FAST TRACKS
THE RIVER RUSHES past with increasing violence; or at least it’s increasing in my mind. The past couple of days have been unusually hot, and the snow on the passes I’ve been crossing for over two weeks is now melting rapidly, flowing down to the rivers I need to cross here in the valley below. Torrenting streams collide, as if about to burst the banks. I count to three, and jump in.
The ice cold of the snowmelt doesn’t even register. I’m focussed on placing my feet on the rocky bottom, on not being pulled in by the fast-moving water. Soon, realising the water is too deep, I hastily retreat to shore, clambering back up the muddy bank with limbs already frozen.
Every inch of the landscape seems to be saturated now. I pick my way along the boggy shore for a further twenty minutes until I find a wider point in the river. The white peaks of waves hint at the difficulties below the surface, but a few boulders jut out. In short, it doesn’t look great, but it’s the best chance I have to cross.
I count to three once more, but as my left foot hits
