Slice of Life Tuesday: A Midnight Adventure

Headlamps. Bugspray. Tubes. Drinks. The coldest river known to mankind. Six adventurous souls ready to claim glory and fame. Late last night, these components combined to create an unforgettable midnight expedition.

The boys' guffawing laughter wrapped itself around Isaac and I, pulling us quickly down to the dock. Their heckling smack talk was bursting up from beyond the veil of mist that separated us from the river, echoing throughout the campground. We stepped down onto the landing and I got my first glimpse of the starlit water. I could barely make out the faintest shadow of the treeline just beyond the opposite bank, and although the river seemed invisible, the babbling sounds of water against rock let me know it was there. My cousins stood alongside my two teenage sons and their friend; the five of them engaged in an odd dance through the ink-black waters, hopping back and forth as they beckoned us to hurry and join them in the river.

Pushing all misgivings aside, I grabbed my tube, slipped off my flip-flops, and braced myself for the shock I knew would come next.  With a stifled yelp, I hopped down into the knee-deep water. During the day the sun offers welcome relief from the breath-stealing sting of the spring-fed Boardman river. But under the curtain of night, I couldn't cling to my happy sun-baked security blanket. My yelp strangled and was reborn as a startled squeal when I jumped into my tube a little too forcefully and sank to my neck into the unforgiving water.

"Shit!" I gasped, correcting myself onto my tube as I sped blindly down the river to the first bend, leaving Isaac standing bewildered at the dock.

"Mom!" My oldest son hollered through the darkness, laughing at my failure to filter my language, his tube spinning past me.

In front of me, the other boys headlamps blinked in and out, seemingly in time with their hoots, hollers, and cheers.

I rounded the next corner, spinning with little control as I passed my son again. The lights from Isaac's headlamp zoomed in from behind us; two tiny glowing orbs in the darkness. 

My tube spun forward and I found myself staring down the first in a series of spiked planks left over from a long forgotten fence. On instinct, I flung my hand forward, hoping to grab the edge of the board and slingshot safely to the other side of the river. As my fingers neared the splintered board, a wave of freezing water came cresting over my tube from behind me. My oldest son's tube collided against mine, sending me sailing right into the graveyard of lumber I had hoped to avoid. A chorus of laughter sailed up into the night air, like birds taking flight, and the rest of our tubing party cruised by. I watched the bouncing red and white lights of their headlamps wave across the sky as their laughter floated away.

My son bounced merrily off of me as if this were a simple game of bumper cars, leaving me to work my way out of the brambles on my own. The Great River Gods smiled upon me though. Isaac floated by at exactly the right moment and I was able to latch on to him and let the current carry me down the river.

Our raucous party of six continued on our journey, cutting through the darkness like a drunken band of pirates, bouncing off every rock and tree we passed, our spirits stronger than the shivers that laced our water-logged bodies.

Each twist and turn held a new surprise -- warnings were called out as often as discoveries. It was just as likely to hear, "Watch out! Heh...sorry, too late!!" as it was, "Look! A satellite! The Big Dipper! Orion's Belt!" We tested out theories on the best way to use our headlamps. We predicted the reality behind shadows lurking in the dark. We almost missed our docking site.

In what felt like minutes, our midnight mayhem came to an end.  We stumbled from the water, laughing with ice-fogged breath as we rolled our tubes back up to camp and the promise of a blazing campfire, new stories to share, and memories that will never fade.

This was written as a part of the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Challenge.

Slice of Life Tuesday: The Secret Life of Names

Perhaps one of the things that makes the Appalacian Trail so appealing to me (beyond the thought of a challenging pilgrimage that takes me months away from my comfort zone) is the ritual of the trail name. You see, most everyone that hikes the 2100 or so miles of the AT in one season is given a trail name. I assume this began and survives because of the camaraderie that exists between adventures that spend 4-6 months climbing, crawling, freezing, sweating, and generally surviving their way through the wilderness together.

Last week I spoke of The Ranch, the yearly site of rejuvenation for my family. We are in the midst of preparations for this year's trip: making lists, organizing supplies, and packing everything we'll need for our short sojourn into our own wilderness. The Ranch has a happy familiarity to anyone that is lucky enough to visit. We have our inside jokes, learned tricks for easier tubing, and yes, in our family, everyone gets a ranch name.

Some people pick their own name; my cousin delightedly calls himself The River Goat, while others, like my oldest son, Dozer, gain their names through behavior: Dozer has a tendency to just bulldoze his way right through any bramble and briar that gets in his way, choosing not to steer his way to safety. But however your name comes to you, there is no happier sound than the raucous cheer from the river as everyone sees you coming around the bend and yells out your name. Ranch names are a silly and free-spirited key to the inner circle.

I love the togetherness felt at the river, and although I know the tight knit bonds that come from thru-hikers on the AT exist on a very different level, I believe we share some close similarities. In a few years my husband and I will step foot onto the AT for the first time, earning new names to add to our belt along with new stories to share the next time we fall into our tubes at the ranch.

Until then, I'll wear my ranch name proudly as I wade into the ice cold waters of the Michigan Boardman River.

