John Y’s Musings from the Middle: Whitewater Rafting w/Dad

I do have fond and fun memories of what developed into a rather unconventional father-son weekend.

We arrived at the and were told by the guide that the water was unusually placid and there would be no “white water rafting” but we could still navigate the river’s calm waters, fish, and have cookouts where we stopped to camp for the next four days. My father, who was once fairly described as having the attention span of a strobe light, looked horrified—like it had been announced we’d been kidnapped and wouldn’t see civilization again for a very long time—maybe ever. My attention span was slightly better. Like a strobe light running in slow motion. And although I doubt I looked horrified; I suspect I looked seriously concerned and maybe even a little ashen.

We spent the next 8-10 hours on a raft. That’s it. Just rafting and fishing unsuccessfully. That night we set up camp and had a fire and played backgammon. That’s right, backgammon. My father and I would play backgammon for a dollar a point. I was down by a lot when we stopped playing several hours later because the dice rolling kept others with us from going to sleep. Earlier that evening our tour guide pointed out on a cave what looked like some Indian drawings. I knew my mom would find this interesting but I could tell my dad had dialed into his primitive survivalist instincts and was concocting a plan to allow us to escape. There were some things he knew he couldn’t protect me against in the wild. But boredom wasn’t one of them. I sensed that a real white water adventure was about to begin—one that wasn’t on the tour guides itinerary.

The next morning after several more hours on the raft of unsuccessful fishing and gliding along the undisturbed waters while I continued to lose more of my allowance playing backgammon, I realized my father had convinced the tour guide to go a direction that would drop us off at the first small town were close to. Suddenly there were people and a small store. We were dropped off, said good-bye, and grabbed the duffel bags I had packed for us.

I had no idea where we were going only that the waters were getting more interesting and adrenaline was on the uptick. My father asked for a ride to the nearest airport. He paid a tall Native American man $50 to allow us to drive his old pick-up truck to the nearest airport where he would pick it up later that day. So, there we were—two city boys roughing it but learning to brave the harsh outdoor elements by persuading a strangers to loan us his pick-up truck so we could get to the airport. The truck had a single 8 track tape: Seargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club’s Band. I had always liked “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” but got to listen to the entire 8 track during our drive and realized how much I really liked the entire album. Even “A Day in the Life.”

We arrived at a tiny airport with few flights and none looking to arrive in destinations more appealing than where we already were—except one. We flew to Las Vegas. As we walked into the hotel lobby in Vegas, I think it was fair to say we were the only ones checking in with duffel bags. Because I’d only packed outdoor clothing for our rafting trip—and most father-son activities in Las Vegas were geared more for indoors—we each had to buy new clothes that night. Which was fun. And we had room service where I discovered Matza Ball Soup. Something that wouldn’t have happened had we continued White Water rafting. And to this day I still order Matza Ball soup whenever I have the chance.

We stayed for a couple of days and I not only got even in backgammon, but came out a little ahead. And most important there was the father-son bonding, city style. And the ancient and important ritual tradition of father passing on important life survival skills to the son. I learned well how to improvise, adapt and think out of the box….and am rarely bored in life. Even without having to go to Vegas. And then we boarded a 747 and headed back home to Kentucky from our rugged and largely improvised—and unforgettable— white water adventure.