Chicken Mom and The Big Eddy

“The River can kill you in a thousand ways.” ~ Paul Serone, Anaconda

As I stood on the banks of the Deschutes River in Central Oregon staring into the jaws of what I assumed would be certain death, it was Jon Voight’s voice I heard above the roar of the rapids. His infamous line from one of the worst horror flicks of all time, Anaconda, kept repeating over and in my head. There were other voices in my head that day, too, voices that screamed: “Run fool, run!”

Let me start by explaining that I’m a bit phobic when it comes to the water. I get nervous if the bathtub’s too full. But my desire to be a “fun mom” to our three sons forced me to set aside my phobia and book our family’s first white water rafting trip. So there I was, facing Class III rapids that made my heart beat faster than Trump can tap a tweet.

Our family had never been white water rafting, but our boys were anxious to try it. After some exhaustive internet research, I found Sun Country Tours in Sunriver, Oregon. They offered an entry level three hour excursion known as The Big Eddy Thriller. Sun Country’s website boasted rave reviews and photos of happy families giggling like fools as they plunged into the frothy white torrent. We, too, could be happy giggling fools, and all for the low, low price of only $60 each!

On the morning of the excursion, we arrived at the Sun Country offices in high spirits. Our boys spilled out of the van like happy puppies, anxious for the adventure ahead. At that moment it felt great to be the “fun mom.” The moment wouldn’t last long.

At the front desk, an athletic-looking young man greeted us with a stack of legal forms. “What is all this?” I asked my husband as we leafed through the paperwork. “We’re signing away our rights to sue them if anything goes hideously wrong,” he said.

Oh, snap! Shit just got real.

As I watched each of my boys sign away their rights on the dotted line, I felt my first tingling of trepidation. What kind of mother lets her kids do this? The fun kind, of course!

Once the paperwork was complete, we boarded a rickety school bus that would drive us 45 minutes north to the Deschutes National Forest. There we’d be paired with a guide and dropped into the Upper Deschutes River.

I watched the other passengers for signs of fear or concern. If anyone was nervous, they were covering it well. People chatted and laughed, seemingly unconcerned about what was to come. The sunny weather slowly gave way to overcast skies, and a light rain began to fall. I took this as an ominous sign.

I turned anxiously to my husband and asked, “Are you looking forward to this?” He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “It’ll be a blast.” I found this of little comfort as the closest my husband had been to rafting was riding Splash Mountain at Disneyland.

After bumping our way through the forest for a few miles, the bus finally came to a halt. The driver pointed to a path and told us in broken English that we were to follow it down to the river.

Dutifully we tromped down the switchbacks to a clearing where a team of professional guides and six large yellow rafts awaited us. One young man was handing out life jackets, and I lunged at him as if we were about to board the Titanic.

We were assigned a tour guide and a raft. Our guide, Patrick, was a small, wiry guy who looked barely old enough to shave. I’d pictured someone more like Thor steering us down the river, someone who possessed the upper body strength to pull a hysterical woman from the swirling rapids. I gulped but said nothing, afraid to expose my chicken heart and lose my fun mom cred.

Our raft had a few seats left, so Patrick assigned two additional passengers to our group; Ava and her 19-year-old daughter Tiffany, or as I dubbed them; Sporty Spice and Baby Spice.

Dripping in Nike athleisure wear Sporty Spice was nothing short of an Amazon, complete with rippling biceps, perfect white teeth and a thick blonde mane. Sporty introduced herself locking my hand in a vice-grip. I tried not to wince as she crushed most of the 27 bones in my hand.

You know those buddy comedies where they match two physical opposites? That was Sporty Spice and me. I was the Jonah Hill to her Channing Tatum. Sporty was the alpha-female, a blond Xena Warrior Princess, while I was the poser in cheap aqua shoes and a tattered baseball cap.

Sporty Spice offered to take the bow position as she was an “experienced power rower.”

Of course, she was.

“These class III rapids are child’s play,” Sporty scoffed. “I’ve been down class V rapids; you wear a helmet for those.”

Our guide Patrick seemed overly impressed, confessing he’d never even seen Class V rapids. This exchange did nothing to boost my confidence in him. It looked as though our lives would be in the hands of Sporty Spice. I prayed she was as tough as she looked.

Before climbing into our raft, Patrick announced the middle seat was open. It was the safest spot in the boat and came with a panic strap. My hand shot up. “I’ll take it if no one else wants it!” I offered a little too quickly. My boys shook their heads.

Uncool.

I’d outed myself as the chicken of the group. I wanted to be the brave mom but let’s face it; Sporty Spice had that job locked down. “You’ll be fine,” Sporty said slapping me on the back so hard that I gagged on my gum.

