I love nature. Beautiful scenery, fresh air. It’s wonderful. But my wife thinks that the great outdoors is uncomfortable and dangerous. So why I ever talked her into a tubing trip on a river is a question I still ask myself many years later.
My friend Mickey got me hooked on tubing. We always floated on a stretch of the Locust Fork River, just north of Birmingham. The scenery is jaw-dropping. Boulders, beaches, bluffs and waterfalls. Even the take-out point is a picturesque, covered bridge.
If the water level is low, it’s a sleepy little float. However, after a big rain, it becomes a whitewater ride with roller coaster rapids. Naturally, Mickey and I preferred it fast and dangerous.
The kayakers thought we were insane. “Why are you riding on inner tubes? These are rapids!” they said. But our oversized truck tubes enabled us to slide over the rocks. And having floated this river so many times, we knew where the trouble was. Heck, I didn’t even wear a life preserver.
That was then. Now, I would insist on a life jacket, a helmet, a whistle, a GPS, clearance by the Coast Guard, and a helicopter following our progress.
On the day I took my wife, the water was low, meaning an easy trip. I thought Carol would have nothing but mosquitoes and sunburn to worry about.
Wrong. It was bad from the start. The first minute Carol was in the water, she began looking for snakes. Then she glared at me with a “I heard the banjos from ‘Deliverance’” kind of look. This was going to be the longest three hours of my life.
We hadn’t gone far when she pointed to a boulder and said, “Are those sticks on top of that rock?” Mickey said, “Uh, no.” It was several water moccasins taking in the midday sun. I tried to calm her down by saying, “Snakes don’t like cold, fast-moving water, so we should be ok.” That got a terse one-word reply.
“Should??”
I had no time to respond because we were approaching House Rock, rapids named after a monstrous chunk of limestone flanking the left side of the river. To avoid any problems, you steered clear of the boulder. Mickey and I warned everyone by pointing and shouting, “Stay to the right!” Everyone did – but Carol. Down the left side she went, where she flipped and lost her tube. Quickly, she popped out of the water, gasped for air, then began crying, praying, and cussing me. I almost started laughing. Keep in mind I’m finally admitting this years after it happened – and I’m not sure I’m in the clear now.
Next up were two more challenging rapids, Tilt-a-Whirl and Double Trouble – a swift, sweeping curve that leads to a drop of a couple of feet. We began to hear the sound of moving water.
Carol sobbed, “Is this a big one?”
“It’s not too bad. But it is a bit harder than House Rock.”
She began wailing, “Waaaa! I just can’t! Waaaa! Can I just walk around them?”
That’s wife-speak for, “Will you walk with me?”
“N-O. I’m not walking around those rapids. Get in that river. You’re the only wimp out here.”
Yep, I said it just like that – to myself.
Of course, within minutes, we’re walking around Double Trouble, picking our way through rocks and mud to avoid turning an ankle, or stepping on a snake. After what seemed like an hour, we arrived below the rapids and met up with the rest of our group.
The remainder of the trip was uneventful, thank the Lord. We lagged behind everyone, and Carol continued to complain, whimper, and cuss me. Finally, we saw the covered bridge in the distance. The end was in sight.
Everyone stood up in the shallow water and walked out of the river. Except Carol, who stumbled to shore like Tom Hanks in the movie “Castaway.” Finally, her ordeal was over.
At that moment, my personal ordeal began. For the next few weeks, I endured my own version of Double Trouble. And no rapids were involved.
Joe Hobby is a standup comedian, a syndicated columnist, and a long-time writer for Jay Leno. He’s a member of Cullman Electric Cooperative and is very happy now that he can use Sprout from his little place on Smith Lake. Contact him at [email protected].
