Crisp, damp air cools the thin skin of my pink cheeks
as I pick my way through the wet ferns and grasses that have grown over the track, rainwater streaked over my grey jeans.
A rich peaty smell rises from decaying wood and leaves,
exposed banks crumbling bits of orange clay and dark black soil that get stuck in clods to the bottom of my boots.
Above me, the white sky is barely visible. The whole path is a tunnel of green; moss covered trees dripping with lichens block out most descending light.
There are slippery rocks that one must take care over when picking across an icy cold stream. The water is clear and steady, having been slowly filtered though a millennium of volcanic rock and spewed from the cracks of the mountain.
Tree roots line the forest floor like a net of fresh shining liquorice, and bright orange bracket fungi cling to the base of some of the more ancient species of tree.
A plethora of birdsong can be heard among the gentle rustle of leaves and flow of the many streams.
On this, the aptly named ‘Enchanted track.’