Early Water Adventures

The last blog left us in the sand and me about one year old. So I thought it would be nice to jump ahead to three years old and get into some cooling water. To accomplish this, I’ll share some memories of my first camping trip.

My father had left the Air Force, became a bricklayer and moved the family to Denver, Colorado. Dad loved the outdoors and what you love you usually share with those you love. At least that’s how I try to explain my father’s behavior. So he loaded up the car and drove us all up into the mountains, overlooking Denver.

That first day was like something from Norman Rockwell’s America and still a wonderful memory for me. We set up camp at a height with both thin air and a commanding view. We gathered firewood among the Aspen. Dad made a warming fire and we roasted hotdogs till our bellies were full.

Then came evening and when evening comes, so does bedtime for a three year old. Worse yet that meant it was bath time and my father would not allow our present circumstances to alter this procedure. From my perspective, this turned the Norman Rockwell picture into one done instead by Stephen King! My current situation presented no challenge to my father; he merely dropped me into the nearest mountain stream. At this altitude what fills the streams is snow run off—you know, melted ice. The temperature of the stream is between 33ºF and 38ºF, the same as the water in your ice cooler. Of course being after sunset made it all the colder. My response was typical of a three year old: a noisy fuss to say the least.

My father seemed befuddled that his child would complain about such a thing. He said I cried like a baby; I told him I was a baby. Again he seemed befuddled. These days when I go mountain camping I frequently use the same bathing techniques my father favored, and when I do I still make a fuss like a three year old.

My next youthful water adventure was one most of us experience, swimming lessons. These lessons were given by my father and were identical in technique as the ones he also gave the family dog. The dog was a rather burly King German Sheppard with the equally German name of Junkers. Swimming lessons were conducted during family camping and fishing trips. This provided the prerequisite body of water. The standard operational procedure started with a simple announcement given in a deep authoritarian, military voice. The statement was simple, “it’s swimming time.” With this, the dog would attempt to bolt. I said attempt.

Poor Junkers never escaped. Dad would simply snatch him up by his fur, spin and then, throw him in the water. If the dog couldn’t make good an escape, what chance did my brother and I have? None. Seems to me being taught something the same way as the family dog sort of establishes one’s place in the family hierarchy. Having no fur to grab did not present my dad any problems. My brother and I were only 5 and 4 years old so we were small enough that my father could easily grab and toss us like laundry bundles. So after announcing swimming time and dealing with a reluctant dog, father simply threw us out of the boat or off the shore or off the dock. I wouldn’t have minded so much except all the people ice-skating kept getting in the way.

Just kidding about the ice. Surprisingly enough these events did not give me an aversion to water, quite the opposite. My quest for adventure grew with me. These adventures would continue through my life, including more water adventures later in the form of silly or stupid stunts.

Once I went body surfing down a stair-step waterfall. My advice to you, don’t do it. I came out of the water bleeding from twelve different places. Yes, I stopped and counted. This was at Welch Spring, on the Current River in Southern Missouri.

As always, check out my website: www.theghosttownhunter.com

Next time I’ll take you to “The Middle of Nowhere.”