Rinchen caught up with us where a tight S-bend in the high walls of sandstone squeezed the river into a narrow, turbulent chute. He rubbed his head and said, “We better wait.”

When the others caught up, Jugmet Singh took a look and refused to send the mules across until he knew how deep it was. Asian mules and horses are much smaller than their American counterparts. Jigmet, ever ready to be useful, dropped his pants and stepped up to the bank. His legs were as skinny as the willow branch he carried to steady himself. Meanwhile, Rinchen zipped off the bottoms of his convertible pants and removed his shoes and I remembered the story of how he lost the toes on his left foot to frostbite in his mountaineering days. But he had survived that night on the mountain, while his friend died, so I had faith that he could beat the river toes or not. The two linked arms and waded into the waist-deep current and I thought for a minute that they were going make it by the sheer force of determination. But they turned back before they reached the middle.

“It’s going too fast,” said Jigmet, teeth clacking like castanets from the cold.

We made camp near the easy crossing to wait and see if things looked better in the morning. The rain held off, but the river stayed high. Glacier-melt would make it rise, if anything. We were now two days late for our rendezvous with the car at the end of the trek, on the Leh-Manali “highway.” The driver might give up on us if we were three days late. Cell phone? Not. This was Zanskar, not Delhi. Hitchhike a ride back to Leh, in a top-heavy, tassel bedecked, Tata long-haul truck, on the one-lane road, over two high passes? Not.

We would have to abandon the plan, and be content with touring the main Zanskar Valley and the administrative center of Padum. Definitely second best. The villages around Padum might have problems with wildlife, but our focus is on the more remote farmers and herders who haven’t the alternative livelihoods and opportunities for a cash income that roads make possible.

This change meant that afterwards we’d have to take the bus at least as far as Kargil, since the Sumo had returned to Leh. But the bus seemed less likely to kill us than the deep, dark and possibly impenetrable Zumling gorge.

Jugmet Singh loaded up the mules and we headed back to Zangla.

Who should we meet around the corner but Jöelle and Livier from France and their guides and ponies. They were unrolling ropes and other climbing gear. They’d already been on the road for two weeks, and they too were late for their car rendezvous. With their plane tickets home at stake, they were determined to press on. We agreed to join forces for an all-out assault on the second crossing.

In an instant our sum of strong men had gone from four to nine, including a pony man who had been up the gorge before. But still someone would have to go first with the rope. I assumed it would be the six-foot Livier, but no. It was Rinchen and Jigmet who carried the rope across, with the water surging above their waists and nearly sweeping Jigmet away.

Rinchen shouted from the other bank: “Even with the rope, it’s going to be too risky.” He planned to help the French party get across, but wanted us to stay where we were. Quickly, Rodney and I joined Jöelle, Livier, their cook, and Dorjay, helping to anchor the rope. But before Rinchen finished his shouted warning, we watched the French party’s pony man plunge into the river, pulling on the reins of the lead animal. Their guide jumped in and braced himself against the rope as one-by-one each horse high-stepped into the water showing the whites of its eyes. The men pushed and pulled and the horses heaved through the current, oblivious to the water lapping at the duffle bags and metal trunks strapped to their saddles. As we watched them all make it safely to the other side, we also watched Jugmet Singh’s mules follow them, like sheep, Rani at the tail end with her horrified master scrambling to help her keep her feet without losing his. With all our gear on the other side, we had no choice but to follow. Ladies first.

It turned out not to be the worst of the twenty-three times we’d be fording this river. It was the next one that tested our mettle.

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