This year I returned to Briançon, a small town nestled in a valley in the French Alps where I had stayed for a couple of weeks last summer. This place, resting between towering mountains and medieval fortresses, breathes a mystical, almost dreamlike air.

When I arrived here last year, I befriended Pablo, a Spaniard who was also staying in the same house. We developed the almost daily habit of going to the river for a cold dip, and then spending hours talking and meditating on a rock as we dried in the sun like lizards. Those days unfolded without hurry or worry, as if time itself were stretched out by the summer heat.

This year I met Pablo again, but things turned out differently. The community in the house wasn’t as united. The general vibe was different and, for some reason, there were only a few occasions when we managed to go to the river together.

One day there was a storm, and from then on the crystalline river turned murky and brown, discouraging us from visiting. We imagined it would clear in a day or two, but it took much longer. The whole week passed and the water only cleared a little.

On Friday, Pablo came to me and confessed he hadn’t been feeling well. The reasons were many: personal matters, issues with the community in the house where he never quite fit in, and more. He also told me he didn’t understand why we hadn’t gone to the river as often this year, even when the water was still clean. Finally, he revealed that he had decided to leave earlier than planned, and that he would be leaving on Monday.

I was struck by such a declaration, but I understood his decision. I added that I had been watching the river closely these days, and its appearance seemed to mirror the situation: murky on the worst days and a little clearer on the better ones. Maybe it was only my imagination, but somehow I knew it wouldn’t change until we resolved things.

The next day we agreed to go for a cold dip. I had planned to go climbing, but it seemed important to change my plans and accompany my friend before his premature departure. The path was the usual one: leaving the house and passing through the gates that separate the old town, crossing a parking lot and entering the forest to descend to a green area with a small lake, then walking along the river, past an adventure park, and a little further until reaching our usual spot—a small beach beside a stretch of river with few rocks, perfect for swimming. However, when we reached the end of the park, we found barriers blocking the way with a police notice prohibiting passage due to the risk of falling rocks.

At that point, turning back wasn’t an option, so we decided to go down to the river right there. That stretch of the river wasn’t ideal for swimming: there were many rocks and a strong current. We chose instead to walk upstream against the current until we reached our usual place. Pablo put on his Crocs and I wore the water shoes I had bought when I traveled to the Costa Brava.

Step by careful step, we reached the small beach. We left our backpacks and I prepared for the cold dip when, suddenly, Pablo, gazing at the horizon, asked me what was beyond. I told him I didn’t know. Up there was the stone bridge, and beyond that, the unknown. Then, as naturally as could be, we found ourselves lifting our backpacks and continuing upriver, as if something were calling us. We passed beneath the great bridge, beneath the cliff, as if through a portal. At that moment, Pablo spotted a log trapped between some rocks on the other side of the current. He crossed over, freed it into the water, and affirmed that the energy had been stuck.

We continued with slow but steady steps. The strength of the current and the stones on the riverbed allowed us no other way. The river path was arduous, but we had to keep going. We made our way where we could until we finally arrived at a spot where a large rock stood in the middle of the river, with a clear area around it that was perfect for swimming. This was the place. We dropped our backpacks again and made camp. Pablo climbed onto the rock to meditate in the sun, while I made my way into the water that invited me for the long-awaited plunge. I went slowly, taking my time, and then submerged myself. I stayed there a while, in communion with the current.

After a while I came out of the water and we switched places. I climbed onto the rock, while Pablo looked for the right spot to take his cold dip. I sat there on the rock, soaking up the few rays of sun that managed to pierce the canyon, listening to the water rushing all around me.

We could have gone further, but the day was almost gone and hunger was setting in. It was no surprise, since we had only had breakfast and brought no food for this spontaneous journey. It was time to head back, so we began our return. Now we moved faster—maybe because we were going with the current, or maybe because we felt lighter.

We reached the familiar little beach, put on our shoes, packed up, and headed back along the path. When we arrived at the police barriers, we simply skirted around them, while a few passersby watched us from the other side. A little further on, when it came time to cross a bridge and see the river one last time before leaving, I noticed something incredible. The water was crystalline again. In just a couple of hours, what hadn’t changed in weeks had happened. The river had cleansed itself. Astonished, I told Pablo we had done it. He looked at me and nodded.

I said goodbye to the current and we entered the forest path, while I thought that perhaps that river only exists within us. That everyone sees it as they wish to see it: some transparent, others dark. For some, maybe the river doesn’t exist at all. I turned the thought over in my head, but not too much. That Saturday, we purified the river of Briançon.