A Tale of Three Ladies and Old Man River

Maybe I was doomed from the beginning.

The weekend of June 24-26 was supposed to be fairly routine. Actually, it was supposed to be a bit more relaxing than usual. Having retired a couple weeks earlier from my second career as a college journalism professor, I was looking forward to focusing on Menifee 24/7 assignments without the distraction of grading papers.

Kristen, my wife of 17 years and my partner in owning and operating Menifee 24/7, was scheduled to be in Northern California, making her fourth ride down the American River on a whitewater rafting trip. She loves adventures like that; I don't. But, as usual, she had scheduled the trip as a "Ladies Only: No Sissies Allowed" trip.

Eight women in a rubber raft, bouncing through the rapids south of Lake Tahoe, showing their bravado while acting like -- well, women. Yeah, she had the right idea. When her brief attempts at organizing a couples trip fell through, she stuck to the winning formula of an all-female excursion.

Which was fine with me.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the outdoors. It just wasn't a big part of my childhood. On the rare occasions my family went camping, it was in a borrowed camper. Tents? You've got to be kidding. And when I became a father and tried taking my son fishing, I ended up paying big bucks at the Big Bear trout farm to keep him happy.

I grew up thinking of myself as a bookworm, a nerd. Neither was I mechanically inclined or particularly athletic. Yes, I went on to work as a sports writer for nearly 40 years, but only because writing about sports was a lot easier them playing them.

When I was in first grade, the teacher took us outside to play kickball. When I kicked the ball, they told me to run around the circle. I ran in a circle, all right -- one that was about 10 feet in circumference, right around home plate. My teacher gave me the dreaded 3 in the PE category on my report card and told my parents I needed to get out more.

In high school, I tried tennis. I had taken lessons and wasn't too bad at it. But I never made the varsity team, and the most memorable experience of my JV year was taking a shot to my "lower region" that had me seeing stars. In my 20s, I went out with a friend once for my first attempt at golf on an 18-hole course. I came back bragging about shooting 75 -- until my partner told everyone it got dark and we had to quit after nine holes.

So you see, then, how I believed everything was working out OK heading into Kristen's rafting trip -- until one of the women canceled at the last minute. That, along with some other late cancellations, reduced the group to three women. Kristen got that look in her eye, as if she were challenging my manhood in telling me I should go.

My take on it: It was a no-win situation. If I did well on the trip, people would tell me "Of course you did. You went with a bunch of girls." If I did something stupid like falling out of the raft, I would have a boatload of women laughing at me.

Nevertheless, off we went that Friday -- me, Kristen, her sister Teri and Xiomara Hall, owner of Tropical BBQ in Temecula. Xiomara, born in Puerto Rico, likes to be called Z. I believe that's because after spending a couple days listening to her, you feel like you've been read the entire Encyclopedia, all the way to the last volume.

The trip up Interstate 5 was fairly uneventful, unless you're really into fashion trends or stories about who's cheating on whom. I tried to change the subject to the ghost towns we were approaching on Highway 49 -- one of my favorite subjects -- but there was little interest elsewhere in the vehicle. I kept myself busy by checking out all the bells and whistles in Z's van, which is wrapped with a giant ad about her BBQ business. She says little kids come running for ice cream when they see her brightly colored van pull up.

Kristen had called ahead to tell the owner of the rafting company that we now had three women and one man in the group. He said he would set up a four-person tent with cots for them and a pup tent (no cot) for me. Fine, I thought. I would get some peace and quiet that night before hitting the river the next morning.

No such luck. The women took one look at the set-up and told me I was staying in the big tent with them. Yeah, a rather uncomfortable situation. Maybe I would've smiled at the thought in my college days. But here I am, 61 years old, married, and trying not to trip over bras on my way to my sleeping bag.

The next morning they packed us into a van and drove us up the hill to our departure point on the Middle Fork of the American River. Outfitted with a life jacket, wearing a helmet with a GoPro attached and armed with a paddle, I looked like something from the Island of Misfit Toys. I was clearly the old man of the group and one of only two males in the raft.

