“In Norway, we say kids learn to ski before they learn to walk,” said Trine, a Norwegian transplant in Dublin, with a big laugh. My head promptly filled with visuals of diaper-clad toddlers attached to comically large skis going off piste. It wasn’t the first time I’d conjured up such an image. When I’d visited Norway in early September last year, I’d repeatedly been told that “babies here are born with skis.” Winter had begun to creep in, and yet, on foggy mornings, runners jogged up steep slopes, greeting each other with a cheery “Hei!” The fjords were peppered with enthusiastic kayakers. The hiking trails were busy. It’s not hard to imagine why Norwegians place a premium on the active, outdoor lifestyle. With landscapes only imagined in fairytales, and air quality that injects new life into your lungs, I wouldn’t want to waste those precious few daylight hours indoors either.

In the Unesco World Heritage Site of Geiranger, I finally experienced the great Norwegian outdoors. We’d had a late night of too much food: tender elk meat, pork chops, potato salad, cold cuts, and what not. Yet, when Ove, the guide, mentioned a trekking route that led behind a waterfall, some of us insisted on going, even if it meant an earlier-than-usual morning outdoors. A trek through the Norwegian mountainside? Sure. Hike behind a waterfall? Just too much to pass up.

Geiranger village sits at the end of the majestic S-shaped, 20-kilometre long Geiranger fjord in Norway’s Sunnmøre region. We’d arrived by ferry from the village of Hellesylt, slicing through waters bordered by abandoned farms perched atop massive cliffs. Seven silver ribbons cascade down a 250-metre high rockface — the Seven Sister falls; on the opposite bank, another waterfall called the Wooer cuts the distinct shape of a bottle into the rock. The cheesy legend behind the name rivals Indian folklore: the wooer constantly proposed to the seven sisters; they refused each time, driving the man to the bottle.

At 7am, bleary eyed, we stood in a huddle as Ove returned ruddy-cheeked from an early morning kayaking trip. The moderately easy two-kilometre trail wound up a mountainside in the Westerås Valley, leading to Storseterfossen, or the Storseter Waterfall. At the base lay a basket containing bamboo canes to aid hikers in their walk, with a little note to return them at the end. The well-marked trail was paved with steady stones almost throughout. Such is Norway’s dedication to the outdoors, that in little-known Geiranger, a town of barely 200 people, every need of a hiker is addressed.

We trekked uphill for an hour, stopping to drink icy water out of gushing rivulets; popping juicy red berries into our mouths; pausing to gape at stunning vistas of crumpled green peaks melting into the clouds, catching sudden glimpses of the winding fjord miles below us. The muted clang of bells strung around out-of-sight sheep provided the soundtrack to our climb. There was no trace of a human being for miles on end.

The roar of the waterfall was distinct after 45 minutes into the walk; we heard its thundering beneath our feet. We came upon a sudden meadow — a flat, circular patch of grass before the final approach to the fall. Rocky outcrops jutted out beyond the cliff edge. We promptly took turns to plonk ourselves on those narrow ledges of rock to look over the edge of the world.

In that moment, we were truly alone.

Rock-hewn, slippery stairs led us down a twisting path. We skirted the bare mountain face on a ledge wide enough to let only one person pass at a time. The metal chain that jangled between us and the sheer drop provided little comfort. Milky-white water cascaded from a crag above our heads, falling straight along the mountain face into the valley below, leaving but a sliver of space into which we were wedged. On that precipice, we stood, awestruck, frightened, thrilled.

A sheer curtain of white, the water roared like a hundred lions. Clouds of water droplets rose like mist in the wind, showering us with a cold, but welcome, spray.

I’ve trekked to dozens of waterfalls. I’ve stood where they originate and looked down their length; I’ve swum in the pools they create; I’ve stood under them and felt their immense pressure on my back; but never, ever, have I been behind one. In this strange spot between a rock and a very wet place, I’ve found my new favourite waterfall-viewing angle.

Malavika Bhattacharya is a freelance writer based in Delhi

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