Because She Is My Person

When I was very small, she pulled me in close and we snuggled and sang and told stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight. She taught me to swim, gave me my first Cabbage Patch dolls, and showed me how to use a curling iron. She bought me my first pair of "big-girl" shoes and my first bikini. With her, I learned how to sign, listened to stories of teaching children, and found the meaning of compassion. Each visit was more significant than the last, as each year I became a little more aware of just how special my Aunt Billie was.

As a teenager, our family moved overseas and a number of years went by before I saw my aunt again. When I finally made it back to her home, I was greeted once again with bearhugs and happy tears. We stayed up until the birds began singing their morning song, announcing the arrival of the sun. I shared the story of my life, stories no one else could be trusted with. It didn't matter that time had slipped by; she was still my person. She always will be.

Her children became like my own niece and nephews, and as my family grew our visits became louder and messier and filled with silliness. This is happiness to the utmost degree, family sleeping on couches and floors, cramming into too-small cars and giggling into the starlit hours while sharing stories and pictures and memories. I watched her pull my own children in close and snuggle and sing and tell stories between tickles and giggles and screeches of delight and I smiled because I knew she loved them every bit as fiercely as she loved me.

Eventually their traditional family vacation grew to include us, and we now spend two weeks each July on a road trip that takes us from Texas to Michigan and back, with a few pit stops along the way. We spend all year anticipating summer vacation, if only for this reason. Nearly a week of the trip is dedicated to The Ranch, where we spend our days tubing down a river with a cold beverage in hand and nothing but blue sky and warm sun to occupy our time. When the sun slips beyond our view and the the nights grow cold, we slip on jackets and jeans and surround the campfire. Everything about this trip is Aunt Billie; from the chili we all clamor for to the "shhhh!" that we can hear through the night when our laughter becomes too loud. Aunt Billie is in the river, too -- she taught my boys how to navigate the ice cold waters when they were little, and she's my favorite person to hitch a ride with as we slowly rock our way back to camp. The ranch is Aunt Billie. Without one, there is no reason for the other.

This year Aunt Billie won't be at the river. This year Aunt Billie has exchanged her tube for a hospital bed, her cold beverage for an IV bag, and instead of gathering by the campfire with family each night, she will spend her evenings in Bed 1 under the careful eye of the hospital staff at Good Samaritan. This year Aunt Billie has an auto-immune disorder that the doctors haven't quite figured out yet, and it is a thief that has launched a sneak attack on our family, robbing us of a precious resource we scarcely have enough of as it is: time.

This year Aunt Billie has demanded that we go to the ranch without her, not sit at her bedside and look pitiful. But I don't know how to slip down the river without hearing her laughter ringing through the trees or sit by the fire without her giving us the look and telling us it's time for bed -- even though I'm nearly 40 years old! Without her, a part of the ranch has been severed away. Because she is my person, and she always will be.

Aunt Billie, Uncle Craig, and a motley crew of kids that love them both!

Road Trip 2010 Begins

The truth is, I'm a highly anxious, easily stressed lady.  Granted, if you see me out in public, you'd probably never notice this.  Throw me into chaos at work, and I can quickly come up with solutions.  If you aren't looking closely, you might label me as patient, diplomatic, clam.  Hence the chameleon.

Fling a whopper at me when I'm just around my closest family, most trusted friends, and you get a whole different monster.  Literally.

For the past few days, we've been busily preparing for our big yearly road trip across America.  This involves a ridiculous amount of strategy, given the fact that we have to take all our camping equipment with us up to the northern most part of Michigan -- and when I say "us" I'm talking about myself, The Husband, Uno, Dos, the two Littles, and Uno's best friend Dos #2.  Whew.

Since I don't like to stop at fast food places along the way, this trip also requires that I spring into Ultra Mom mode, and bake, make, mix, and organize snacks and meals and such for our journey.  So besides everything else we're bringing, we now need a huge cooler and a box for all the other food items.

Yipes.

Then there is my nonstop fear that we're going to have some terrible malady besiege us and drain every last dollar we have.

I won't even go into all the other worries and concerns I have before we set out.

All these worries, concerns, and craziness can easily result in what I lovingly call, "Ultimate Freak Out of Doom."

Trust me.  I've done it many times.  Temper tantrums, tears, you name it, I've done.

It's really rather embarrassing.

Luckily, last year something changed this.  For the first time ever (and dude, this is a serious accomplishment), I was able to plan, prepare for, and set off on our trip -- without a nervous breakdown!

This year, we've added three more kids and two more stops along the way.  I'm beginning to wonder if I have a desire to torture myself.

But, once again, I've been able to hunt and gather the necessities, get everyone rounded up, and in about 15 minutes, we'll be out the door.

The secret ingredient to my success?

The Husband.

He calms my fears, eases the tension, sets me back up on my feet when I topple over in a tizzy.

Granted, just thirty minutes ago I was standing in the driveway as he was zipping around loading things into the van, barking orders and looking a bit like a timebomb.  It just took a few words, and hand on his shoulder, and he visibly relaxed.  Things got packed, a little less stressed.

So off we go, Iowa bound (for starters).  I am so fortunate to spend the next 17 days surrounded by laughter, silliness, and definitely some good road trippin' karaoke.  But definitely, no ultimate freak outs. And that's a nice thing.