Discovering Cascada La Esmeralda
- Timothy Agnew
- Jan 3
- 6 min read
Ancient waterfalls from the Santo Domingo River fill the jagged landscape in the “Valley of Waterfalls” (Valle de las Cascadas) just east of Medellin, Colombia.
This valley, renowned for its breathtaking colors, eclectic foliage, and abundant nature, is difficult to access — unless you have a guide who grew up in the Antioquia region.
In expansive Antioquia, San Francisco de Sales borders northern Supatá, then west by Vega, and by south Facatativá, all vast green mountains that seem to never end.
To get to my Santo Domingo River trek, I’d have to meet my guide after an almost two-hour autobus journey.
Since I had never navigated the autobus system much in Medellin, the expedition team messaged my exact actions.
Take a taxi to Terminal del Norte, go to ticket booth 15 Flota Granada, buy a ticket to La Piñuela or Palacio de los Frijoles, Cocorná.
Tell the driver Please drop me off at Palacio de los Frijoles, Cocorná.
Fácil. No issue. Hopefully, I wouldn’t wind up in Bogota.
Terminal del Norte was a chaotic place, as it’s the largest bus terminal in Medellin. Like New York or any other large US city, transportation employees are not your friends. The young woman at the ticket counter shrugged in frustration when she had to tell me I’d have to purchase the tickets with pesos.
The bus crawled up, up through rolling hills and small farming towns. Beautifully dressed mothers with their children walked the dusty highway from food stands, the little girls and boys attired immaculately in shiny shoes and white shirts.
Then I stood in the middle of the eastern Medellin countryside.
A farmer and his mule casually strolled by. Motorcycles buzzed up onto the gravel road beside me, rear passengers somehow clutching doors and furniture, vanishing into the green hills.
Fifteen minutes later, a motorcycle roared up. A lean young Paisas (Colombian) hopped off. “Hola, Mr. Tim!” he said. Are you ready for a tour of jungle from motorcycle? Vamonos!”
Cris, my private guide for the next two days, spoke relatively good English.
“You speak not badly. To learn Spanish, you must practice it. Estudia español; háblalo. Si?” he said as we bumped along the mud and gravel road. “I learn English this way.”
“Claro.”
He gestured to the hills. “This is where I grow. See the valley?”
I looked to my left, and luscious, verde hills met the horizon, waterfalls etched into the green like brushstrokes. It was so vast it was as though we were looking from an airplane window from thousands of feet.
“San Pedro de los Milagros. My home. I grow in the jungle.”
After an hour of climbing over bumps and holes, the engine on the weathered bike moaned on each steep angle, and we arrived at the first camp.
“Your lunch,” Cris said, handing me a neatly wrapped banana leaf bundle — Bandeja Paisa — filled with an arepa (crisp, sweet corn bread), crispy chicharrón (pork belly), rice, beans, avocado, egg, and plantains.
The lunches over the two days were the most delicious food I’ve ever had. I had watched the indigenous women farmers at camp as they prepared our lunches, steaming the banana leaves over a primitive stove, then carefully wrapping the food and tying it into a beautiful knot.
We crossed old bridges and velvet green-pastured hills, up, up into the jungle. Cris pointed out the many tropical fruit trees and picked a Granadilla and tossed it to me.
The alien-like fruit’s hard, orange shell hides a sweet, jelly-like pulp with black seeds.
I liked Cris. Although he grew up in this jungle and probably did this hike thousands of times, his excitement and love of nature were contagious.
“Estás listo?” Cris asked. “I take you. We go to el base Cascada La Esmeralda.”
He pointed up onto the green mountainside. I squinted and saw the lines of the water trail, closer now, indented into the velvet canopy. At one thousand kilometers into the sky, it seemed impossible to reach.
The closer we got to the base of the mountain, the more it climbed. The ground changed, and the vegetation thickened.
A thatched house stood at the base of the path, with cows and pigs roaming the front pasture. Cris yelled hola! And a young woman appeared at the door.
The farmers were responsible for keeping the land clean for the Colombian government.
Cris handed her a few thousand pesos.
Two small mongrel dogs came out of nowhere, barking incessantly. “Shhhh,” the woman hissed.
As we opened the barbed wire gate to continue on the path, one of the el perro loco beasts locked its jaw on my right ankle. While I wore long hiking pants and compression socks, the little beast’s teeth got through.
The terrain grew steeper and incredibly varied — the mossy ground covering seemed to wrap around everything and disguise our steps.
You might step onto a rock or slip into a five-foot hole. The slippery path was only two and a half feet wide, with a one-hundred-foot drop to the river.
Cris would disappear, and as I stepped, I’d slide into wet holes then see him through the thick trees again, hovering above on the other side like a jungle ghost.
After two hours, the songs of Esmeralda became closer. Because of the constant water spray, the rocks and ground were incredibly slippery and difficult to climb.
Leaf-cutter ants danced across my path carrying large bits of multi-colored leaves. A snake tumbled off a shrub, and I quickened my pace.
Then we were on all fours, crawling up narrow ledges, and when we reached a precipice, Cris called to me.
“Now you slide,” he said.
It was a long way down.
I heard Esmerelda roar and felt her spit. “Estoy incómodo,” I told him. I felt uneasy.
“You come down, we go out easier way,” he said.
Mud and scratches covered me, and I needed to address a dog bite. Out of my comfort zone, I thought. This is where you learn and grow.
I sat holding a palm frond, then let go. The speed nearly put me on my back, the mud and trees and rocks moving under me. I came to the bottom in one piece at the next precipice.
Just below us was the base of the falls, but to get there, we’d have to shimmy between mossy creases of boulders.
Esmerelda was magnificent. Her rocky base spanned around one hundred feet, and as I peered up at the endless black shale, it was as though she began from the clouds.
“We take our shoes off at the bottom. Just socks. Less, how you say? Resbaladizo (slippery),” Cris said. I watched him slither into the crevice and disappear.
At its base, a large lagoon circled her mouth. We took our shirts off and jumped into the icy water. We swam behind the falls and climbed and stood looking out through the falling water.
I thought of the Japanese tradition of Takigyo, an ascetic practice from Shugendo and Shinto, in which I’ve trained, involving meditation and chanting under the waterfalls.
At the base of waterfalls in Japan is a statue of a warrior banishing a sword, Fudo Myōō, known as the Immovable Wisdom King.
Seated in 9th century Esoteric Buddhism (Mikkyō), Fudo Myōō represents being immovable in mind and body, and it’s been my mantra for decades.
This was my Misogi. I felt purified and new and forgot about the intense heat, bugs, and mule dung.
Later, we climbed the enormous boulders at the front of the falls and ate our well-earned Bandeja Paisa. I treated my dog bite and noticed it barely pierced the skin.
I’d be fine and soon ready for our five-hour hike — this time down — to camp. I closed my eyes and absorbed the Fudo Myōō energy emanating from the cascade of water along the shale, dancing over my skin.
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