To mark our two-year anniversary for living in Alberta, my boyfriend Chris and I headed out in our truck (the Albertan way) on an exploration of the province. And in just three nights and 1,700 kilometres later, I had crossed a whole lot of things off my bucket list:
In Drumheller we visited the Hoodoos, the badlands, a terrifying swaying suspension bridge, the world's largest dinosaur and the dinosaur museum. Then we were off to Banff for white water rafting, horseback riding, wading in the hot springs, hiking and exploring of the Rockies;. Finally we explored Calgary and reflected on my roots, where my parents lived as newlyweds and began their family.
The biggest accomplishment on that list was white water rafting. This is something that I've talked of doing since I learned how to pronounce the words.
I always thought of it as an exhilarating experience and being an Ontarian who spent most of her free time in lakes or rivers, I figured sailing over rapids would be a piece of cake.
However, this was also the time in my life when planes were large bird-like wonders and not giant machines just waiting to hurt me and bugs were our friends, not our enemies.
When Chris gave me the voucher for Christmas last year, I squealed with excitement until I read, “ride nature's roller coaster through the Rockies.” And that's when the panic set in.
If there's only one thing you need to know about me, it's that roller coasters and I do not see eye to eye. We would, if there were such a roller coaster that didn't go upside down, backwards, high or fast. Even going on the giant slide at the Bonnyville fair was a bit much for me.
But my mom reassured me there wouldn't be any waterfalls and that it wouldn't be scary at all. She was either misinformed or she lied.
So there I was this past Saturday, squished inside an oh-so-attractive wetsuit that just so happened to have a giant hole in the butt. I stood on the side of the riverbank flailing my arms in horror, begging strangers to take me back to the bus.
“I can't do it! I take it back! It's too much too soon!” I yelled, as the hands of strangers reached out to me, easing me inside the raft.
Our guide either really liked me or really hated me, because somehow I was given the nickname “The maiden of the mist,” which was no compliment. With this title, came the front seat in the rubber raft.
“It's the best spot,” he reassured me. “You don't even have to paddle!”
He must have seen my not-so-attractive figure in my wetsuit and just assumed I hadn't paddled before. Little did he know, I led canoe trips through northern Ontario. I now regretted lying about not knowing how to paddle in an attempt to not end up in the front of the raft.
So there I sat, with the giant hole in my wetsuit making me even more vulnerable, holding small ropes for dear life as we began cascading over a four-foot drop.
We were snatched up by the fast-moving current and pulled not-by-choice (at least not by my choice) into the waterfall. I began yelling, “No! It's too big! Paddle backwards!”
Either my boat mates couldn't see the waterfall or they didn't care. All I know for sure is that no one listened to me.
The front crashed down and dipped into the water and when the back of the raft followed, the ice-cold mountain water had no other place to go but directly into my face.
I now realized that being “maiden of the mist” actually meant being a sponge for everyone else on the raft. I was a little hysterical – bouncing around in the front of the raft, falling onto strangers.
It wasn't until after I planted my feet on safe, solid ground that I realized how sore and scratchy my throat was. Apparently I had yelled a bit.
Apparently I had been screaming the entire time – it was a cross between howling in terror and giggling in excitement.
But I'd say it was about 90 per cent terror.