We shoved off and eased downriver toward the first group of Class I Rapids. They were a snap. I began to relax and unclenched a little. Next up were the Class II Rapids. These were a little wilder but thrilling, and our team navigated them with ease.

Between rapids, Patrick pointed out various lava rock formations, Osprey nests and other local points of interest. My boys were having a blast, smiles all around. Fun mom comes through again! I was beginning to think this white water rafting thing was a piece of cake. But that feeling would be fleeting.

As we rounded the bend, Patrick announced we’d be going ashore to scout the upcoming Class III Rapids so that he could explain some necessary maneuvers. Securing our raft, we trudged through the water and hiked uphill into the forest to get a better view of the rapids below.

When I first laid eyes on those rapids, I froze. I was unable to conceive that my entire family, would momentarily be careening down them on what amounted to a flimsy rubber sheet.

These were nothing like the rapids we’d experienced. What lay before us was a churning, roaring torrent of water, a river wild, thunderous and dangerous with sheer drops at every turn. My stomach began to percolate.

As everyone eagerly gathered to view the river, I hung back reviewing my options. I could walk back to Sunriver, sure it was a 30-mile trek, and I was in the middle of the freaking Deschutes Forest but what was my alternative? Panic set in. I was trapped. There was only one way out, and it was over those churning rapids.

Suddenly I didn’t give a rat’s ass about being fun or cool or brave. I was the chicken mom and would embrace it wholeheartedly!

While I kvetched, Patrick explained how to stay afloat on the rapids if thrown from the raft. My mouth went dry, and I clutched Patrick’s arm. “Do you mean we might go down the rapids….without the raft?” Patrick patted my hand and assured me that many people claim it’s the best part of their trip.

What???

Nowhere on Sun Country’s website did it claim “You’ll have a jolly old time when you’re tossed from the raft and sail down the rapids on your ass.” To add to my anxiety, Patrick began checking our life jackets, because as he put it, “If not tightly cinched, the river could rip them from our bodies.”

Was this guy messing with us?

Suddenly our happy family rafting trip had turned into The River Wild, Anaconda and Deliverance all rolled into one. I could almost hear the strains of banjo music wafting through the breeze.

“The river can kill you in a thousand ways.”

“You seem a little nervous, Pam,” Patrick said cinching my life jacket. I nodded vigorously, unable to contain my mounting fear. “Did the profuse sweating, dilated pupils, and dry heaving tip you off?” I asked. Patrick merely smiled and reassured me we’d be okay.

Having no other option, I hoisted myself back into the raft, grabbed ahold of the panic strap, and put on a brave face. “Okay, let’s do this thing!” I barked.

As we shoved off the embankment, Patrick threw out one last warning. “Whatever happens — stay away from the jagged lava rocks, they’ll shred our raft.”

I threw up in my mouth. Just a little.

Oars poised we headed downriver and into the gaping maw of the rapids. Our group navigated the first two sets of rapids with precision, dodging and weaving through the heavy water. The last of the Class III Rapids lay before us. Every muscle in my body was clenched and ready for the drops and turns we were about to face.

We took the first drop and found ourselves heading directly into a solid wall of water. The wave crashed over us, drenching us and sending our boat directly toward the jagged rocks. The jagged rocks Patrick had just warned would “shred our raft.”

There was a moment of quiet panic as, collectively, we realized we were about to get deeply screwed. In a split second, Patrick was yelling commands. “Back, back, row back! NOW!”

Without an oar, I felt helpless and having nothing else constructive to do I repeated Patrick’s directives. “Back! Back! Back!” I shrieked. Sporty Spice sprang into action, rowing backward with the strength of ten Amazons, plus two!

Thanks to teamwork we narrowly avoided the jagged rocks. Once out of harm’s way we could relax and enjoy the rest of our tour. We bounced through the final group of Class II Rapids and pulled ashore where our bus awaited us. The trip was over. We’d made it.

Once ashore Sporty Spice asked me how I liked my first white water rafting experience. I had to be honest, as phobic as I am, it was unforgettable. And now that I was safely on dry land I could admit that it had been thrilling.

That day on the Deschutes I came face to face with my worst fear. I had no way out, no way back and no choice but to forge ahead. Fear is part of being human, but sacrifice is part of being a mom. In the end, my desire to create an unforgettable memory for my boys outweighed my chicken heart. I’m not saying I managed it with any amount of dignity or aplomb. But at least I DID it.

Now that they’ve had a taste, my boys can’t wait to go white water rafting again. They’re busy planning next year’s trip; a half day excursion down Class IV Rapids. Will I go? Of course! What else would a fun mom do?