When was the last time you jumped rope? Not at the gym, your body sleek with sweat, aiming for a strong core, or to burn calories, but just to have fun? The rope slaps asphalt, you struggle to keep time with the rhythm of the two people on either end, and there is this rise in your heart rate, yes, but also of this part of you that feels ten years old. I mean a happy ten year old.
Tonight I skipped rope in the boat house yard of the raft company where my man works. He called me away from the blank screen to drink beer with the crew. I had just sat down to write this blog post, only I'd already been staring at white page - no lines even to break the surface - for ten minutes with no clue as to what I'd write. It seemed an optimal time to find inspiration out in the world, outside my head.
The guides, all guys except one rookie female, had just finished a splash gear de-funking project and there were festive yellow and blue jackets strung on throw rope like pennant strands across the parking lot from tree to trailer. After the gear had been hung in the shed, the idea to jump with the freed rope inspired a few of the men to pick up the ends and spin it round and round.
We took turns jumping into the huge cycling loop, doubled, then tripled up until there were five adults inside the spinning rope. We were all laughing hard, focused on the rope as it blurred past. I feel bliss when I'm at play, and more so when I'm at play with adults. Fun only, don't be so serious!
The throw rope we used had already been demoted to clothes line status, but its original purpose was to provide a rescue tool in the case of swimmers at risk in a river setting. This dynamic rope, able to stretch and recoil, is stuffed into its bag until the rare occasion when it is needed. I say rare because ropes on the river can pose a greater risk that a help, so they are employed as a last ditch assist.
The last time I saw someone with a throw bag in hand was during our early June run on the nearby Gros Ventre, with Brad as guide, Kali, Sarah and me paddling, two other rafts and a safety kayaker in our party. The river's flow that day was 4,000 CFS (cubic feet/second, imagine each CFS as a basketball size portion of tumbling water), which means that this body of water sprawled and moved with increased speed. Sort of like the wallflower who has learned how to breakdance and finds his courage to windmill in the center of a loud, appreciative crowd.
We left our cars at the takeout, drove the cracked road to Slide Lake, unloaded and pumped up the rafts with a hand pump, slathered on sunscreen and then bundled ourselves into layers of neoprene, splash gear and dry suits in case we were dumped in the frigid snow melt swollen river, then buckled helmets and cinched down PFDs (personal flotation devices). I felt excitement and anxiety in the need to bounce and then to find a secluded bush so I could empty my bladder. The group buzzed from the thrill and the mild terror at how fast and furious the water moved below the bridge. We would have to enter from the calm lake and then paddle hard across the current to reach the right side, since there was a nasty hole on the left.
Our boat launched and made it beyond the bridge, then around a bend to the first set of rapids. We were second in line and paddled hard in unison to Brad's commands to "all forward," or "left back," or "keep going!" When the lead boat headed into and on top of a rock, one that easily sits ten feet above the surface when the volume is average, we all turned to gape. We ended up spun around after the next wave, ducking as we skimmed beneath the willows that normally crowd the shore, but made it safe to an eddy.
I held onto a clump of willows and Brad had his throw rope in hand in case the crew of the lead boat went into the drink and swam. Given the temperature of the water, the velocity of the flow, and the unknown obstacles - hidden or visible - to swim that day would have been a risky experience.
Everyone made it through that rapid and had a quick cheer before heading downstream. We made it through the next few miles, too, and within a half an hour were at the takeout, done with the run.
Nothing tastes quite so good after an effort like that as a cold beer and we passed around cans of cheap tall boys to share. I love how an adventure can scare you, but it also charges your being with this vitality, so you become 110% alive. I love to play like a kid, but that's another way I love to play, play, play.
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