It’s been a long climb. We’ve been trudging along the side of a mountain for the guts of three hours, scrambling up muddy stone steps and over the thick vines that creep from the tree trunks onto the path. The sweat is clinging to me as desperately as I’m gripping onto my walking stick, which has twice saved me from slipping on my belly back to the start of the trail.
But as we reach what I can only pray is the summit, I start to hear the powerful surge of nearby water, and realise that we’ve (finally) made it. A hop, skip and a rickety rope bridge later, and we’re there – Gocta Waterfall. It’s a beast, well over 2,000 feet high, and the water charges over the caramel coloured stone, sending clouds of icy spray onto my bright pink face.
The views are breathtaking. And I mean that quite literally – I am panting like a basset hound. The worst part is, contrary to my naive assumption, we’re not even at altitude. But unfit wheezing aside, it really is one hell of a view.
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