Lost in Venice

"It's only a shower," I reassured him. "But we'd better get moving, just in case." As I spoke, our long unseen guide rushed up to us. "You must hurry!" she called out. "You must pass through the Iron Gate before the river rises!" She disappeared down the trail, her long blonde hair swaying in the stiffening breeze. The Iron Gate? What might that be? Sounded like a nice name, but it was meaningless until we'd hiked another couple of miles through the gorge, when we faced a narrow opening that was the only passage through a steep wall of rocks. Many mountain streams joined at this point, flowing into the River Tarraios, transforming what had been a small stream into a wider, deeper, rushing channel, suddenly surging as the rain fell harder, gathering speed. Already the rocks we were supposed to use as stepping stones to the other shore lay nearly submerged by the fast moving water. Panic was surging, as well, within me. I leaped from one stone to the next, my feet barely touching. "I forgot to tell you about the fine print in that guidebook," I called over my shoulder to my husband. "What fine print?" he shouted over the noise of the river as he leaped onto the next slippery rock. Finally reaching high ground, I called out, "Oh, only: 'It is foolhardy to embark on this walk when the river, which has to be crossed many times, may be above knee height and subject to sudden flash floods.' " Holding his camera high above his head, my husband, following me, replied "Fine time to remember."