It took me more than thirty years of living in Australia to discover the waterfall that had been so close to home all along. Shifen Waterfall — its name like a whisper from my island — had always been there, waiting. This is my third visit, and still I came without a tripod. Silly me. Yet perhaps that forgetfulness was a kind of grace, for it let me see with unfiltered eyes, as if for the first time.

The morning light in the valley was thin and gentle, a veil drawn over the shoulders of the hills. The Keelung River curved through stone and shadow, gathering speed until it burst over the edge — twenty metres of silver descent, fanning out wide like a curtain of silk. The air was filled with the scent of moss and river mist. Below, the basin shimmered, and the sun, curious as a child, laid a rainbow across the spray. I stood on the viewing platform and felt a quiet tremor of recognition: this, this is Taiwan.

The land around Shifen tells stories older than memory. The rocks beneath the waterfall tilt backward against the force of the water, as though defying the river’s persistence. Over ages, the current has carved and polished its way through sandstone, sculpting the wide, horseshoe curve that has earned the falls its fame. The forest presses close, its roots clutching the soil, its leaves whispering secrets from the mountains. Every droplet that rises from the plunge pool is a ghost of rain long past, circling back to where it began.

Once, this was a land of coal and fire, where miners cut tunnels into the dark earth and trains wound their way through the mist. The narrow railway still runs through the Pingxi valley, a living memory of a time when the clang of industry echoed through the hills. Now the coal dust has settled, and lanterns drift into the sky instead — small, luminous prayers carrying people’s wishes into the night. The rhythm of life has softened; only the waterfall still roars with the same eternal voice.

When I was young, I never thought to come here. I wanted the world, not the quiet stream behind it. It took leaving Taiwan to open my eyes to what was always near. Perhaps that is the story of every islander who leaves — to learn to love the island only from afar. Standing before Shifen’s broad cascade, I felt time fold in on itself: the child I was, the traveller I became, both gazing into the same river.

I raised my camera, but the missing tripod made me laugh. It did not matter. Some things are not meant to be captured, only remembered. The water fell in endless grace, and I let it. I thought of how beauty is sometimes shy — revealing itself only when we stop trying so hard to possess it.

When I left, the valley was still ringing with the sound of falling water. I walked back along the path between trees and rail tracks, the light shifting through leaves like the slow turning of memory. Shifen remained behind me, yet also within me — a place once overlooked, now luminous with belonging, on the island I once left, and at last have learned to see.

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ShiFen Waterfall Taipei Gallery

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan Shi Fen Waterfall, Taiwan

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