Rolling Thunder
Johnny Jones, 2 May 2002
Vacations are important to our family. They become a real focal point for our year, a time we can point back to and say, "Do you remember when we..." and feel happy.
I spend time planning our vacations. In 1987 our destination was a family reunion for my family: four nights together in the mountains of North Carolina.
Since we drove there, we looked for things to do along the way. In a book Bill and Leann loaned us I found out about river rafting on the rapids of the Nantahala River just outside Cherokee, North Carolina. This was Bryan's essay about our experience there. He called it, "Rolling Thunder."
The raft dips as we rush forward to meet a whitecap. Water splashes up on the right side of the boat, drenching Amy. She screams.
"Water warm enough?" I inquire.
Since I know the water is 45o, she answers only with a grimace.
"Hard forward," Keith demands, glancing ahead of us with a look of concern.
We struggle with the oars as the six-seater rubber raft lumbers ahead. Then we see her in the water, hanging desperately onto a kayak.
In half a minute we're there. Keith yanks the girl out of the water and into our gray raft. She's shivering and crying. Keith says, "Are you hurt?"
Mom reassures her, "You're OK now. It's alright. You're fine."
White water rafting is fun. The super inflated, hard rafts we rented from Rolling Thunder Rafting Company control poorly, but don't tip. They can get stuck on rocks without deflating, and they require everyone to handle oars.
We decided to run only the class 1 and 2 rapids, with a class 3 rapid at the end. There are six classes of rapids, ranging from class 1, which is running water, to class 6, almost impossible.
With Keith's guiding hand we never tipped over, and we didn't even get stuck on the rocks that jutted out of the water, catching many rafts. Instead we helped other rafts get off rocks by ramming into them.
The highlight of the trip was at the end. We knew we were getting near the Class 3 rapid when we saw warning signs on wires overhead: "Class 3 Rapid; Only Experienced Rafters Should Attempt." Everyone got out of the rafts to look at the rapids and figure out the best way to run them. The worst thing would be to get turned sideways in the middle of the run.
When it was our turn, we zipped down the two consecutive five feet high waterfalls a little sideways, but with no real problems. I bumped up and down like I was on the Screaming Eagle, Amy screamed, and Mom fell forward into the floor of the raft. Dad and Keith remained anchored, positioning their feet to hold them tightly in.
Only fifty yards after the waterfall, our trip was over. My last words on my first white water rafting trip? "Can we do it again, Dad? Please??"
We did, years later, in Colorado. But it wasn't as exciting as our first time rafting, with rolling thunder.
