We walk without haste, searching the left side of the wide track for a sign of something less obvious that may be the beginning of a track to a secret waterfall. We look beyond our track too. The junction may be purposefully hidden. For a kilometre there’s discussion about the pencilled line on a map. A hopeful scrawl after a conversation with a walker who’d been there. We stop several times while our leader and another repeat their ideas that we’re close. Their reasons have seemed sensible all along the straight ridge path. The left leans down to a distant creek. To the right side is a concrete watercourse. More than a drain, it’s of the ancient Greek or Roman construction, built to function permanently. Fish and insects live their whole lives in the clear sparkling water. But the sparkles are fading and our campsite is to the right, way beyond the little hill that’s all we can see. Somewhere soon there should be a path to the right up to a small forest. If we reach that corner the choice will vanish. We won’t be back this way this week so now is our only chance to discover the secret waterfall. Our pace quickens, our intention resolute, our eyes steadfastly scouring to the left. “There!” A scratch of an indistinct line in the grass downhill. Yes, here from the main track. Downhill we go. On and on, fast. It will seem further on the way back up. But we reach the waterfall, five metres high, maybe higher, and it’s worth the decision.