The Rope Bridge

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Three friends, Luis, Marta, and Diego, were hiking in the mountains. They had walked for six hours, and the sun was getting low. "The camp is on the other side of the river," said Diego, looking at the map. "We need to cross that bridge before it gets dark."

The bridge was old. It was made of two thick ropes and wooden boards, and it hung high above a fast river. The wind made it move from side to side. "It looks safe enough," said Marta, although her voice was not very sure. "Let's go one at a time, with some space between us."

Marta went first, holding the ropes with both hands. Luis went second, and Diego came last. They were in the middle of the bridge when they heard a loud crack. One of the boards broke under Luis's foot, and his leg fell through the hole. He fell on the boards, and he held the ropes hard. Below him, the river was white and loud.

"Don't move!" shouted Diego. Luis couldn't move anyway. He was looking at the water between his feet, and he could not speak. Marta turned around. She knew that the bridge could break if three people stood in the same place. "Diego, stay where you are," she said. "I'm going to help him."

Slowly, Marta lay down on the boards, because that was the best way to share her weight. She moved toward Luis and took his wrist with both hands. "Look at me, not at the river," she said. "I'm going to count to three. On three, you pull your leg up." Luis nodded. "One, two, three!" He pulled, and Marta pulled, and his leg came out of the hole.

They crossed the rest of the bridge on their hands and knees, with Diego following behind them. When they reached the ground, nobody said a word. Luis sat on a rock and looked at his legs, which were cut and dirty but fine.

At the camp, they made a fire and heated some soup. Luis was smiling again. "Next time," he said, "we take the road." The others laughed, and the light of the fire made long shadows on the mountain.