Boulder Creek Tubing; Not for the Weak

I'm not head over heels for the extreme sport of white water tubing; it was more of that in reverse. I was heels over head.

Boulder creek is possibly the highest, and fastest it's been in a long time. Up until a few weeks ago the creek turned rushed faucet of raging fury was closed to the public and it's faithful and unrelenting rubber, and once retired, torus'.

It's a perfect setting for a bank-side afternoon picnic. A troll would make a healthy living guarding a bridge for people to saunter across. And it's a great test for those willing to take on it's white water jaws.

This was, by no means, a 'lazy' river.

Were we overzealous? Maybe. Even cocky? To a point.

The creek stole my pride, ate my lunch and dared me to tell my mother what had just happened. It was cold, not cold hearted though, because you could tell it enjoyed the misery it was putting us through. It was rough, egging us to take on the next fall and swiftly removing that decision and dutifully turning it into an inevitable 'Here we go again' feeling.

I endured the struggle to stay causally abreast of my flotation device, which rarely, if at all, happened. I withstood the beating of undisturbed and, most of the time, ill place rocks on the bottom of the creek floor. And I couldn't help but have fun.

Boulder creek takes no prisoners; it's the thrill of the fight that keeps rushing the once innocent and untouched adrenaline-junkies back for more.

But in the end I left smiling and as I walk away the noise that is rushing water moving unscathed downhill doesn't seem so comforting. The once soothing resonance of the creek sounds more like, of all things, laughter.