The Adventures of Ramblin Rose: The Missing Olympic Water Sport

There are rowing, kayaking, diving and swimming competitions at the Olympics, but what's missing is the type of water sports the Madison Valley (famous for the Madison River and fly fishing) has. For example, how about: "Rowing A Raft To Properly Position A Fisherman While Not Getting Hung Up On A Rock Or Swept Downstream Too Fast." Then there are the recreational floaters. Their competition is "How To Float With Your Dog And Ice Chest Full Of Beer While Holding Hands With Your Girlfriend."

But for the kids at the Diamond J, the ultimate water sport that should be included in the Olympics is "Innertubing On A Mountain Creek"...a sport we developed to its fullest potential.

As with many things that are done over time, our summer gang of siblings and guest kids, developed special rituals for the annual innertubing adventures. Getting ready was an art unto itself.

First we had to dig out the innertubes from the winter storage. Then they were carefully checked for leaks and the correct air pressure. Too full meant getting hung up on rocks, not full enough meant bruises on our bums. After that, we changed our normal summer shorts and bare feet for long sleeve shirts, jeans and sneakers. This was our armor for protecting different body parts when coming into contact with rocks that would leave us gashed and bloody. Our sneakers were for walking in and out of the creek. Between ice cold water and lots of sharp rocks, walking barefoot in the creek was excruciating.

With innertubes under our arms, we approached the creek. Standing on a bridge we would silently throw a floating object into the water. In our mind's eye, we followed its path all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. After that kid's version of a prayer, we would take the first-time innertubers to the initiation place. At a certain bend in the creek, hidden from all adults' eyes, was a particularly deep and fast rapid. It dropped down over a line of rocks and created a whirlpool. The whole effect, in our imaginations, was a waterfall the size of the Yellowstone Falls. Without an innertube, the initiate waded into the creek above the "Falls" and then floated down the creek on her back, arms stretched out to the side. Usually, we all followed behind. On some level we were surrendering to the spirit of the water.

Getting ready and initiations took up most of the day. Innertubing itself only took a few minutes. After floating down the rest of the creek on our innertubes, then hiking back up to the beginning we'd start all over again. This continued until we were too cold and blue to continue...about 20 minutes.

Then one year...

One year, we made a last minute decision to float down past our usual take-out spot at the first bridge and continue on down to the second bridge. This would effectively lengthen our float time from 2 minutes to 5.

I was in the lead and doing nicely until the last bend before the second bridge. Right past the bend, and too late for me to get out of the way, was a tree that had fallen into the creek and broken at the fastest part of the current. I paddled like mad to get to the bank, but was swept toward the broken trunk anyway. My last vision before being sucked underneath the log was a kid on the bridge who was fishing and waving happily to us.

Trapped underneath, I instinctively wrapped my arms around the log. My tube went out from under me and continued down the creek. After several thousand long years...maybe 6 seconds or so...of trying to get out from under the log by going against the current, I wondered why my life wasn't flashing in front of my eyes. I deducted I must not be about to die, so my brain started working again. I reasoned that if my innertube could float under the log, so could I. With relief, I let go. I moved a tiny bit and then stopped. My shirt had entangled with a snag. That was when I panicked. Suspended under water, with the log above me and the current rushing around me disorienting my senses, I began ripping at my shirt with all the strength that an 8 year could muster. Luckily it was enough. With one last heart-rending tear my shirt came free and I floated out from underneath the log.

Standing up on shaky legs, I looked around, surprised to still be on this side of life. My brother stood nearby, evidently having tried to help me the whole time. On the bridge was the same kid still waving. I thought it strange that he had been waving for hours, which is what it seemed like underneath the log.

Later, when I told my mom about the mishap she was totally nonreactive to the news. Years later she told me that one of her child psychology courses had told her that nonresponsiveness was the best response, but at the time I wondered if I was in the Twilight Zone. After all, I had brushed up against the Big D himself, and no one thought it was all that big of a deal, not the kid waving on the bridge and not my mom digging in her flower garden.

Which brings me to this conclusion: kayaking, diving, swimming, water polo...these are mere frivolous pasttimes for the sissy, albeit athletically-gifted city kids.

Surviving childhood in Montana, is the true missing Olympic sport.

Till further adventures,
Ramblin' Rose