The car door opens and the sticky, sulfury air rushes in. We're certainly not in a remote spot, the lights of Taipei shine just below the other side of the mountain, and we are parked behind a luxury hot spring resort. Our hosts show us the trailhead behind the resort's utility shed. The trail is wide and semi-maintained but even with my dozen hiking companions, the full moon and the unfamiliar plants make me feel falsely intrepid. There may well be hikers from other groups on the same path, but the thickness of the jungle and the roar of the rapids nearby choke out all sights and sounds except those of the jungle itself and the sky above. All evidence points to this being a very well trodden path, and yet somehow I feel uneasy pressing on into such an unfamiliar forest.

The path is marked with signs warning that this is a restricted area, and that trespassers will be fined. Our hosts assure us that this is just an administrative technicality, perhaps to protect the interests of the hot spring resorts down stream. Apparently the authorities realize that the hikers are not setting off into the hills to avoid spending the night in a luxury resort, so the regulations go unenforced. There are points where fences stand to block the pathway, but new paths are cut into the jungle offering an easy bypass. The path crosses a narrow point in the river where a simple bridge of wooden planks with no handrail leads us over the rapids below.

I start to feel like a 21st Century Indiana Jones on a jungle expedition, but then a chattering group of geriatric hikers passes us on their way down. The illusion is shattered and my ego takes a bit of a kick, but now I can relax enough to enjoy the stars and the sounds of the forest for the rest of the hike up. The path steepens as we near our destination, and the durian smell of the sulfur intensifies. I look up and see light from LED lamps shining through steam as it rises lazily in the distance. As we approach the spring, the sound of the rapids simmers down and we can hear relaxed conversation and gentle splashing.

The Taiwanese are lucky enough to live on an island blessed with hundreds of natural springs. In some places these springs occur near clear streams, and the locals can channel different proportions of river water and spring water into pools of varying temperatures and mineral compositions. This particular spring has pools made of sandbags arranged around boulders that are filled by PVC pipes that bring water from the stream and the springs into each pool. Water typically overflows out of the high pools into the pools that are further downstream, and the cold stream itself is dammed with sandbags to create a washing area that's damn near freezing.

Just uphill from the springs there's even a waterfall.

A waterfall.

Above a hotspring.

In the jungle.

In Taipei.

I did not make this up.

While the waterfall is not particularly high, the clear drop and the craggy landing whip up a thick, cool mist. Standing in the mist is enough to cut through the combined heat of the hotsprings and the tropics, but after getting so close it's hard not to jump in. The hike back down to the car is inexplicably smooth: my muscles are relaxed, my head is clear, and the jungle just isn't so hot anymore.

The people who maintain this small wonder are rewarded by its existence and nothing else. This must come from a true love of the land. I'm not saying they do this out of ecological motivation; the best environmental policy would probably be to leave that stream untouched. I'm talking about taking delight in the land and what it has to offer while going out of your way to keep it accessible to visitors and to keep your footprint small.