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the water, holding the line. The water was shallow. I could walk, wading farther out, slowly but surely.

The current was stronger than it had looked, and the sharp stones on the river bottom cut into the soles of my feet. Only the walking stick came to my aid. I leaned heavily upon it, taking one cautious step after another. As I went, I gradually let out the fishing line, until I made it to the first island, about seventy-five feet from the shore. Now I would pull the pack over and go on to the next island. That was my plan. But it didn't work out that way.

I gave the fishing line a yank, and the pack slipped into the river. The undertow sucked it beneath the surface, and though I tugged with all my might, I couldn't pull it to me. I decided to change plans and tied the end of the line to a small tree on the shore of the island. I would walk back across to the riverbank and carry the pack on my back, but first I wanted to check out the second island.

I walked quickly to the far side of the first island. As I walked, mosquitoes swarmed all over me. I was black with them. I swatted myriads of them with my hands, but they didn't leave me alone. I rushed to the water but discovered it to be deep. I couldn't touch bottom and almost lost my faithful walking stick to the current. I threw it up on the bank and tried swimming to the second island, but the current was so strong that I headed back to the first while I was still able.