You step off the minivan into a mist that smells of wet laurel and earth; the first cascade is already vocal, throwing cold spray across the path like an invitation. Over the next eight hours you follow streams that cut through black volcanic rock, thread narrow forest gullies and pop out above coastal cliffs where the sea keeps watch. Each fall has its own character — a curtain plunging from a height used once to turn millstones, a hidden plunge pool ringed by ferns, a ribbon of water that rushes into a pebbled beach where a brave few strip down and swim.