Falling Down Mountains in Fiji (3 of 3)

After a few minutes’ rest, I realized we’d better get a move on. The struggle upwards had taken more than two hours, and the Bureta shuttle bus left in just a little after two hours more. Unfortunately, George and I both agreed there was no chance of making it down the way we’d come up; we would slip and slide our way off the trail and into the valley below. So, we struck out north, along the ridge-line, to try to follow the river down from where it broke through the mountains.

We worked our way down The Peak, fighting through thick brambles and yet more mud. The sun bore down on us between the trees’ branches, and thorns and vines tore at our clothes as we went. After a half-hour’s work, we reached a deep ravine, cut by one of the mountain river’s smaller tributaries, with no way around. George went first, dropping down carefully by vines and long roots. I followed, but as I started down, the mud at my feet gave way, and I was treading on air.

I didn’t fall far, only about fifteen feet, but I fell hard, bashing against the slope; in a panic, I grabbed at anything I could, and as I fell past George I snatched at the poor kid’s shirt, nearly pulling him down with me. I stopped a few feet farther down, covered in mud, shaking, battered and bruised. Bad Moment #2 had come home at last.

Together we slowly climbed the rest of the way down the ravine, and when we stopped to rest, George put his hand on my shoulder and asked me if I was okay. I told him I was, and he cocked his head to the side again.

“Do you want to go this way?”
“What?” I responded, confused. “You mean there’s another way down?” He thought a moment, then shook his head.
“No.”
“Well, George, we don’t have much choice, do we?” I said, exasperated. He shrugged, and moved off down the barely-visible trail.

The terrain changed as we climbed further, getting more rocky and less muddy, and then we reached the first of twelve or so waterfalls. The water wasn’t running fast, but when I peered down over the edge, my stomach did a barrel roll – the stream fell a good thirty feet to the rocky pool below. Undeterred, George pulled off his sandals and tossed them on over the cliff, explaining that it made it easier to climb on the rocks. Following his lead, I did the same, and watched my sandals go downstream and over the edge with the
water.

My young guide crossed the small, ice-cold stream, and started to climb down the rock face to the left of the falls. I waited until he made it down, and then started the climb, trying not to look down. Still shaky from my earlier fall, I didn’t relish the thought of slipping on the rocks and hitting the bottom of the waterfall, so I concentrated on gripping the rock tightly, pretending I was really back home at the nice, safe rock gym near the office. My feet slipped once, but I held tight and fought for a foothold – and then I was down.

We repeated the traverse a half-dozen nerve-wracking times more, and rode the river down the mountain. In the end, I lost track of time, falling into the rhythm of the climb, and splashed deliriously in the cold mountain water every time we came to a
crossing.

Finally, George and I emerged, soaked and exhausted, back on the trail where we’d started, beaten but glad to be back on solid ground. I wandered in a daze after George, as he led me the rest of the way back to Levuka, trailing through fields of taro that he told me had belonged to his grandfather. When I asked if he thought he might someday inherit those same fields, he shrugged, uninterested.

“This place is boring.”

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