The Monkey Bridge

I took one long look at the plan my guide had hatched to cross the raging rapids, shook my head and said “no bleeping way.”

The regular bridge had, for whatever reason, been knocked out. It had been raining for a week straight (still was), and the water levels and intensity of the rapids had risen dramatically over their normal standards. Maybe if you fell in you’d be able to get out, but I’d had enough experience with rapids to know never to underestimate them. There was an even greater probability of serious injury or worse: strong currents smashing into hard rocks were not something to be trifled with.

Friends who have traveled with me know that I am not averse to risk. In fact, I tend to thrive on challenges and will admit to being the occasional adrenaline junkie. Skydiving, mountain climbing, bungee jumping, hardcore mountain biking and so on are all wonderful fun. But I like to think that I’m not insane, and certainly not suicidal.

There was also another factor weighing on my mind. Apart from the danger to myself, I was carrying two bags: a backpack with my overnight trekking essentials, and a pack on my front with some very expensive camera equipment. Even if I fell and made it out safely, the camera gear would be ruined.

And yet, what options did we have? The rapids had to be crossed, and we’d already strayed down from the path and hacked through dense underbrush to access this possible crossing spot. There was no visibly better spot anywhere else that we could see, and the rain would only make things worse, so waiting it out was not possible. I sat staring at it for a minute, practically paralyzed with fear.

There is only one antidote to fear: to shut off your mind and just act. As one of my colleagues once said to a subordinate in one of my all-time favorite expressions: “You have two options: just do it, or just bleeping do it.”

There were two parts to crossing the river at this location. The second part involved a makeshift bridge using two logs, as shown in the picture. But it’s the first section that had my heart pumping in my throat. You first had to reach that bridge.

To do that, I had to slide down a wet boulder on the banks of the rapids. Then reach my leg waaay out and step on a small, pointy rock visible in the middle of the water, six inches under water. Hope that my foot would not slide off the rock, or that the current would not push me in.

My left foot plunged into the icy cold water and found the rock, and I precariously found my balance. I was essentially doing the splits, facing upriver, with nothing for my hands to hold on to, my right foot on a wet rock on the shore and the other underwater in the middle of the water, rapids raging underneath between my legs. As I found my balance, I reflected that this had to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever attempted in my life.

Then came the tricky part.

I had to use my right foot, the one still on the wet boulder on the banks, and propel myself off of it. Pivot 90 degrees on my left foot that was underwater, and launch myself over more rapids at the next boulder, in the middle of the river.

For this to work, I had to hope the following three things. That I could launch myself with enough force to not come short of the next boulder. That when I pivoted on the foot that was underwater, it wouldn’t lose its precarious grip and slip off, plunging me into the rapids. And that even if I made it to the boulder, which was rather steep and drenched in water, that I would be able to find some kind of grip on it and not bounce or slide back down into the water.

I hurled myself at the boulder. All or nothing. Crashed into it, the camera bag in front of me knocking the wind out of me and bruising my knees. Started slipping back down, but clawed desperately at the rock and found holds to stop myself. Paused for a second, whole body tense and catching my breath, then scraped my way up onto the rock. A step over to the next boulder, and then the bridge.

Two wet logs strapped together with sticks and vine, dangling over the rapids. Uneven, slick and wet, and each flexing and rolling differently under your weight (the smaller one had way more give).

Trying to cross those standing up was out of the question. No way I could keep from slipping with the slick logs turning and twisting. On my hands and knees, I’d have no way to check my balance, and my bags made me top heavy. One moment of instability and I’d instantly topple.

I had to cross sitting down, my legs dangling on either side, and inch my way forward. This meant both my feet were in the rapids, feeling their cold, strong current.

Slow going, but the nerve-wracking part came when I reached those little cross-beams tied to the logs. I had to inch up as close as possible. Then slowly–very slowly–raise my right leg up, out, and over the stick. All my weight was up, so one small twitch would have me tip over the left side and into the water. Slowly get my balance again, then raise my left leg, swing it out and over, then back down again. And so on.

When I finally reached the other side, stood up, and took stock, I could hear my heart beating in my ears. Couldn’t believe we’d just done that.

My guide Francis turned to me, wide-eyed. “That was very dangerous,” he said. You don’t say. He repeated it several times, whether to himself or to me I don’t know. I asked him later if anyone else had ever had to cross like that, and he admitted that I was the first one. The rapids had never been that bad.

Note that the picture shows the bridge after I had crossed it, looking back to the side from which we came. I was in no mood to take pictures prior to the crossing. The rock I had to jump onto in the first part is not the one the bridge is resting on, but the big one behind it, on the other side. You can’t see the rapids I had to straddle, but they looked much like the ones below the bridge, except wider and with an underwater rock visible in the middle.

We reached Tulgao an hour or so of vigorous, difficult climbing later. Both of us were exhausted, drenched and muddy, not a single dry piece of clothing between us. With no electricity in the village, when night fall came at 5:00pm, we were in bed sleeping by 5:30.