Paddle Or Die

One day while hanging out at the local park, my attention was attracted by a small group of kids playing around with a little yellow raft. They would tow the boat up stream, then all pile in and bounce down through some small rapids, then start all over again. It looked like fun! With great sneakiness I crawled into a small shrub at the waters edge and waited for them to float by. As they drew along side of me I kicked out with both feet, violently upending the little raft and sending the ankle biters thrashing off down stream and around a bend. The raft was mine!! I gave the small rapids a few experimental try’s, then headed off to find a bigger game. I quickly stuffed the boat into my shopping cart along with a small plastic oar then pushed the cart out on to state rout 140. After a short wait I lassoed a passing RV by the back bumper and my cart, raft and I were off for the Merced River.
As the RV passed through the Briceburg camp ground on the way to Yosemite I simply unlassoed the bumper and I was all set for some fun. Before hitting the river however I walked up to the ranger station to survey the local river map, rafting could be dangerous and I wanted to be well sure that I wasn’t heading towards anything nasty. The map informed me that due to high water, all the class three stuff was now at the class four level, and two big class fours were now at the class five level. This was good news!! The lower the number the bigger the rapid…… I think that’s how it goes……. So I just had one nasty class 3 to deal with then I was home free, the fours and fives were not worth bothering about, anything with a number like five could hardly be more than a riffle an a rock. (Man I hate it when I’m wrong) With much enthusiasm I tossed the tiny raft into the river then piled in my various odds and ends for picnicking and sun bathing, then a good shove and I was off. The swift current quickly moved the small boat into mid stream and through a set of nice sized waves. The boat rode well with me whacking furiously at the water in an attempt to keep straight. After a small set of white water the river leveled out and I lay back contentedly for a snooze. I was awakened by the roar of upcoming rapids, ah yes, this was the three I had seen on the map. Inching up to a small drop I surveyed the river ahead, nothing to bad, just some easily avoidable rocks and a good sized wave or two, rather easy for a class three, the ones and twos must be the really bad stuff, I was glad there weren’t any of those on this run. With much mad paddle whacking and abit of bailing I was soon through the worst of it and on to smooth sailing, not bad, I was liking this rafting stuff. Once again in calm water I let my hand trail over the side, and enjoyed the sunny day. Soon however the current quickened its pace, and a roar of falling water grew ever louder. What the hell? Putting down the sandwich I had scrounged from a camp dumpster I stood up for a better view, but the narrow canyon I was entering prevented me from getting a look down river. Though slightly rattled I attempted to calm my nerves by singing an old Viking song……

Through the mist bum bada bum rides a ghastly sight
A ship dum de dum with keel upright
Slashing rain on giant wave I shout through storm sail on ye knaves.
Bum da bum de bom bom baaaa….

The little worry mouse that had until now had been gnawing its way through the lining of my stomach now became frantic, butterflies hell, I had condors up my nose. Passing around a sharp bend my worst fears were realized, who ever had made the friggin map was a twisted and evil man, for I was not facing a placid class five, but a white frothy hell. If Satan owned a washing machine, this is what the inside would have looked like on the spin cycle of the super fragg setting. Mountainous waves sloshed about drunkenly careening off of rocks and pounding through massive holes, logs washed down by the recent snow melt clashed viciously together like the gnashing teeth of a mad man. And into this cold wet hell dropped a scared hobo in a pool toy raft, with a blue plastic paddle and a long forgotten sandwich. Like a wingless plane my raft soared skyward off the crest of a large wave. Soon however the raft changed its mind and dove like a submarine under a ghastly pour-over. Now deep below the water the raft again changed into an Orca and breached the surface, spraying water in all directions. Once on the surface I sprang into action, with arms pinweeling I lashed out with my paddle, the blue handle and rubbery blade becoming a blur as I fought a desperate battle with the foamy river gods. Suddenly through the spray a large rock loomed dead ahead, with my paddle held out like a spear I braced for impact. The end of my paddle connected squarely with the rock and for the briefest of moments held against the current, then with a noise like a rifle shot the over stressed plastic shattered sending broken fragments into my flimsy craft, instantly sinking it. The handle impacted with my groin, and with an ungraceful back flip I was tossed into the full fury of a river that had declared me a mortal enemy. Things get rather murky at this point. I believe at one time I almost pulled my self on to a ledge, only to be knocked back under by a large salmon. At another point, I may or may not have attempted to fashion my now limp raft into a set of water wings.
I awoke hours later in the grass far up the bank away from the river. How I got there was a mystery, but due to a set of unusual tracks leading away from my body, and the strong taste of fish in my mouth, I strongly believe that I was given mouth to mouth by a beaver, and was thus rescued from certain death. What the fate of my raft was I care not. Nor do I care for the fate of my sandwich and ratty old Sponge Bob beach towel. I can only hope that these items have found peace, but I shall not go looking for them. Despite my brush with death, the Merced River has not yet seen the last of Grublygold. I shall return to do battle once again, of that I can be certain.