If only we knew what was coming

After another night at the Raccoon Mountain Campground (we just couldn’t resist the stunning physiques of our fellow campers), we made our way over to Sunshine Rafting for whitewater on the Ocoee river.After signing several waivers which stated that even if our river guide were to lodge an oar irretrievably up our butt Sunshine Rafting would be absolutely free of any and all liability, we took a perfunctory lesson in whitewater fundamentals. We learned where to sit (crack on crack), where to stick our feet (in the gunnel), how to paddle, and what to do when our guide yells hit the deck (guess).

As is my habit, I closely examined the fellow occupants of our raft to determine who I’d eat first in the event we all became stranded in the wilderness. Thankfully, there were no obvious frontrunners.

Shiny Helmet = Good Guide (we hope)

It was just us, our guide Phil (who wore an incredibly shiny glittered helmet that suggested he might raft for queer eye in the off season), and a middle aged couple with questionable dental work and a playful new couple demeanor that for some reason suggested to me that they were having an affair.

We had a practice session directly above the Ocoee Dam, and I was both disappointed and relieved to discover that we wouldn’t actually be rafting over the dam. Instead, we ‘portaged’ (French for ‘carried the damn boat’) our raft to below the dam and started our trip.

Wonderful though it certainly was, it couldn’t quite escape the shadow of an earlier whitewater expedition on the Nolichucky that I’d had with my mom when I was 12. I strongly suspect that the Ocoee was in fact the wilder river, but the vivid impressions of danger and excitement conjured up by my 12 year old mind on that earlier expedition made the Ocoee seem tame in comparison. Even so, we certainly whet our appetite.

Dayna wasn’t sure she’d like whitewater rafting, primarily because of an epic and soggy 3 day canoe trip we’d taken in Big Bend. The Colorado River was rougher that we’d anticipated, and we flipped the canoe 14 times. By the end of the trip our dogs had decided it would be safer to swim, and wouldn’t get back into the canoe with us.

I’m happy to say that Dayna found this experience much more pleasant (it’s amazing what a competent guide can do), and we both resolved to hit more whitewater in West Virginia.

That night we stayed in a high altitude campground within the nearby Cherokee National Forest. The cool mountain air caught us by surprise. It may in fact have starved our brains of vital oxygen, because it was at this point that we decided to take a brisk skate around the campground. This despite the fact that (1) we’d rafted all day, (2) the camp was on the side of a mountain, and (3) Dayna had skated only once before and hadn’t quite mastered the art of stopping.

In my defense, I did anticipate the possibility of an accident, and so taught Dayna how to fall on her knee pads properly before we started. In retrospect, the time might have been better invested teaching her how to stop.

The only cure was ‘Sex in the City’

Dayna put on her wrist and knee pads, but left her elbow pads behind because she couldn’t imagine how she’d end up on her elbows. She discovered how soon enough.

Going down a particularly long downhill stretch, Dayna became uncomfortable with her rate of speed (approximately 55 mph), and decided to slow down by breaking with her entire body. She slid two feet before she stopped, and cracked a knee pad in the process.

When she started laughing hysterically, I stopped worrying. I started worrying again when I saw her elbows and arms. Covered in blood and road rash, I knew that the laughing would be short lived.

By the time we’d limped back to Gypsy with skates in hand, she’d stopped laughing and a geriatric that looked remarkably like Wilfred Brimley had offered us the use of his medicine cabinet.

I kept her distracted from the pain through the generous application of Diet Coke, Sex & the City, and painkillers. Even so, it was a hard night. I’d never realized how much we bump up against one another in the van until that night, when every bump was accompanied by a yelp of pain. And that was just the start of a two-week healing process.

This entry was posted on Saturday, July 15th, 2006 at 11:45 pm and is filed under Tennessee. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.