The Traveler's Journey: A river crossing

A traveler stands on the bank of a river. Yesterday’s rain has jumped the bank, eradicating the way across. Grimacing, they look left and right, judging the raging river. Looking up, they judge the way to the next mountain pass, distant above the tree tops. 

Working through the possibilities, the traveler looks down the river, picturing the map in their head. They debate the merits of setting up camp for the day, but a quick glance to the sun shows the day is still as young as they know it to be, and the traveler has places to be. Cocking their head they focus on the sound of a waterfall up the canyon. No immediate action necessary, the traveler takes off their pack and sits on a nearby boulder. Left elbow on knee and chin in hand they let their gaze fall upon the passing water, unfocused and mesmerized. The myriads of possible ways forward flip by and are gone, only to somehow float by again. On the third circle back the traveler blinks and shakes their head, breaking the river’s trance. They stand and take a swig of water, then leaving their pack behind start to work their way up the river.

Striding from boulder to dirt to tree root to rock, the traveler quickly makes their way to the crook of the next bend. Here the waterfall is much louder; they watch as the water pounds the rocks from above.

Standing on the inside of the swooping river bend, the traveler inspects the river. The course of the river has worked its way into the distant bank and through tree roots, causing a nearly vertical interwoven array of hand and foot holds.

Eyeing the distance, they hop to the furthest boulder protruding into the river. With the angry swirling water inches from their feet, they crouch then stand, looking high and low. Nodding to themselves, the traveler smiles and turns back with an extra spring in their step to retrieve their pack. Untying the coil of rope, they tie one end to the back and the other to their belt loop. Ensuring the coil is ready to run free, they turn again to judge the distance and potential hand and footholds. 

They glance down at the river. Then up at the roots, slick with yesterday’s rain and the waterfall’s mist. Taking a deep breath, they close their eyes for a moment and think, I can’t believe I’m going to do this. Mastering all their strength, they open their eyes. Bouncing on the balls of their feet, they open their eyes and judge the distance once more.

And then they jump.

With outstretched arms they grab the slippery tree roots, feet scrabbling rocks and dirt into the water below. Eyes wide, they hold on and look down. Glancing to the rope dangling behind them – it’s partially in the river – they judge it to be in no danger of pulling them or the pack into the water. Nodding to themselves, they look up to plan their next move.

One hand. One foot. One hand. One foot. Feeling the tug of the rope on their belt, the traveler slowly and methodically works their way up the roots until finally they flop onto flat ground. For a moment, they watch the distant trees above sway in congratulation, but the rope’s knot at their waist digs in uncomfortably so they roll over and stand. Ensuring not to drop it, the rope, they untie it and draw in the remaining slack. 

With a glance over the edge and across, the traveler digs in their feet the best they can and heaves, keeping the pull going. The backpack launches up and swings across, crashing into the dirt and roots, but it’s soon over the crest and at their feet. Swinging one arm through, then the other, the traveler sets their sights to the distant mountains and quietly disappears into the trees’ collective music brought forth by the wind.