Suddenly we burst from darkness to daylight. The ceiling of branches retracts as leafy banks give way to rocky embankments. The river flows faster, pressed between cliff faces. We hear a roaring up ahead, and I’m now an experienced enough canoer to know what that sound means.

The shaman steers quickly to a rocky bank, and we follow. Soon all three canoes have been dragged out of the water and stowed safely in the brush. The two young warriors pick up Kidah on an improvised litter, and our party creeps toward the thunderous sound.

As we move forward, I notice that the shaman seems to be growing younger and more vibrant. His wrinkled face smoothes out and his stride becomes springier. At the start of our journey, the hunched old woman hobbled along on a walking stick. Now she carries the stick in her right hand and uses it to swat away thorns. The two young warriors at first struggled to carry Kidah over the rough terrain, but with each step their burden seems to lighten, and they bound along like twin mountain goats.

I feel the power of the place myself. It’s restorative, regenerative. All the aches and pains from my many wounds begin to melt away. I feel wide awake and energized, like I just woke up from the best sleep of my life to a beautiful spring morning filled with promise.

We draw close to the edge of the abyss. The shaman stops first and stands stock-still, gazing down in rapture. One by one we join him on a great stone that protrudes like a natural balcony out over the precipice.

Over the lip of the enchanted chasm into which we are now peering, four mighty rivers burst into space. They tumble down the rock-ribbed mountainsides from all points of the compass in roaring cataracts. The boulders that line those torrents seem to dance in the sun as their sharp edges skewer the current, shooting up fountains of froth.

The four great waterfalls hiss and bubble down the cliff faces into a diamond-shaped valley where they form a witches’ cauldron of a whirlpool. In the center of that swirling lake floats an emerald island so lush that it gleams in the sun like a jewel in a watery crown. One by one, picking our way down the mountainside on the single narrow trail, we head for that shimmering sapphire.

How can an old shaman possibly pick his way over razor-edged rocks or an aged crone, even with Eko’s and my help, negotiate her way over yawning crevices? But halfway down she flings her walking stick aside and climbs down with nimble, sprightly steps. The two warriors carrying the slumbering Kidah bring up the rear, easily surmounting the roughest crags despite the added weight of the wizard.