|
My mind played out different scenarios; scenarios whose main players were steep cliffs, loose rocks and bad endings. I crossed back over the bridge and made my way up the trail. I reached a family of Tibetans sitting in the trail eating their morning meal and I asked if they had seen Osman. They said that he had followed just minutes behind me when we had passed them earlier. I inquired about the possibility of another trail. I was assured that I was on the only trail there was. One trail, Osman was on it when he passed the Tibetans, yet he never reached the bridge. I pulled out my binoculars and scanned the river far below. I saw only water and rocks, no flashes of a blue backpack or a red tent, no floating bodies, nobody clinging to rocks panicked and cold. The Tibetans finished their meal and headed towards the bridge. I followed, keeping my eye on ravines, hillsides and riverbanks below me. One of the Tibetan women started shouting and pointed down the hill toward the river. "Your friend, your friend, he is here!" Osman had taken a nasty fall and was desperately clinging to small clumps of grass about fifty feet down a steep hillside. Another fifty feet below him lay my pack on the rocks and halfway in the river. Using a narrow goat path the Tibetans and I helped Osman back up to the main trail. His knee had taken a hard whack and was already the size of a large grapefruit. We sent for help, and within a few hours two large men arrived and, taking turns hoisting Osman onto their backs, they carried him back to Silim. |
  |
 |
