The rope was made ready, and the French party’s pony man took it across, hanging onto a horse and hoping its legs would break the force of the current. Jugmet Singh sent his mules across next, plowing barefoot through the water with Rani. His ridiculous penny loafers had gone south at the last crossing. In mid-stream, Rani began to falter, listing precariously, her load dragging her over until she lost her footing altogether and began to roll like a barrel heading slowly downstream. In the din of pounding rapids and panicked shouting I felt like I was nailed to the ground in a nightmare. Somehow, three or four of the men managed to grab onto some part of her load and, to my amazement, heaved her onto the bank. She lay on her side with all four legs clinched to her stomach, and brayed. She’s smashed a knee, my heart screamed. Deft brown hands worked fast to untie the duffle and cook stove she was carrying. They hoisted her onto her feet and she tottered away from the river, where Jugmet Singh had sunk like a rag doll onto the sand.

We left the backpacks to be shimmied across last on the rope. I knew it didn’t make any difference; if a four-legged mule couldn’t make it I didn’t stand a chance.

I’d have scandalized the men if I’d taken off my pants. So I stuffed them down into the climbing harness, slipped my glasses into the pack, clipped myself to the rope, and with Dorjay on one arm and Rodney on the other I stepped into the water. Not bad; warmer than a glacier. Dorjay grinned under eyes like a golden retriever. I had a soft spot for this man young enough to be my son, who stood eye-to-eye with me at five-foot-three and was so gentle and deferential I found it hard to imagine him on the job as community mobilizer. But knowing him better now, I think he’d have mooned that river if irreverence were encouraged in his culture. Instead he tossed his shaggy black hair and laughed in the face of the torrent. He took a firm grip on my hand and sturdy as a bonsai marched us forward.

It wasn’t far to the other side, four or five yards at most, but it was immediately serious. The photo doesn’t show how fast that water was slamming into my stomach. We couldn’t see the bottom for all the silt, but it was better not to look down. Rinchen shouted encouragement, “You’re doing fine, don’t worry, the rope will hold you, keep moving.” Keep moving? I took a near-sighted bead on the bank opposite and concentrated all my energy on the impossible job of forcing my legs against the current.

I felt the water cave the sand from beneath my feet then yank them up to a level with my ears. Horizontal, I rode downstream as far as the rope and carabiner would stretch. I remained calm, because of course I was attached and safe even though I felt like a string puppet dangling there, and because my head was above water, and because I was breathing slowly and deeply, from the diaphragm, like I’d learned in the asthma management class at my HMO. After a while Rodney and Dorjay found solid ground, then reached in and hauled me out by the arms and deposited me like a heap of wet laundry on a big slab of sun-drenched rock.

Oh, how I identified with Rani. Damn!

Jöelle’s way of dealing with the river was by yelling at it. I liked her attitude and decided to adopt it.

Towards evening we came upon a small riverine meadow; forage for the animals and wide enough for the tents. The French party’s pony man said tomorrow’s crossings would be easier-all ten of them, and they decided to make the next four days’ walk in two. We ourselves made up half a day, and when we made camp the following night our little band of six was ready to celebrate leaving the gorge, and having survived it, by opening the bottle of Scotch.

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