First one, then two, and then three: the secrecy deepens as the path rises.
There is no bus stop or car park. From the Hoi Ha Road at the bridge, the scene is unwelcoming. Before the eyes is the high wall of a concrete dam that captures the river’s constant flow, diverting it several miles to the bright and unnaturally blue High Island reservoir. The inquisitive will not—indeed should not—use this pool: access is treacherous where it is not protected by wire, and it is made from dangerous undercurrents.
The scruffy path weaves over a trickling riverbed and through a succession of cumbersome, clambering boulders and curtains of knife-like grasses until it is clear the sandy trail leads somewhere. Within minutes the outside world has gone, and the final few metres are more forgiving—the welcoming pool opens to the sky.
It is difficult, even in the coolest winters, to resist the urge to strip off and plunge beneath the little wavelets. Alone it is a place of silent contemplation, in company a natural noisy playground. From the edge, the shallow rocks fall away into deep green depths. From there the little fishes come and stare; they come to eat whatever is cast. They are naturally wary; bigger fish and herons await a momentary snack.
The clear river churns milky only in the powerful mid-summer deluges. At those times the white water brilliantly cascades over the rocks to create falls fit for a jigsaw puzzle photo. At other times, the summer heat promotes a coating of slippery algae over each rocky sluice—treachery at every footfall.
There has been death here, of the reckless and the foolish. It adds the piquancy of inevitable mortality to skyward heads afloat in the languid flow. By itself, nature thinks little of infinity. That is our job.
Pushing further up the path, more rocky pools will appear—shallow and irregular. From them the framed opening between the trees on either side allows for the monolith of Sharp Peak to arise. But above the second cataract can be found the next deep pools. Reached by fern-covered path, they are more secluded, more withdrawn; they lend themselves further to sun-kissed afternoon privacy, both of body and mind. Life, work and everything else seems a very long way away.
The course beyond is progressively rougher and must be actively sought. Splitting from the track that leads away to the hilltops, it suddenly descends into mysterious undergrowth only to appear again beneath a creeper’s awkward growth.
At this juncture, the final secretive glades appear, although almost totally obscured. The exclusive domain of endangered turtles, and of the desperate criminals who catch them, surrounded on all sides by deep mud and slipsure rocks, rotting overhead branches and listless yellowing leaves, these are the primitive holdouts of punishing mosquitoes and subtle leeches. The place is at once hostile and intriguing: none come here for pleasure alone. Pandanas thorns scour unguarded skin and giant orbweb spiders aspire to leave their strong sticky yellow threads upon the hair. Yet there is a purity and a delight in ultimate seclusion.
There is no path ahead. Where pig or cow may have once lazily made their way all night above the boulders and through the canopy, the track for human feet, if there ever was one, has forever vanished within the thick subtropical vegetation, the primordial, the emotionless and the moral-free. Beyond this terminal place it would be easy to set down forever, and leave no trace for the world further down that lifeline track. Once free of vitality, the body would become the food of a boar, of rodents, flocks of pecking birds, thousands of ants and a billion microbes.
But back the seeker must go, reminded with each step about what it means to be a solitary soul within society. Such isolation is to be treasured because of the necessary intensity of social interaction. Quiet places, even secret places, are treasuries of autonomous experience. We bring ourselves there to find peace and hope to take a little of it home.
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