Dynamite River

One summer our family piles into the car for an extended vacation with my Aunt Jackie and Uncle Rob, the most adventure seeking, outdoors oriented couple in our extended bloodline. Rob in particular is a complete maniac who, aside from more standard fare like taking us hiking up mountains, or boating and water skiing, had taught my brother and me how to snorkel dive – including a lesson on slipping underwater, that you block the tube with your tongue and then blow the water out upon surfacing – and the fine art of jumping from cliffs, though neither of us were as brave as the triple-backflip-from-thirty-feet-up type maneuvers that Rob routinely busted out.  He had also led all of us on a camping expedition deep into some native woods once, where our site was ravaged by bears in the middle of the night while we huddled inside our tents, listening with rapt attention, the adults occasionally risking a glance outside.

But by far the most notorious of our adventures with these two would be this hot August afternoon, when they decide to take us inner tubing down their favorite mountain river, a horseshoe shaped affair that ends not too far away from where it began. Jackie drops off five individuals and six tubes – the last having been saddled with a duct-taped cooler full of beer, stocked and modified by the two adult males in this party – as she then takes off in their SUV  to meet us at the rendezvous point. The sky is nearly cloudless and the water high, a perfect setting for this idyllic country ride.

You can probably guess what happens next. A freakish ocean of grey and then black sails into view overhead, blotting out the sun. A wind kicks up, the air perceptibly becomes much cooler and, worst of all, flashes of lightning and peals of thunder reveal themselves a little more closely than perhaps we would have preferred. Mom is freaking but Dad and Rob, who are both, it should be noted, pretty much half crocked at this point, remain nonplussed by this sudden rain and nature’s pyrotechnics. Later claiming they only said so to avoid a mass panic, these two are in fact telling us that in cases of lightning, “the water is the safest place to be.”

Mom isn’t buying this nonsense and climbs out of the river. She starts hopping alongside the bank barefoot, negotiating the rocks, briers, and general overgrowth which is, as a rule, not especially conducive to travelling sans shoes. Upon seeing this, I decide this seems like about the best idea  I have ever heard, and join her in navigating that shoreline. My little brother, meanwhile, appears torn, but apparently decides to trust that the men know what they’re talking about, and remains in the water with them.

After walking what feels like the distance of the Appalachian Trail and back, we eventually encounter a dilapidated shack of a house, where this disheveled old coot is sitting upon his back porch, which faces the water,  rocking in a chair. Frantic to exit this mountain pronto, we ask him if there’s any quicker way off of this river.

“Nooooooo,” he cackles, “not unless you got a stick a dyn-ee-mite!”

Needless to say, nobody thought to pack that in the cooler this morning. But just as suddenly as it blew in, the storm mysteriously passes, at last, without any casualties. By the time we arrive at the pick up spot to a waiting Jackie, the sky looks like it had when we first arrived, as though nothing ever happened – although we all have such a chill in our bones that upon arriving back at their house, we make Rob build a blazing fire just to dry us out.

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