The Sigmund-Thun-Gorge

He tilts his head slightly to the side and places his hand against the shell of his ear, but the thundering water drowns out the voice of the man standing opposite him. He gives a hand gesture, indicating a different direction. The other man nods and follows him over the crudely constructed wooden bridge, trembling and shivering as he holds on to the ropes that act as rails. The dampness that soaked the bridge's wooden slats rendered them soggy and each step felt like a passageway on a ship.

Upon reaching the opposite bank, the man grasped the other man's arm, which held the satchel he had been carrying since November 1885, during the Serbo-Bulgarian War. He raised his head a little to look at the bearded man whose face was scarred from forehead to cheek.

“Prepare the camera. He should be here any moment”. The man shouts over the sound of the water.

The other man, though, just nodded. The man holding the camera satchel pointed to a specific area. The walk there is steep and covered with ash trees, beeches, and bushes, yet it is perfect for a photograph. 

With hands gripping branches and plants, the two men hauled themselves up the slope; and with each step, the slick earth gave way beneath their boots. 

The men's broadclothes, in that era's traditional green hue, soaked up the surrounding moisture like a sponge, making their ascent up the slope all the more challenging.

The taller of the two had to halt more than once. Placing his palm on his chest, he felt it quickly rise and fall. Gasping for air, he briefly leaned his upper body against the slope and used his other hand to grip the branches to save himself from falling. The other man, already a few steps ahead, looked at him and then at the bridge that connected the gorge. He looked down at him again and gave him hand signals.

He yelled, "Come on," with a firm voice.

With an even more impatient sweep of his hand, he took his pocket watch out of his vest. 

"We're going to miss him out. Hurry up."

The other man with the satchel turned to face him after wiping the perspiration from his brow. 

He gasped and exclaimed, "Keep going. I need a couple extra seconds." 

When he saw the other didn't understand him, he gave him a hand signal. His feeble voice was lost in the sound of the flowing river. 

He watched the other man climb the slope with skill and speed, arriving at the gorge valley bridge in no time. The lattice girders of the bridge were made of wrought iron and wood, and a tension rod attached to the beam supported the struts of the girders

The man grumbled as he leaned away, upper body off the slope, to have a better view. He looked up at the other man and pulled out his pocket watch.

 "Damn. Ten more minutes."

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and searched for the next branches to pull himself up onto. His shoes were not designed for the slick terrain, so he had to take each step twice. 

He was breathing heavily and kept slipping, shouting to himself aloud, "What on earth..damned." 

His chest rose and fell fast, with occasional gasps for air. He looked up at the other man. The edge was only ten feet away, but the man's face on the slope appeared bloodless, and its scars were more visible than ever before.

He shook his head, unable to understand a word the man on the edge said. The other man gave him a signal. He shifted his upper body slightly away from the slope, raised the arm holding the sachel above his head, swung it wide, and hurled it at the other man with all of his might. 

He let out a scream, that resembled a kiai, using all of the energy he had stored up to bolster his will and focus. 

The man on the edge had to bend his upper body far forward and could only grip the satchel with two fingers. As he lost his balance and was ready to slip down the slope, he caught a glimpse of a branch.

He glared down, gave the man resting on the slope the thumbs up, and moved past the mob in front of the bridge pushing others aside. The man on the slope had a good view to observe, and he shook his head, as the other man came closer to the area of interest. He could not hear a word they saying, not even the loud mop, but he saw the excitement in people's faces and children's laughs.

Shortly later, he watched out for the man with the satchel; he talked with the gendarmes about the passage, repeatedly indicating his camera and holding a letter. Finally, the gendarmes caved in and let him pass.

He noticed in the other man's glance that he was making a face as if Christmas and Easter were on the same day!

Now was the time. Along with invited guests, priests, altar boys, and local officials, Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein arrived. Soldiers shoved people aside to make space for Graf von Thun and Hohenstein.

Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein were a distinguished individual who stood out from the crowd. As he marched to the center of the bridge, he walked with such pride and confidence that he raised his chin up to the sky. On the left side of his chest, rows of service medals and ribbons displayed his accomplishments.

The man put out the Vest Pocket Kodak camera from the satchel and attempted to go as close as two meters to Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein, who were roughly the same height. However, the gendarmes seized his arm and dragged his entire body back, bringing the man further away.

The man yelled loudly and struggled with the gendarmes' grip with his arms and legs, but they forced him back in the back of the mob while they continued to yell "Graf Hohenstein."

The man, still lying on the slope, his pallor slowly fading, whispered, "Don't mess this up."

He gestured with his hand to the man on the bridge. The man on the bridge shook his head in a no-signal manner. He was seeking a better perspective for his shot, and after that, he turned to face the man positioned on the slope. He waved to the man, telling him what he intended to do, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and stepped onto the wooden railing of the bridge. 

One step, then the next, and his shoes slipped slightly on the bending crossbar, nearly throwing him off balance and faltering. Seconds later, he rebalanced himself, holding the Vest Pocket Kodak camera.

"What the heck is he doing?" the man rubbed his face with both hands. “What a moron!" 

He cast a sideways glance at the 30-meter-deep gorge; from the glaciers and mountains high above the Kaprun Valley, water rushes with unstoppable power through rock and stone, forming the gorge. From that point forward, the gorge was known as the "Sigmund Thun Gorge".

He looked back to the bridge, but the other man had vanished. Only the bag hung on the bridge railing, swinging slightly. But the man disappeared.