As far as tubing goes, I've never been the "leader of the pack".
I am simply the drunk passenger who packs duct tape and twisted tea, putting all of my faith into somebody else to get me and my tube from point A to point B. The Sandmonster is a sight to behold. My river co-pilot and I have actually passed out during the tube ride, getting sunstroke that is far too similar to a regular stroke (I think). I've consumed enough river water to kill a small child during a search and rescue operation (Jillian fell out of the tube and I was determined I needed to save her life in three feet of water). I've continuously lost all of my personal belongings (shoes, sunglasses, shorts, etc) and I've sadly done the first ever recorded almost-dribble shot (don't ask). You could almost say that as a group, we are tubing aficionados.
Yesterday was different.
I'm going to start by apologizing to Mitch, for calling him about a dozen times for directions so simple it hurts my head to think about how I could have possibly messed them up.
I was working yesterday, and in typical fashion I asked my mom to cover for me for a few hours while I went tubing with my sister and her boyfriend. She agreed, and off we went. "Let's just tube close to town," they said. "I know a way better spot," I said.
My first mistake was asking how to get to Weir bridge. The directions were impeccable and we got there easily, but upon our arrival I noticed this wasn't the bridge I wanted to be at, not at all. I've never seen this bridge before. It didn't take long to discover that the bridge I was actually looking for was Deer Creek. The second mistake was deciding to pursue the journey to Deer Creek instead of just tubing from Weir, but I've never tubed that route and the last thing we needed was a mystery river tour, and nobody knew how long it would take to get to Writing on Stone. So, another phone call for directions, and off we went for the second part of the journey.
"Just follow the road instead of turning into the park, and it eventually turns into gravel and takes you right to the bridge." Sounds simple enough, right? It would have been if we were on the right road to begin with. Knowing the 501 eventually turned into gravel, we figured that's what he meant, which was mistake number three. We were headed east and the Sweetgrass Hills were becoming farther and farther away, I knew we were on the wrong track but we kept going until it turned to gravel. We were nearly in Foremost when we decided we'd better turn around. Of course in these parts there is no cell service. So we drove and drove until I got a signal, and then finally it sunk in that my instincts were right all along and we should have taken the road I thought to take. We finally found the bridge! It took us two and a half hours to get to our 20 minute destination.
Obviously I didn't know my way to the rodeo grounds where we usually park the second vehicle and take off from. So we decided to cut the ride short due to wasted time being lost, and venture off from the park. We parked the truck, ready to unload the tubes (that had flown off the back of the truck numerous times, adding to our delay) and get going. Middleton grabbed the first tube and went to throw it in the grass to unload the rest... POP! I don't even know how this happens, but it was like someone had slashed it with a knife. Perhaps it was just a really sharp blade of grass.
Now we were down a tube. The day's events had led us to believe that with our luck we were going to end up stranded and dead in the hoodoos with no cell phones, food, or water. So I ended up going home. Yes, going home. After 3 hours and over half a tank of gas, I sent the two of them on their way. I went back to Deer Creek and parked the truck (I found it easily, this time) and headed for home. Of course, my fuel light had come on before I even left Writing on Stone. Maybe there is a god, because I made it back running on fumes. I ended up going back to work. No river, no beers, no fun.
Middleton was reluctant to go after all that, but peer pressure got the best of her. They made it down the river, and home alive. Boots will live to see his 23rd birthday. Which is today by the way, so if you see that guy, buy him a beer. Happy birthday Boots!
Note to self: Don't go tubing without the seasoned veterans.
Note to everyone else: Don't let me lead you on your tubing adventures.
I am simply the drunk passenger who packs duct tape and twisted tea, putting all of my faith into somebody else to get me and my tube from point A to point B. The Sandmonster is a sight to behold. My river co-pilot and I have actually passed out during the tube ride, getting sunstroke that is far too similar to a regular stroke (I think). I've consumed enough river water to kill a small child during a search and rescue operation (Jillian fell out of the tube and I was determined I needed to save her life in three feet of water). I've continuously lost all of my personal belongings (shoes, sunglasses, shorts, etc) and I've sadly done the first ever recorded almost-dribble shot (don't ask). You could almost say that as a group, we are tubing aficionados.
Yesterday was different.
I'm going to start by apologizing to Mitch, for calling him about a dozen times for directions so simple it hurts my head to think about how I could have possibly messed them up.
I was working yesterday, and in typical fashion I asked my mom to cover for me for a few hours while I went tubing with my sister and her boyfriend. She agreed, and off we went. "Let's just tube close to town," they said. "I know a way better spot," I said.
My first mistake was asking how to get to Weir bridge. The directions were impeccable and we got there easily, but upon our arrival I noticed this wasn't the bridge I wanted to be at, not at all. I've never seen this bridge before. It didn't take long to discover that the bridge I was actually looking for was Deer Creek. The second mistake was deciding to pursue the journey to Deer Creek instead of just tubing from Weir, but I've never tubed that route and the last thing we needed was a mystery river tour, and nobody knew how long it would take to get to Writing on Stone. So, another phone call for directions, and off we went for the second part of the journey.
"Just follow the road instead of turning into the park, and it eventually turns into gravel and takes you right to the bridge." Sounds simple enough, right? It would have been if we were on the right road to begin with. Knowing the 501 eventually turned into gravel, we figured that's what he meant, which was mistake number three. We were headed east and the Sweetgrass Hills were becoming farther and farther away, I knew we were on the wrong track but we kept going until it turned to gravel. We were nearly in Foremost when we decided we'd better turn around. Of course in these parts there is no cell service. So we drove and drove until I got a signal, and then finally it sunk in that my instincts were right all along and we should have taken the road I thought to take. We finally found the bridge! It took us two and a half hours to get to our 20 minute destination.
Obviously I didn't know my way to the rodeo grounds where we usually park the second vehicle and take off from. So we decided to cut the ride short due to wasted time being lost, and venture off from the park. We parked the truck, ready to unload the tubes (that had flown off the back of the truck numerous times, adding to our delay) and get going. Middleton grabbed the first tube and went to throw it in the grass to unload the rest... POP! I don't even know how this happens, but it was like someone had slashed it with a knife. Perhaps it was just a really sharp blade of grass.
Now we were down a tube. The day's events had led us to believe that with our luck we were going to end up stranded and dead in the hoodoos with no cell phones, food, or water. So I ended up going home. Yes, going home. After 3 hours and over half a tank of gas, I sent the two of them on their way. I went back to Deer Creek and parked the truck (I found it easily, this time) and headed for home. Of course, my fuel light had come on before I even left Writing on Stone. Maybe there is a god, because I made it back running on fumes. I ended up going back to work. No river, no beers, no fun.
Middleton was reluctant to go after all that, but peer pressure got the best of her. They made it down the river, and home alive. Boots will live to see his 23rd birthday. Which is today by the way, so if you see that guy, buy him a beer. Happy birthday Boots!
Note to self: Don't go tubing without the seasoned veterans.
Note to everyone else: Don't let me lead you on your tubing adventures.