm and the busiest season, ideal for picnicking and the day-use lawns, though flows drop as the dry months wear on and a few of the falls thin out.

Fall brings cooler air, thinner crowds, and a short, bright run of bigleaf-maple color as the autumn rains begin to revive the water.

Winter is the quietest and, on a cold day, the most dramatic: mist freezes onto the cliffs and railings, and snow can dust the forest. Trails turn icy, so sure footing matters, and sections can close in bad weather.

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