Actually, that first day was a lot of fun. Our guide was Christian, a big Costa Rican with a great sense of humor and the strength and skill needed to steer the raft through the rapids, which he knew like the back of his hand. All we had to do was paddle when instructed, sitting on the side of the raft and sitting down inside only for the real dangerous parts. I quickly noticed I was usually the only one hanging onto the safety rope on the outside of the raft, even during the fairly calm parts. But I considered the possible embarrassment to be second to my personal safety, so I didn't give it another thought.

We all made it down the river without falling out of the raft and with no injuries. That night, after a healthy dinner, we accepted one of the guide's invitations to hang out at a local tavern. Suffice to say, the atmosphere fit the rustic surroundings. I don't drink, so I passed the time watching the guides who would hold our lives in their hands the next day get more than slightly inebriated.

Sunday morning we boarded a bus for the ride to our drop-off point in the south fork of the American River, our last ride of the trip. The day before, we had spent nearly eight hours on the river, taking on some pretty rough rapids. This day was only about a two-hour trip and was billed as the "family friendly" tour. No problem, I figured.

This time, our guide was a female. Go figure; I was surrounded by them. We had eight people in the raft and only one other male. He and his wife took the front positions, with his wife seated in front of me. Seated on the left side of the raft in the middle, I confidently began to paddle my way through the "easy" ride.

Actually, the rapids weren't that bad. It's just that we had to work harder. Our guide admitted she wasn't as strong as her male counterparts and would need help paddling and steering the raft along the way. Okie dokie. Again armed with my GoPro helmet, I listened to the same type of instructions I had heard the day before: "Forward three times. Backward two times. Lean in."

The beauty of the surroundings and exhilarating rush of the water around us had me thinking maybe I should've had a better attitude about this trip all along. After all, I had only one other male who could show me up, and he was in his 20s. I had age as an excuse.

Soon we approached the final rapid, aptly nicknamed Trouble Maker. I could see why. In contrast to the other rapids on the south fork, this one appeared much rougher and required several turns past rather sizeable boulders. I listened for instructions and tried to paddle as best I could. About 50 yards past the rapids, I could see our exit point. Almost time to celebrate.

Suddenly, we were caught in a strong rush of water sending us around a corner. I heard nothing from the guide and tried to paddle as best I could. Little did I know, Kristen was quickly moving from the edge of the raft to a seated position of safety. She told me later that she knew to do that from previous trips. Thanks for sharing, babe.

I looked up just in time to see us heading straight for a rock wall. Before I had time to react, we hit the boulder head-on. From my rather precarious position on the side of the raft, I was thrown forward, into the back of the woman in front of me. I heard a loud crunch as the vertebrae in my neck compressed like an accordion.

Next, I was thrown backward as if out of a slingshot, just as a rush of water pushed the boat to the left. I was hanging onto nothing but my paddle. Bad idea.

I went flying backwards, into the water. I immediately had two thoughts: One, I was going to die. Two, if I was going to die, I would at least go down fighting. I reached out for the rope on the side of the raft and hung on for dear life. The others weren't able to pull me back into the raft at first, because they were still trying to get us through the rapids. Meanwhile, I was smashed against boulders just under the surface and getting ready to count broken bones.

Finally, the other male in the raft hauled me back in inside and I tried to collect myself. All I knew at that point was that I hurt everywhere it's possible to hurt. The others weren't sure whether to laugh or cry. Seconds later, I stumbled out of the raft at the exit point.

The next day, Z posted a video on Facebook showing the roaring rapids of Trouble Maker with the comment, "Here's Trouble Maker, where we lost Doug," followed by a rather irritating giggle. Kristen sticks her phone in my face and plays that video over and over, adding a giggle of her own. I massage my bruised ego (and other parts) and sigh. And the GoPro? Its battery went dead before the fall, which would've at least made for a great viral video.

So here I sit today, after a visit to ER and and a full body scan, with two broken ribs and badly bruised pride. The lone man on the trip -- the stronger species, the protector of the fair maidens -- is feeling every bit the part of the 61-year-old grandfather who should've known better.

Kristen tells me, "You know you had fun and you're going again next year." I say give me another pain killer and leave the old man alone.

Doug Spoon is editor of Menifee 24/7. He and his wife Kristen have owned and operate the hyperlocal news website since 2013.