Where I witnessed “three’s” incredible dexterity in a pair of flip-flops, took an unscheduled swim in a river and contemplated meeting my maker in the dark, dank depths of Pheasant Falls. For a recap of what transpired before these events, check out Parts One and Two.

By Ivan Yap

It’s been six months since I returned from Da Nang, and my memories of Bach Ma National Park are now threatening to vacate my aging, amnesia-wracked mind for good. As far as documenting my experience goes, it’s now or never.

So, where was I? Ah, yes. Having had my fill of the summit, I decided to make the arduous trek back to the entrance of the summit trail. Drenched, bleeding (from the leech bites) and starting to feel the effects of getting up early, my mind inevitably turned to thoughts of cutting my losses and heading back to the welcoming warmth of the resort.

But as I clambered back towards the entrance, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had yet to fulfil my mission—which, to recap, was to photograph some of the park’s much-celebrated wildlife. So I searched my pockets for the soggy, crumpled mess that my park map had become, and ran through the available options. The Tri Sao Trail or Pheasant Trail, famed for occasional sightings of the majestic crested argus, immediately stood out. Having decided, I grit my teeth, picked up the pace, and very soon found myself back at the pick-up point.

The conditions hadn’t improved one bit, so the journey down to the Tri Sao Trail took a while. My intrepid driver “three”, groggy from a nap while waiting for me to return from the summit, had to—understandably—be extra careful.

By the time I glimpsed the sign marking the start of the trail, it was already mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky had darkened even further. My macho façade prevented me from showing it, but I was mightily relieved when “three” asked if he could join me on the trek to the Pheasant Falls, citing the fact that it was his first time here as well. I said “yes” without hesitation.

Cognisant that the sun would set within the next two hours, which would no doubt have spelled disaster for both of us, we marched down the trail like men possessed. I couldn’t help but be impressed by “three”, who—despite wearing a pair of flimsy flip-flops—managed to navigate the slippery path with ease. Given how dark the trail was, I didn’t stop to take any photos… it would’ve been an exercise in futility, and would’ve wasted valuable time.

We were probably 30 minutes into our brisk descent when we finally heard the faint hiss of the river. The fact that the gushing water was audible was somewhat deceiving—it still took us a fair bit of time to actually reach the bank.

Upon reaching Pheasant Falls, the first thing that greeted us was a river crossing. With a tonne of gear in hand—none of which was covered by insurance—I was initially reluctant to attempt the crossing, especially given that many of the rocks that made up the ‘bridge’ were submerged under the raging water. “Three” had no such reservations, and before I could say “but”, he had deftly hopped his way to the other side.

What the heck. I had travelled all this way, and wasn’t about to concede defeat to a tiny river. Besides, I had my trusty Caterpillar boots on, with their usually-grippy soles which hadn’t failed me yet. What could possibly go wrong, right?

Wrong. Having made my way gingerly to the middle of the ‘bridge’, I was presented with a gap which required me to take a leap of faith—quite literally. And it was clear as day that my boots were no match for the moss-covered rocks. In retrospect, I should’ve shelved my pride and turned back, but then I wouldn’t have known if I could’ve made it across (and, of course, also wouldn’t have this story to tell).

So, casting caution to the wind, I jumped.

The minute my boots made contact with the rock on the other end, I knew I had made a mistake. Like a child donning socks on an ice-skating rink, I instantly slid off the glistening mound and plunged back-first into the icy river. Instinctively, I threw my right arm into the air to save my precious camera and lens, and thankfully, managed to do just enough to prevent them from getting unceremoniously dunked. My bag, however, wasn’t as lucky. It followed me, in full, into the unforgiving waters of Pheasant Falls.

I must’ve fallen back into the river three or four times before I finally made it to the other end. After a quick equipment check, I surveyed the area for signs of wildlife—and, much to my dismay—there were none to be found. The only thing of interest was a small clearing with remnants of a campfire, which briefly triggered images of bandits and cannibals in my over-imaginative mind. The fact that the sky had turned much darker and more ominous did nothing to quell my fears.

Yup, it was time to head back. I took a couple of quick shots of Pheasant Falls to document my experience, and hastily gave “three” the signal to begin the climb back to the starting point.

To be continued...