Over July 4th weekend, Dan and I hiked Norton Lakes near Ketchum, a hike that we have taken so many times that the doomsday anxieties and inhibitions that often accompany my outdoor excursions didn't even cross my mind. Turns out, I was too hasty to throw caution to the wind.
To get onto the Norton Lakes trail, you have to ford a creek at the trailhead. Typically, it is a fairly narrow, fairly calm creek with lots of large rocks to hop across. But because of the unusually abundant amount of snow runoff and precipitation this year, the narrow, calm creek more closely resembled a fast-flowing river complete with whitewater rapids right where Dan was insisting we cross.
"It's not a river!" Dan shouted at me, not out of anger, but because he had to talk loudly in order to be heard over the rushing water.
"It's the freakin' Mississippi!" was my rebuttal, as I stood in the creek, foamy water lapping at my shins, its current threatening to push me over at any moment.
By this time, people were starting to stare. For some reason, the trail was busy, and it appeared that no one else was bothered by the rambunctious state of this so-called "creek." In fact, parents were allowing their children to ford the creek, albeit a little further downstream, leading me to believe that there might be a calmer section somewhere.
Two thirty-something hikers watched Dan and me as we attempted to cross the creek. They made little effort to hide their mirth as they applied their sunscreen.
Another family watched us curiously as I stumbled across the slippery rocks, falling onto my husband who essentially ended up dragging me through the water as I hung onto his shoulders.
At the base of one of the mountains, we came to another wider-than-usual creek crossing.
I watched in envy as two hikers (coincidentally, the same couple Dan and I had entertained at the trailhead) easily walked across a fallen tree trunk, hopped to a separate stump, and bounded over a narrower part of the creek to the other side.
The fallen tree turned out to be too high for me, a sufferer of severe acrophobia. I found another log, wobblier than the first option, that crossed about three-quarters of the creek.
I began by lunging onto log, keeping one foot behind me on the dry land - kind of like that scene in Elf where Buddy (Will Ferrell) takes a department store escalator up in a low lunge position, scared to ride such a strange contraption due to his lack of experience with escalators at the North Pole.
Dan, who had followed the other two hikers swiftly across the creek, was looking on, slightly amused, from the other side.
I scooted across the log on one leg, dragging the other leg behind me through the water.
“Come on, ballerina,” Dan said, referring to my 14 years of classical ballet training (which obviously is not of any use whatsoever when fording a raging body of water.)
"I can’t be graceful when it’s a matter of life and death.”
“It’s not a matter of life and death. The creek's not deep enough.”
“Okay," I conceded, "a matter of life and embarrassment to death.”
At the end of the log, I splashed to the other side of the creek quite un-gracefully and fell into Dan's arms.
I came up with a personal definition of "fording a creek" that afternoon:
Part of Speech: Verb . . . totally
Definition: "Lurching over underwater rocks with enormous splashing, forcing Dan (the loving husband who has remained relatively dry to this point) to venture back into the water as I fall into him, and he drags me out of the creek the rest of the way."
“I don’t know why you crazy, outdoorsy types don’t die more often with your high-risk behavior.”
"This trail isn't that treacherous, Becky," said Dan.
At that moment, we encountered a group of kids (very loud kids who seemed very unconcerned about the danger of this dark and dusty trail) on their way to fish in one of the lakes.
“See, even those little kids can do it!” Dan said encouragingly.
Fortunately, I made it back to Boise alive. And on our return to the trailhead, we found a calmer and safer spot to cross further down the creek.
"Why didn't we cross here before?" I asked.
"You want to go back over and try it again?"
"No, thank you. One outdoor adventure per day is enough for me."
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