She throws herself ashore on the opposite bank. She pauses long enough to look hopelessly downstream where her lost belongings have been swept away.
“Shit,” she mutters to no one in particular.
She breaks camp here tonight. She improvises a small lean-to shelter with the tarp that carried her sword, using both a withered stick and the sword itself to hold the shelter upright. The sword is a broad single-edged blade shaped something like a giant butcher’s knife. She’s managed to light a small campfire, and huddles beside it nude, head buried in her arms, as her clothes lay out to dry. She is profoundly lost.
The next morning brings her to a ghostly forest, radiant heat reflecting off the white bark of long dead trees.