Squirrel Thoughts

This post marks the triumphant return of Squirrel Thoughts from my harrowing adventure maneuvering the frigid throes of the Lochsa River. I’m alive, dear readers, ALIVE!

OK, so I didn’t die. But I came close — damn close. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Um, no.)

All right, I had a blast. Before we hit the river, I thought I would spend the entire day white-knuckling my paddle, fretting over whether we’d make it through each rapid without my smashing into a boulder and rendering my legs and/or skull useless. As we approached the put-in, I wanted to get on the water as soon as possible, just so we could (hopefully) get off it in the same fashion.

But once we tackled the first few rapids, I couldn’t wait to take on more of the raging river. I loved every minute of it, and my screams transformed from “AHHH, DEATH!” to “Whoo!!”

Don’t get me wrong — my life was at risk the entire time. Sometimes, the only thing saving me from the aforementioned leg/skull crushing was my tiny foot wedged under the rubber tube in the middle of the boat.

And our guide with 11 years of experience navigating the rapids for novices like me.

And my undaunted courage in the face of danger.

And my bulging (but not in a gross, manly way) muscles.

Whatever the reason, not even the most vicious wave could knock me out of that raft, which means I’m practically a professional now! (Legal disclaimer: Allison Squires is not, in fact, a whitewater rafting professional. Squirrel Thoughts Inc. is not responsible for any claims to the contrary and hereby disclaims liability for any and all injuries that may result from reliance on said claims.)

Yes, there were a few times when I couldn’t tell if I was in the boat or if the river had swallowed me whole, but I managed to cling to it nonetheless. (Had I fallen out and died, I doubt my report would be quite as enthusiastic.)

Though I cheated death, my rafting preparations were less than promising. First, I put my Neoprene booties on the wrong feet. But it wasn’t just for a few seconds because I wasn’t paying attention or something. Oh no — I actually put the right booty on my left foot, did the same with the left booty, zipped them up, tucked them under my wet suit, took a few steps, giggled to myself and thought, “These little booties are so funny!”, looked down, wondered, “Hmm, are these supposed to feel so funny?”, contemplated it for a few more seconds, then finally exclaimed, “Oh wow, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet!” The nervous laughter this elicited from my fellow rafters suggested they found this only mildly terrifying.

Then, while gearing up to return to the river after our lunch break, I somehow managed to put my helmet on backward. I didn’t realize this until someone told me about three rapids in, when it was too late to fix it. Granted, it was hard to tell the front from the back with these particular helmets. (Really, it was!) Still, I didn’t exactly look like a seasoned veteran skilled at escaping a roaring river’s icy clutches.

In fact, I looked a lot like this:

This photo has not been retouched. Unfortunately.

Seriously, would you willingly get into a raft on a river with rapids called “Grim Reaper,” etc., with someone who looks like that? Let’s take a quick poll:

That’s what I thought. But on this particular day, a few courageous souls did. Kudos to you guys, and thanks for the adventure.

(Note: Photos of us on the river are available here. Scroll down and click “06-04-2010 Lewis & Clark” on the left.)

I doubt the average person looks at me and thinks “whitewater adventurer.”

The evidence:

• I take my kitschy umbrella (it has Georges Seurat’s “La Grande Jatte” splashed across it!) with me if the sky bodes even a sprinkle of rain.
• I once shielded my body and screamed “AHHH, DEATH!” when I thought Zach made a risky left turn.
• I wear argyle from time to time.

Now, I enjoy the outdoors, but I would rather do so leisurely with a run along the river, a brisk day hike or an overnight camping trip, preferably at a designated campground with some form of rudimentary plumbing nearby.

I’ll be in the middle, holding on for dear life.

Why do I tell you all this?

Because tomorrow, I’m going on a rafting extravaganza on the Lochsa River in northern Idaho. And by “extravaganza,” I mean “heart attack-inducing death ride.”

I don’t exactly recall how my co-worker roped me into this. I do know that I’ve only been whitewater rafting once, and the rapids on the Lochsa are about 10 times bigger and the water moves about a gazillion times faster than on the measly stream I tackled then.

Simply put, I could die.

The Middle Fork of the Flathead I’ve rafted before has rapids ranging from classes I through III. A few of them get the heart pumping, but the majority are lame. The only person who fell out was an old lady. The fact that an old lady was on the trip in the first place is a testament to said lameness.

Conversely, our outfitter’s website says the Lochsa, a raging torrent of water no squirrel has dared ford before, has 37 Class III rapids, 25 Class IV rapids and two Class V rapids. There’s some downtime in between, but it equates to about 2.6 seconds.

Most of it looks like the scenes in this video, aptly titled “Lochsa Karnage 07.”

So, again: I could die. But I probably won’t. If (OK, when) I fall out — say on one of the rapids affectionately named Bloody Mary, Grim Reaper or Termination — I’m just going to point my legs downstream and trust the guide will save me.

And scream. I’ll probably do a lot of screaming.

As I write this, I’m lying in bed, approximately five minutes after popping a generic-brand Ambien. Which means I could fall asleep at any moment, something that until recently I’ve never been able to say.

Since the tender age of 9, I’ve wrestled with bouts of insomnia. When you’re 9 years old and your parents tell the doctor you can’t fall asleep until 3 a.m., there’s not a whole lot he can do. Because 9-year-olds don’t have insomnia. Kids that age can’t even handle a few rounds of Red Rover before passing out from exhaustion at 8 o’ clock, unless maybe they’re hopped up on Sour Patch Kids and Yoo-hoo.

A more common occurence than previously thought?

So, when my parents presented my pediatrician with this conundrum, he eyed them suspiciously, as if thinking, “Hmm. She’s perfectly healthy, and her parents don’t look like meth heads. Her father appears to be wearing an inordinate amount of Spandex, but that’s probably not cause for concern … Welp, I got nothin.'”

“Uhhh, have you tried giving her warm milk?” (FYI — warm milk is the lamest, most ineffective “cure” for insomnia ever. Anyone who says it’s worked for them is an amateur.)

Since then, I’ve tested every trick in the book to combat this sleeplessness: Benedryl, melatonin, slices of honey-smoked turkey, late-night TV (the good: Conan. The also good but I probably shouldn’t admit I enjoy watching them bad: infomercials), etc., etc. Some worked for a while, but lost their effectiveness after a few months. Others worked like a charm, but I was hardly able to hold my eyelids open the next day, rendering useless the eight hours of “a good night’s sleep.”

(EDITOR’S NOTE: It was about this time last night that I started writing a shit-ton of Ambien-induced gibberish. Seriously, I’m pretty sure I made a “joke” involving the juxtaposition of the words “yawny” and “Yanni,” to the effect of “Ambien makes me feel sleepy and relaxed, not in a yawny kind of way, but in a YANNI kind of way! HAHAHAHAHA” I also recall using the caps lock key with reckless abandon and finding it HILARIOUS.

However, I woke up this morning to discover this part of the draft had disappeared. FOREVER. So, the question now is: Did this actually happen? Or did I just imagine it happened while in the pre-slumber state of delirium brought on by prescription-strength sleep aids? We’ll never know for sure. What we do know is it’s a serious blow to humanity that this pristine prose was not preserved.)

Despite the fact it’s extremely habit-forming (which is why I held off so long on prescription sleep meds in the first place) and apparently induces hallucinations, Ambien is AWESOME. I take one before bed, conk out before I even have a chance to turn off the light, then feel alert and well-rested in the morning. I didn’t know it was possible to sleep like that!

Are the hallucinations cause for concern? Probably. Is it worth giving up the best sleep ever? Hell no! Go Ambien! Go LIFE! Whoo!!!