Yeah. We did that.
Min sent an email a couple of weeks ago in planning her trip to Denver with Rebecca: “Girls, let’s white water raft!” My response was, “Or! We could go to hot springs and get massages and hang out at the spa.” We volleyed back and forth between our ideas.
Her: White water raft!
Her: White water raft!
Me: Mimosas and hot stone massage!
Min is notoriously nervous about travel, but loves a great rush of completely non-controlled adrenaline — like rafting and climbing trees full of bee hives.
I, on the other hand, have no problem taking a prop plane into a tiny African town, but a weekend activity that requires a helmet and public display of lycra?
No thank you.
(More about that lycra later. )
Needless to say, Mini won and by the end of the day, we all agreed white water rafting Clear Creek was one of the most fun things we’d ever done. We screamed, giggled, yelled and talked over chattering teeth as we dipped and bobbed down the 6 mile trek. Our guide, Chelsea, was the perfect fit for our high strung, type A raft. Like the Aussie surfing turtles in Finding Nemo, she was so laid back and sweet — it was hard to think what we were doing was in the least bit dangerous, dude. With a head full of dreads, arms weighed down with dozens of bracelets and tanned arms and legs that showed she rarely left the river, she called commands as we paddled like mad.
It. Was. Awesome.
So fun, in fact, I’m now trying to talk my dad into a long float trip down the Grand Canyon. I love rafting for the same reasons I love fly fishing — it brings you to the most beautiful places you’d likely otherwise not see from that vantage point. The river was breathtaking. And I’m hooked.
So, in rare form I’ll admit Mini was right. This was such a good idea. Perhaps even better than a spa day.
* Our raft trip included 6 boats full of people, including a boy scout troop. I was the only one who didn’t plan on wearing more than a Speedo to go down the river. The yoga pants I brought wouldn’t work and I just didn’t think to bring shorts. So, there I stood on the side of the highway with 35 clothed folks wearing only my lap swim bathing suit and a pair of Chacos. It’s not like I’ve got some sort of ridiculously fit bravado at the moment where I didn’t care that my butt was the only one flapping in the breeze. Oh, I cared. But when life turns out to resemble a cliche fashion nightmare, what can you do? Throw back your shoulders, slap on a fake smile and pretend you MEANT to be the only one in a Speedo.
Yep. Meant to.
The fact Mini and Bec were willing to claim me during this public display of humility? Well. They are very good friends.