A funny/not-so-funny story

After writing the last post, I got to thinking
it does happen once in a while, you know
about the reason Jeff and I don't get invited on extreme adventures any more with our athletic friends.

It all started about 25 years ago, shortly after we moved up to Oregon. A couple of people at church owned rafts and asked us if we wanted to join them on a white-water rafting trip on the Deschutes River. It was more excitement than we had seen in a long while (maybe ever) so we made arrangements for the kids and off we went.

My mothering heart grows faint at the thought of the intrepidness and naivety of the state of our minds. We were about to embark on an often treacherous stretch of water with a bunch of amateurs and no helmets. A stretch of water on which people die almost every year.

Go here to see more photos. I have none of our trips. Pitiful, pitiful me.

Bear that in mind for Part II of the story.

We camped overnight on some very rocky ground and climbed aboard the rafts early the next morning. I think there were maybe three rafts and a dozen or so people in our group. It was a beautiful Eastern Oregon day and we had a blast. We paddled through rapids and jumped in the water and splashed each other and reveled in the sunshine as it glittered on the pristine water. At some point in the afternoon (remember, it was a long time ago, so you readers who were there on this trip may disagree on the details) we stopped for a break. The ground was covered in rocks and walking was slightly treacherous. Jeff decided he needed to relieve his bladder, so in his modest way he was searching for a spot that was completely out of the way. Pretty soon, we heard a yell. Jeff had injured his ankle and was in enormous pain. His ankle immediately swelled up and he had to be helped back to the raft. Luckily, we were almost back to where the road meets the river so Barb (yes, the same Barb) and her husband drove up to get him.

Questions occur to me, like How did they get back to their van, or did they not come on the rafts and were just waiting for us at the end?

I don't know, but I'm sure someone will tell me.

Anyway, after a small mishap in the crowded parking lot when the van got hit by a truck, we drove back to Newberg. Three hours, with Jeff in pain and, oh yes, still needing to pee.

We took him to the hospital and he was diagnosed with a dislocated ankle and sent home with crutches. He spent three weeks on those crutches, so it was, in fact, a pretty bad injury.

A few thoughts about that trip:

1. We missed some of the best (read: most exciting) rapids because we had to leave early.
2. I have always felt like I owed Barb and Larry because of the damage to their van. I know it cost them and I wish I'd have had the thoughtfulness to share that cost. One of the regrets of my thoughtless youth.
3. It was about five hours between Jeff's initial foray onto the rocks and when he was finally able to empty his bursting bladder. Which is, when you think about it, the funniest part of the story.
4. Some time that same summer, I don't remember if it was before or after our adventure, some of those same friends went out and one of the rafts flipped and trapped a young daughter underneath. Luckily, they were able to rescue her, but it was a close one.
5. What was I thinking? 

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To be continued.


You didn't think that was all there was, did you?
You should know me better than that!