Back in April, the wife and I met up with my cousin and her husband in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania, for a four-day getaway and some family bonding.
Now, why there is a town in Pennsylvania with the name Ohio in it, is a mystery to me. When asking a resident there, I was told it was a Native American word meaning white frothy water. I would like to suggest that an Ohioan with a bad case of hemorrhoids stopped in there for some Preparation H and a sitz bath for his Ohio piles.
Regardless of the name, Ohiopyle is a beautiful little town on the banks of the Youghiogheny River, another Native American word meaning stream flowing backwards. They sure were fixated on what the water was doing back then.
After a relaxing first evening in a rustic cabin, the four of us started our second day with a hike down to the Youghiogheny River where we immediately saw rafters gently floating by.
“Hey,” the wife said, “is anyone interested in a float trip down the river that is frothing backwards? I can call a rafting company and see if they have a boat available.”
Before we could answer, the wife had us booked on a raft to leave in 30 minutes.
“This will be great,” I said. “It’s a beautiful sunny 65-degree day. What better way for four 70-year-olds to view nature than on a relaxing float trip down the Yucky-gheny River?”
When assembled at the rafting place, our guide, Andy, said that we would need to put on wet suits as the water was still very cold.
Now, I am here to tell you that there is nothing more humiliating than trying to stuff 190 pounds of cheese curls and beer into an unforgiving rubber onesie. After 25 minutes of pushing and shoving body parts into the rubber corset, I finally got it zipped up. I was totally spent and looked like a lumpy, black, Johnsonville brat that had been left on the grill 15 minutes too long.
“Alright let’s load up,” an enthusiastic Andy said. “You guys look great, except for you.”
He took the wife’s helmet off and turned it around.
“Now you’ll be able to see where you’re going. Today we will be rafting down 7 1/2 miles of Class III rapids.” (Which turns out is one notch under tsunami.)
“Rapids?!” our group said in unison. “We thought this was a float trip.”
“Oh, we’ll be floating, sometimes on top of the water, sometimes under the water,” Andy said. “The important thing is to follow all of my commands to a ‘T’ and we’ll all survive just fine.”
My cousins, who have never rafted before began to hyperventilate.
“We can do this,” I said. “We need to represent for the 70-year-olds out there. We can tell our grandkids that we’re still vital, adventurous human beings.”
They agreed, and we all got on the raft. Within 10 minutes we hit our first set of Class III rapids. There was screaming, squealing, crying and possibly a little peeing, as we maneuvered through the 4-5 foot waves, throwing the raft into a nosedive and burying us in the water. After we popped back up, a head count was taken and we were all still onboard.
Six more times our timid crew braved a new set of rapids, seeing our lives pass before our eyes and praying to our heavenly maker to spare us from a frothy, backflowing watery death in the You’re-a-goner River.
“Nice job, team,” Andy said as we pulled up on shore. “Thanks for not dying on my watch. I really appreciate it. It wouldn’t look good on my resumé.”
It was an awesome, adrenaline-filled experience that we cousins won’t soon forget. And the best part of the whole trip … taking off that wet suit.
Raul Ascunce is a freelance columnist for the Sentinel-Tribune. He may be contacted at [email protected].
