Ray Vaughan
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Cattaraugus is ever-changing, continually presenting new faces to the artist and photographer. Most days the water is in a hurry, running down to mix with Erie, but other days the creek is lazy and lingers in eddies and pools. The light in the gorge keeps shifting as the sun and moon exchange their glances and glares, or defer to the play of clouds or wheeling stars – and all too soon the halcyon days tumble into fall skies, long nights, ice and snow, before the cycle of green returns. The herons and eagles, trout and salamanders, foxes and flowers know their cues; it’s an old story for them. Older still, far beyond our notions of time, are the shales and interbedded sandstones whose fossils speak of ancient seas. Faulted and fractured by tectonic forces, these old Devonian rocks have been worked and weathered by glaciers and meltwater, then by centuries of rain and frost and the creek itself, to form the intermittent high cliffs, with their weather-resistant brows and sculpted furrows and cascading waterfalls, that enclose the Cattaraugus from Springville through Zoar to the Seneca Nation – and along the South Branch as well. In all, this is a very special walled garden, many miles in length, heavily forested along its flood plain and terraces, where nature may rage or smile. These are the things that draw me to the Cattaraugus. Either alone or in the company of close friends, I am privileged to capture occasional snapshots of its rich tapestry.