The day had been long, the descent brutal, and my body was running on little more than stubbornness. My legs ached, my clothes clung to me with sweat and dirt, and the sun had long since dropped below the ridge. But ahead – somewhere across the river – was the hut. I’d seen the faint flicker of lights in the distance. Warmth. Shelter. Safety. I just had to get there.
The trail had vanished behind me. The bush thickened, tangled, swallowed every path. I kept moving, following the river’s curve in the dark, my head torch cutting a narrow tunnel through the damp, shifting shadows. I searched for the bridge – it was marked on the map – but it was nowhere to be found. Nothing. No signs, no sound, no shape in the darkness.
I stood on the riverbank. The current looked steady but calm, unremarkable. And there – just on the other side – those same glowing lights. So close. The hut was waiting.
I paused. I knew the warnings. I’d read the safety manuals. Never cross fast water in fading light. But I also knew how to prepare.
I loosened my pack’s straps, unbuckled everything. If something happens, you need to get out of it fast, I remembered. I was cautious – not reckless. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I stepped in.
The water was freezing.
About knee-deep.
The bottom slick with stones.
I moved slowly, testing each step, focusing on balance.
Then – in a split second – it happened.
No noise. No warning. No real chance to react.
The current hit me.
Hard.
Like an invisible hand, it yanked my legs from under me and pulled me in. Not sideways.
Down.
Suddenly I was underwater, thrown into darkness. No up, no down – just force.
The river didn’t carry me – it swallowed me whole.
I was tossed like driftwood, slammed against rocks, spun in violent spirals. I couldn’t breathe. I reached for the surface – found nothing. Tried again. Another blow to the ribs. Cold gripped my skin like claws.
I needed air.
I got none.
I knew this could be it. Just a few more seconds –
and then…
But then something kicked in.
Something older than fear.
Something trained.
I’d been a competitive swimmer once.
Years of laps, drills, black lines and whistles.
It came back without invitation.
I flattened my body, narrowed my shape, moved with the water instead of against it.
I conserved my strength. Focused.
I waited for the smallest lift in the flow, the momentary slack where I could break the surface.
A gasp of air. Then back under.
Another try.
Another breath.
My arms burned. My lungs ached. But I knew how far I could go. I’d done it a hundred times before – not like this, never like this – but the muscle memory held.
And my pack – I’d unfastened it earlier. That saved me.
I kicked free.
I was light again. Mobile. Alive.
Eventually, I felt it – the scrape of rock under my foot. I planted it, shoved myself upwards.
Another breath.
A rough step.
My hands clawed for purchase.
Then – land.
I dragged myself out of the current, chest heaving, clothes soaked, half-frozen. My pack had floated downstream. My body shook with cold and shock. I collapsed on the bank and lay there for a long time, not quite understanding what had just happened.
But I’d made it.
Somehow, I’d landed on the right side of the river.
The side with the hut.
I stumbled through the bush, dripping, shivering. The hut wasn’t far now. When I finally reached it, the inside was cold, the other trampers silent, distant. No firewood. No welcome. No warmth.
My sleeping bag: wet.
My cooker: broken.
My food: inedible.
I huddled in damp clothes, chewing cold rice, trying not to think – trying to forget.
But sleep didn’t come easily.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the river again. Felt its weight, its pull.
The next morning, I stepped outside.
And there it was.
The bridge.
Low, narrow, hidden by a bush. I’d walked within metres of it the night before.
So close.
Almost laughably close.
I stood there for a long time, staring.
I could have died.
I probably should have.
But I didn’t.
I’m still here.