The mud path abruptly narrows and we brake sharply. Looks like the car won’t go any further. We park it off the path in some shrubby vegetation, narrowly avoiding an army of procession ants (never ever let these little guys bite you; you’ll be itching for days) as we climb out and tie on our hiking shoes. The monsoon air is humid but cool, as the morning sun is still yet to toast us. We begin the hike down the steep, slippery mud path. The faint tracks of motorcycles intersperses with the fresh hoofprints of cattle. A few larger ones could be gaur, or Indian bison. The hush-hush of the breeze caressing the trees – moist deciduous in this part of the forest – reminds me of the old folk story about the whispering woods where the trees spoke to one another. Rustling underbrush has me glancing to my right; it is only a jungle fowl pecking about.

We slip and slide downhill and huff uphill and then skid downhill again. The path darkens; the forest canopy is closing rapidly and sunlight struggles to pierce the dense foliage. My ears pick out the tut-tut-tut of a barbet – perhaps a white-cheeked barbet? – over the drone of cicadas. There is a low vibrant humming in the air, like a swarm of bees; I know that if I scan the forest canopy closely, I will see a beehive or two, but I prefer to keep my eyes on the laterite soil. A tiny pinkish-white flower catches my eye. Impatiens, a genus of flowering plant that only blooms for a month during the monsoon. Tremulous and timid, it bobs half-hidden under the overhanging leaves growing out of the muddy side wall of the path.

Here are there we catch sight of footprints, signs that other people have passed by this same route. The path dips sharply and suddenly, we find ourselves face to face with rollicking foamy water. A tumbling forest stream, joining the lazy, meandering Aghanashini just a few metres to our left. The stream spreads out where it meets the larger river, their waters mixing, the cool waters of the stream slowing and warming under the sunlight. Deep hoof marks tell us not to linger at this convergence; gaur come here to wallow in the shallow waters. We slosh through the stream, frightening a shoal of large black tadpoles, and trudge uphill in our newly-wet sandals. My feet struggle to gain traction after their dip in the water and more than once, I almost drop my 10 kg hiking pack filled with water quality monitoring equipment.

There are no houses on this lonely path into the forest, none except the two we passed long back on the trail. But tyre marks from an errant bike show up every few metres, skid marks evident at the more slippery points on the trail, and we know that humans have made their presence felt. We pass a small shack next to a towering arecanut plantation, the slender trees waving in the breeze, sentries standing tall before the dark forest. Most wet evergreen forests in this landscape are earmarked by the presence of areca.

Finally, a soft trickling sound catches my ear. Reddish-brown water peeps out from amidst lush emerald vegetation. The swamp lies nestled between a sparse arecanut plantation (this one thankfully small and not very fertile) and the dirt path. A Forest Department sign board is the only indicator that we have arrived at this special spot, a sign that this patch of forest is different from the acres of forest we trekked through to reach here.

But I know my favourite swamp, even without a signboard to help me find my way. There is an electric smell in the clear, cool air, an ancient presence making itself felt. The swamp sounds different from surrounding forests; the gentle gurgling of the slow stream, the sucking sound when water bends and flows around the knobbly knee roots poking out of the iron-hued mud, the rustling of leaves on the towering Gymnacranthera canarica trees that leave me just a speck in this landscape of verdant natural history. The shrill cackling call of a Malabar grey hornbill sends ripples through the air and the lonely whistle of a Malabar whistling thrush tells me that the residents of the swamp know that I am back. I set down my backpack and survey the wetland on the other side of the fence. In one place, the fence has fallen down under a tree trunk. Water has found a new path around the fallen tree; this is a reminder that the whole area around the stream where knee roots can be spotted is mud precariously balanced on top of water. The water table (or groundwater) is right below the surface, waiting for a chance to flow once again.

After flowing through an increasingly tangled mass of roots, the red water flows under the path through a culvert, pouring over rocks as it rushes to join the embrace of the Aghanashini. We are right above the river, and she gleams in the sunlight just below the swamp. If we follow her meandering path, we will find ourselves standing atop the roaring Unchalli (Lushington) Falls, one of the natural wonders of Uttara Kannada and a tourist destination. The tourist view point is elsewhere; from Darbejaddi, one can trek to the secret spot above the falls, dipping feet into the powerful river and dancing to her tune.

I glance back at the Myristica swamp behind me. Spread over a mere 2 hectares, Darbejaddi is still a hidden gem, protected by a barbed wire fence and virtually no human footprint. The areca plantation is still small and not quite a threat to this swamp, making it one of the best examples of a Myristica swamp that the Aghanashini river valley has to offer, and my special place.

Hidden deep in the forest, in untrodden realms, Darbejaddi slumbers, undisturbed.