In a split moment after I let go with one hand to reach for the bar bag release, the bike is thrown on top of me and I’m pinned under it, with the top tube against my collarbones. All my gear is completely submerged and I visualise all my photo files being flooded. The water turns me counter clockwise and I’m facing my death, straight to bend of the river and against the unforgiving stone wall.
Eleanor Moseman began cycling Asia in the Spring of 2010 and has just completed 15,000 miles through 7 countries. She incorporated her photography to document the communities and peoples of the Western borderlands of China, including Tibet, Xinjiang and Central Asia.
A noted Architecture and Interior Photographer, Eleanor has an impressive list of Chinese and International clients, and her work has been featured in countless publication across Asia and Australia.
Find out more about Eleanor via her website www.wandercyclist.com/ or follow her on
facebook: Photographer.Adventurer
I walk further into the water so I’m standing next to the left pannier, pressing my body against the bag in hopes to stabilize the bike and push her back up the bank. Looking up into the sky, watching the white speck hover above me, I realize my body isn’t going to be able to stand against this pressure for much longer. “What do I need to do?” Again trying to push the bike up the bank, from the side, is not going to work. Gripping for my life on the handlebars, I walk in front of the bike and attempt to awkwardly straddle the front wheel. I’ve now walked into the river so the water is up to my waist I grit my face and push.
“Should I let go of the bike? Do I sacrifice all my gear and let her go?” The only possessions I’ve had in my life for years to be swept away from me because of a complete ignorant and irrational decision. “The camera! Not just the camera, my digital files!” A year of photos and files are in that back rack bag. The water is not quite over the rear bags yet, but if I press my front wheel down, the water is rushing against my bar bag.
I look downstream where the river crashes against stone cliffs and then turns left. I turn my face to the sky and scream for help like I’ve never screamed in my entire life. I am going to die, my life is going to end, right here, and right now. There is no way I will survive that turn in the river. I imagine my body hanging onto the floating bike until it crashes against the stones. How long would I go down the river with my bike. Imagining my greatest possessions in life being bashed against stones, thrown around the river, until my lifeless body gives up and is thrown around the waters until nothing would be recognisable as me any more?
Long, loud, wailing cries for help are being released into the canyon. Finally I see three men watching from the mining area I had been earlier.“Please, help me, I’m going to die! Help me, PLEASE!”
They stand there and I know there is no way I can hold this up even if they do come to help.
“PLEASE, HELP ME!” I had tried to bring up my Russian to clarify my meaning but I couldn’t summon up the necessary words.
I begin to have images of my mother and father. There is a feeling rushing over me, almost like their presence is near. The images alternate between them, images of my childhood home and town. It’s more a feeling than imagery. I am going to die.
My personal fears are overtaken with the realisation my parents will never see me again. They will never be able to say goodbye, not one last hug, not one kiss. The crashing water will dismantle my undernourished body and they will never even see the physical part of me again. I do not think I fear my death; I fear more the pain I will cause my dear mother and father. Losing my life will kill them. I have to figure this out, not for my own livelihood but for the sake of those that would sacrifice their own lives for mine, as they made that sacrifice 33 years earlier.
I’ve been selfish. Leaving my friends years ago, ending a long love affair, and not being closer to my parents, not being a better daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend, a better person. This would be the ultimate of selfishness, to let my life be taken away and leave those behind to suffer.
What’s the most important thing on my bike? I’m going to have to try and remove the bags and throw them up on the bank and hopefully lighten the pressure against me. The bar bag: it holds my passport, camera, cell phone, and money. How am I going to manage this balancing act and release the bag to toss it onto the riverbank?
In a split moment after I let go with one hand to reach for the bar bag release, the bike is thrown on top of me and I’m pinned under it, with the top tube against my collarbones. All my gear is completely submerged and I visualise all my photo files being flooded. The water turns me counter clockwise and I’m facing my death, straight to bend of the river and against the unforgiving stone wall. I see my parents standing before me, arm and arm, as I remember them from my childhood. “This is the end; you will never see me again,” I think. “This is going to kill you both. My little brother will have to deal with grieving parents and be left with shells of two humans.” It just can’t happen this way.
Two meters down the river I’m suddenly pulling myself out on my back and onto the bank with my face to the sky and bike still on top of me. Within a second the bike is clearly out of the water and I’m examining myself for serious wounds and see the water line on my shirt nearly hitting my shoulders. There is no time to cry, no time to panic because the bags have been flooded and I have to get my gear out to dry. Unloading the bags trembling, shaking, teeth chattering, absolutely exhausted. This shouldn’t be happening, but it has, and it’s my fault. I should have known better. I’m an idiot.
A coal mining truck eventually comes to my rescue and takes me across the water explaining to me they saw my friend earlier. They would leave me at the base of the pass that was a meter wide stone path, pointing up, telling me that’s the direction I must go. We unload and they leave. Dumping all my bags next to a pile of rusted mining equipment for the hot Tajikistan sun to dry, I let it out. The tears are running down my face, all over my shirt, losing my breath because of exhaustion from nearly drowning and now the emotional melt down.
There is no longer a fear of death. Was there ever? I’ve pushed the limits, more than most will ever in an entire lifetime. My fear is of the torment I would cause others; I nearly lost my life to only cause others a lifelong mental and emotional death. Near-death stories often tell how the hero sees fleeting images of his lover, his children, and his close friends and feels grief stricken that he will never see them again. This was not the case, I saw the two people who gave me life out of love, lose one of the greatest things that keeps them living.
Seven months later I still have a back injury from that day. But every shooting stream of pain into my right lower back reminds me I’m lucky. I’m fortunate to feel this physical pain and a reminder that sometimes those waters need to be tested before pushing in. Momma and Pops raised me to believe that I must live life for myself but I learned that one of my responsibilities is to hold onto this life for those that love me. I will be home to say another ‘hello’ and hopefully many more loving ‘goodbyes’ too.
Don't miss out. Sign up to receive free monthly email updates from Sidetracked here.