A River Runs Through Me

Last Friday was "tube to work" day in Boulder, Colorado. Which might be a good option...if you're looking to claim a death benefit on your insurance. WRITTEN, ILLUSTRATED, and SPOKEN by PETER MOORE

Summertime, and the livin’ is deadly.

George Gershwin didn’t see it that way, but sometimes I do, as you’ll learn from my latest commentary on NPR. Click the link to hear it just like all of Colorado did last Friday afternoon.

Or you can just read it, below, like they did in caveman times.

Back to the cave, man.

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Last week on Tube to Work Day, I studied the Boulder Creek webcam, from the safety of my office in Fort Collins. I watched soggy tube commuters in 80s exercise wear, the sartorial theme of this week’s watery event. As if Richard Simmons or Jane Fonda were river sprites who could keep commuters afloat.

I know better.

My wife and I once rented an apartment near Eben G. Fine park, where Boulder Creek bursts into the city. For weeks I had been watching tubers frolicking, spinning, and shouting their way through town. It was a splash party on the rocks, and I wanted in on the fun.

My wife is more sensible. She sees a flowing river for what it is: A hazard to any creature without gills. According to the Weather Channel website, seven inches of flowing water can knock an adult off of their feet. Water moving at 25 miles per hour has the force of a 790 mph wind. It’s stronger than a tornado.

Whatever.

On a hot, midsummer day in Boulder, I visited a tube-rental shop. I signed and ignored the waiver, as one does. The young woman at the desk then asked, “Do you want to rent a helmet and a PFD, too?” PFD stands for “personal floatation device,” but to me it sounded like “Peter’s Fashion Disaster.” I didn’t want to float the creek looking like a dork!

Sink or swim. There is no “try.”

My wife said, “Yes, he wants those.”

Twenty minutes later I was standing next to Boulder Creek in full safety regalia. I felt humiliated. But if I wanted to float, my wife had set the terms. I would do it safely.

Then I stepped into the water and felt a chill. It may have been the snowmelt that feeds Boulder Creek. Or it may have been presentiments of death.

Most probably, both.

Skull and cross paddles.

Water is forceful. It carved the Grand Canyon, one mile deep!!

I pulled on my PFD and cinched my helmet. None of the other tubers was wearing safety gear. I pushed my floaty into the creek, and drifted placidly, waving to my wife on shore. Her face was a mask of worry, as if I had entered a Coliseum with lions, rather than a cute creek with tubers.

Then the fun began. Rapids! A waterfall! I plunged over the edge. Suddenly my tube pitched to a 60 degree angle, and I was falling backwards. When the tube hit the backwash, it shot into the air, as tubes do. I was tossed into an inverse underwater somersault that propelled jets of freezing water up my nose. It’s probably still up there in fact. Then I heard, and felt, a sickening scrape of my helmet against the rocks on the creek bottom.

There but for the kindness of a stranger, go I.

I was in full flailing panic now, taking the force of Boulder Creek on my chest. As I struggled to locate the water’s surface, I felt a strong grip on my right arm, yanking me out of the boiling foam. A stranger set me upright and pushed me toward the shore and my freaked out wife. She didn’t shout “You idiot! You risked your life? For this?”

But I heard it, loud and clear over the bellowing of a tiny waterfall.

As I stumbled toward safety, breathing raggedly and trembling from adrenaline, I saw my rescuer plunge back into the river. He grabbed a pair of kids, maybe 11 and 14 years old, after they executed the same flip that might have killed any of us.

Am I being overdramatic?

Back on shore I removed my helmet and noticed a seven-inch gouge in the plastic. That divot would have been in my skull, were it not for my rental helmet.

The best $5 rental I ever made.

So I won’t Tube to Work, or anyplace else. My priority is always to arrive, alive.

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.” ― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

Have you read “A River Runs Through It”? No? Start now! I’ll still be here when you return.

Let’s keep the scare going, shall we? In the comments, please share the stupidest thing you’ve attempted in the not-so-great-sometimes outdoors.

You can also send this to somebody on the verge of doing something stupid, as a cautionary tale. That’s my specialty.

Thanks for joining me here on the Road2Elsewhere. Let’s keep each other afloat.