Frost crackles underfoot as I walk through the meadow of Gilfach Farm. It’s not early, but it feels as if the trees and mountains are still asleep. Above me, the sky is pierced by the echoing call of circling buzzard.

More gentle is the sound of the river as it slips beneath the bridge, bubbling over the stones. I’ve spotted a dipper here before, standing proud in the middle of the water, ready for dinner. But it’s the fish I’m here for today. I’ve heard that it’s possible to see leaping salmon, a spectacle of nature that I’ve witnessed on screen but not in person. I’m full of anticipation, but caution myself not to get too excited in case nothing happens.

Strolling through the meadow, I think back to summer here: butterflies dancing between flowers, and the song of migrant birds filling the woods. How different it feels in autumn. It’s cold too, and I shiver despite my layers. The river becomes louder as I walk along, and I know I’m approaching the waterfall.

I take my place on the wooden platform by the cascading water, nodding in greeting to my fellow watchers.

To see a salmon, patience is needed. I spend over an hour on the platform. Despite the cold, it’s a soothing experience. It is easy to become hypnotised when watching the water. Every splash seems different, but it’s all part of the same rhythm that I find myself getting drawn into. My eyes feel as if they are glazing over, mesmerised by the flow.

Suddenly a flash of brown among the white foam, impossibly swimming upstream against the water. A salmon! My heart is in my mouth, then sinks as the salmon fails on this jump and falls back downstream into the swirling pool below. It isn’t long before it tries again, and inside I’m cheering it on, willing it to complete the leap and get over this hurdle. It surely must. It has leapt over so many other hurdles in its journey to this point, surely it can manage a few more to get beyond the waterfall. Again it fails.

But I believe in this fish; it can make the jump. It has battled against the oceans, avoided capture by prey and by humans, found its way back to the river of its birth and swum this far up already; it will surely get up this waterfall with ease.

Eventually, with an enormous leap, it succeeds. Clearing the foaming water, its whole body flies through the air into the next pool. There is now one less jump needed before the top of the waterfall is reached, and then it will be home to breed. I almost cheer out loud. I don’t, though, as there are other people about and I don’t want to seem too mad.

I have seen plenty of leaping salmon since that first one, but each time the thrill is as great as I watch them battle the water in order to create new life further upstream.

Megan Shersby, 2016