Shit Creek
Jul/091
Not me.
My second annual family get-together is here and gone. I missed a couple days worth of posts due to it, so you, dear reader and possible subscriber, have my sincerest apologies. I can’t honestly say, however, that I was giving much of shit as I was pounding beers around a campfire nestled conveniently between the 3000+ square foot vacation cabin that we rented, and the small creek only a stones throw away from the front door. This dwelling was home to fifteen of us for three wonderful away-from-work days.
My parents decided last year to quasi-camp on a yearly basis. Their inspiration stemmed from the once a year family hunting trip that my parents regularly attended when I was young. The week long gathering consisted of my grandparents, parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles, and was a much anticipated occasion by all involved. Our amenities were a little less extravagant, though, taking up shelter in pop-up campers, and travel trailers. My grandfather had somehow acquired an old school bus that had been modified with all of the options of a camper, however, it still retained the school bus colors, lights, wording, and the characteristic side mounted stop sign. The first course of action upon arriving at the camp site was to construct the crude lavatory that had been invented by my uncle. The makeshift toilet, consisting of a wood chair and a toilet seat, was placed over a three or four foot hole, and a stall, built from custom poles and a blue tarp, was assembled around it. This type of luxury, my friends, is what separates you from the rest of the crowd when it comes to camping.
While the parents were hard at work putting together the latrine, us kids, would quickly make our way down to the adjacent creek. This creek would serve to be our playground for the majority of the time we were there. Years later, as my son, daughter, nephews, and nieces were playing around at a similar creek, I found myself consistently having to protect their right to do this, amidst the nervous, overprotecting adults. My daughter ended up slipping and falling into the twelve foot wide creek, and I was harshly reprimanded by my parents for having supported the children’s cause. Obviously, my parents had forgotten about the many hours of unsupervised creek time that their children had logged during the hunting trips. We, as kids, fell in plenty of times, and, routinely attempted increasingly difficult crossings. I stand by my choice to let them play, knowing full well that kids are not completely naive to the fact that a running stream does impose a fair amount of danger and that certain precautions are necessary. If, contrary to what I believe, a child does not understand this, and finds himself or herself struggling to stay afloat while jaunting downstream against their will, I can only assume that they are not trying hard enough to stay alive and will, most likely, end up causing their demise in some other reckless fashion. Needless to say, my daughter survived with a small scratch and some wet clothes.
Us kids were also avid climbers. We simply climbed until we were tired. I would dare say that we would trek a few thousand feet up the mountainside. One trip we found ourselves incarcerated in the trailer after the parents, while sitting around the campsite, noticed their seeming miniscule children high atop a mountain peak, jumping and cheering. I was told by my mom that a similar attempt was made by a few of the adults the next day. The hike resulted in failure, with the grown-ups turning around less than halfway up.
Once, my younger brother threw a stick at a bird. The twenty-five foot throw was amazingly accurate, and the fowl found it’s unfortunate death at the hands of a twelve year old kid with a lucky throw. The humor of the situation was replaced almost immediately with sheer panic as we came to the realization that the discovery of the corpse would ultimately incriminate us and Dad would bust our asses. We hastily kicked the dead bird down the hill next to the creek. We considered throwing the carcass in, but could not convince ourselves that it wouldn’t get caught on a tree or a rock and be spotted further down the creek, so we concluded that throwing a large rock over it was the best coarse of action. Our cover up was successful and our crime was never uncovered.
Another time, while adventuring further down the stream than any others before me, I discovered an amazing landmark that I immediately dubbed, with my namesake, as Jacob Falls. I haven’t seen the falls, a small narrowing of the creek with a few large rocks creating a small edge for the water to fall down through, as an adult, but I’m told by my cousins that it is less than spectacular. As a kid, though, I remember the falls as being nothing short of magnificent. I slipped off one of the large rocks once, and experienced the slow-motion last moments of life event that you hear about, only to find myself knee deep in slow moving current. Like my daughter after me, I lived.
There was anywhere from eight to twelve of us kids running around that stream and none of us ever died. I honestly believe that these occurrences help teach children about danger and common sense. I’m glad my daughter fell in. She respects the river more now, and understands that water + rocks = slippery. She’ll log this survival technique next to fire = hot, and it will, hopefully, make her able to endure more hardships in life. Hopefully my logic is sound on this topic and my kids survive their childhood antics, otherwise, the wife is going to way pissed at me.