Last August, I travelled to Iceland with five of my dearest friends. We rented a car and travelled the ring road. Being poor students, most of our excursions were to natural wonders, such as waterfalls and vistas — things which were free. It worked out pretty well since most of the sights in Iceland are of that vein anyway.

One of the waterfalls we saw was called Skógafoss.

Having several more stops to make that day, we decided to split up. We would meet together after half an hour. Two went climbing and wandering up the rugged slope. Two stayed at the waterfall’s base. Josh and I, the remaining two, began an arduous climb up the long, winding staircase to the viewing platform at Skógafoss’ crest.

It took 527 stairs to reach Skógafoss’ height.

The slope was steep and muddy, slippery from spray and recent rain. Broken lines of people snaked up and down the narrow stairs. Coats and jackets of every color brushed, shoulder to shoulder, when their wearers passed.

Snippets of maybe a dozen languages dashed together in the waterfall’s roar. Unfamiliar words expressed wonder, excitement, all the more intense for being shared.

I tried to maintain a steady pace, painfully aware that Josh would have climbed much faster were he not waiting for me. My lungs burned and my legs ached as the stairs kept on and on…and on.

The view we found at the top was breathtaking.

To the left, Iceland stretched before us, green, cloudy and rugged. To the right, a frothing stream carved a ravine between mossy slopes before tumbling over the edge, becoming Skógafoss as it plummeted into misty mystery far below.

We wandered and wondered, and took pictures which fell hopelessly short of capturing the beauty of that place. A small precipice reached out over the stream which, with mountains stretching all around, was the perfect photo point.

It was there we found the other climbers, Jordan and Paul. We all started taking and posing for pictures, but when my turn came, I saw only the closeness of the edge and the threat of empty space below. Paralyzed with fear, I couldn’t step out on the ledge.

I couldn’t — and I hated myself for it.

***

Catching my breath from the long descent, I gazed, wonderstruck, at the base of the waterfall. Skógafoss fell in a wide crescent, the center of which, like most waterfalls, cascaded violently into a boulder-strewn pool that fed a rocky stream. On the outer edge, where less water fell, that which did turned mostly to mist before it touched the ground. In that spot, one could safely stand directly beneath the waterfall.

“I thought you would be running in that,” Jordan remarked.

I wanted to, desperately, but I was discouraged from my cowardice on the ledge, and our half an hour was gone. So, I made excuse about being out of breath.

Giving me a knowing look, my friend took off his coat.

“Are you coming?”

We ran, and for once I was able to ignore my lack of coordination and corresponding fear of injury. Sprinting full-out over loose stones, I didn’t worry about falling or twisting an ankle. In that moment, I was wilder than the rocks, wilder than gravity.

They could not touch me.

For a glorious moment, Jordan and I stood on black rocks beneath the waterfall. The rushing, crashing, thunder of it roared in my stomach and in my bones. I breathed air thick with shards of shattered droplets and brushed against wisps of rainbow.

Skógafoss soaked icily into my skin; heavily into my lungs. Water gathered on my glasses, and I was nearly blind. It was a moment of perfect wildness.

The wildness faded as we ran back, away from the waterfall. Tripping over a jagged stone, I nearly fell. Fear crept back in. Icy spray which moments before had felt so invigorating, turned to sodden weight in my clothes and shoes. My bad ankle throbbed. Just like that, the magic was gone.

For a moment though, for the briefest of moments, I was fearless, invincible.

In my life, I can count a handful of moments where I have truly felt that I could take on the world. They are precious to me, and very rare.

Other people don’t usually see these moments. Sometimes, things they do or say make the moment happen, but they don’t see the significance. Learning that no one else sees the magic can be terribly lonely.

Skógafoss is doubly special because of this — Jordan wasn’t just there, he was part of it.

“I wouldn’t have gone,” I told him, after. “I would have regretted it.”

“I know.”