I could tell within the first ten seconds that this was the most ludicrous scheme I’d thought of in a while. For one thing, the water was already freezing my feet. Secondly, Warm Springs Creek was barely contained by its banks. The stream had been raging a month ago, and despite expectations, it had yet to give up its violent tendencies and settle down for the summer. Thirdly, I had only a small inner tube and a paddle to help me float four miles down to the city of Anaconda. This would be no lazy tubing experience, cooler of alcoholic beverages in tow. This could be my death.
Still, I had to try. I sat back in the tube and was instantly seized by the raucous current and launched downstream. This far up the valley, the creek was choked by willows, which grew in dense thickets on both sides. They stretched their woody claws out towards me, and I immediately had to start flailing with the wooden paddle, aiming for the narrow opening in the middle that lay outside their grasp.
To my dismay, the paddle only served to spin me about. I was helpless to curb my momentum, which took me straight into the overhanging willow branches on the right side. The current passed beneath them without difficulty, but I was swatted most brutally by the protruding limbs.  I fought back with the paddle, and in the midst of this frantic melee, my sunglasses were torn from my head. Turning away from my foe, I grabbed at where they had splashed into the water. Miraculously my fingers found them. But the creek had been waiting for me to take my free hand away from the inner tube, and a wave generated by a submerged boulder flung me from my seat and into the water.
Now I was in for it. The tube was still close enough for me to snatch at it, and somehow my glasses had ended up back on my head, but the wooden paddle was swiftly bobbing its way downstream, and I feared it would soon be lost. I strongly considered surrendering my neighbor’s paddle to the river gods and striking for shore. A new paddle would be less expensive than my medical bills, should I decide to continue with this folly.
Ultimately, I realized that the current was so strong that reaching a cove on either riverbank would be nearly impossible without an oar to propel me there. My body was being quickly borne downstream towards more rapids, so I slipped back onto the tube to gain a modicum of protection. The paddle rode the choppy surface of the creek not ten feet in front of me. Cursing my predicament, I gritted my teeth and dipped my hands into the chilly water. The chase was on.
Paddling with both arms seemed to bring me no closer to my coveted prize. We were both at the mercy of the relentless current. When the paddle got temporarily caught in the tendrils of a greedy willow, I knew this might be my only chance. I careened past the object of my pursuit, snatched at a dead branch from the same tree and held on for dear life. I hoped the paddle was not stuck permanently in the branches, but realistically, I had only a few seconds to learn its fate one way or another. My fingers were slipping, and the current threatened to sweep my tube out from underneath me at any moment.
The willow lost its grip on the paddle at the same time as I lost my grip on the willow. Thankfully, a small amount of frantic splashing brought me close enough to seize the paddle once more. There was no time to breathe a sigh of relief, for the creek continued to rage down its constricted channel, tossing me about on my pitiable vessel. This was madness!  I stared downstream into the unceasing waves and thought hard about my chances of reaching Anaconda without a lifejacket. The puncturing of the inner tube seemed inevitable as well.
When I spied a patch of grassy lawn above the left bank, I went for it. My sunglasses fell from my head and disappeared for good, but I surged towards the shore and escaped the torrent of Warm Springs Creek at last. The landowner spied me dripping water along his driveway and smiled. “A bit strong, isn’t it?”  “Cold, too,” I replied, and made a graceless retreat back to my vehicle.
Three miles closer to down, I nervously considered re-entering the creek. But this stretch contained a fallen log that lay a few inches above the surface of the water, blocking off most of the creek. In rafting terminology, this was a “strainer” – an object that allowed water to sweep through, but which trapped boats and people. If I had come down this part of the stream, I don’t think I could have paddled away in time. The log would have decapitated or brained me.  Death again.
I still wanted a chance to redeem myself, so I finally drove right into Anaconda and put in near a public park where the creek was wider. The current was no less fierce, but now I had room to practice my paddling, and I learned how to maneuver away from the treacherous branches and sharp boulders along the water’s edge. Having gained just enough control to blunt the sharp edge of fear, I started to have fun, and for the first time I could spare a split second or two to gaze at the cedar waxwings. They flitted from tree to tree across the restless water with a coat of feathers as sleek as a weasel’s, looking for berries to pluck and devour.
I found an accessible beach at the far end of the park and spent a half-hour laid out on a patch of nearby grass, using the rubber tube as a pillow and letting the sunlight restore warmth to my chilled blood and skin. The test run had been successful. Now I thought I could risk a much longer journey, floating until I reached my bicycle, which I had stashed a mile away on the downstream side of town.
I returned to the creek, but before I could escape the city I found myself hurtling on my paltry watercraft towards an unmistakable strainer. A bridge straddled the banks of the stream, low enough so that the water passed only a foot below the steel girders. This was the one… the one that could kill me. First would come the concussion, and then I’d get pinned underneath the bridge. I could hear the newspaper editorials in my head, saying, Really, what did he expect was going to happen, going out in those conditions?
Escape routes along the steep banks of Warm Springs Creek were in short supply. But as luck would have it, a resident next to the bridge had mowed her lawn right up to the water’s edge, and I paddled furiously to reach it. I made it onto land before the current could suck me under the bridge, then crossed the road and plopped back into the creek for the final time. 
Now I was enthused with pleasure, singing pirate shanties, wielding my paddle like a trusted battleaxe and exulting at having defied death once again. Adrenaline from speed and the thrill of ever-present danger coursed through my veins, but eventually the euphoria became unable to mask the numbing cold that was sinking into my bones. This water contained too much snowmelt to be good for my health. I was never blessed with much in the way of fat reserves, and my body hungered for another break in a sunny field. Alas, the sheer sides of the streambed kept me confined to my turbulent course.
The creek was killing me, but slowly this time. My teeth began chattering uncontrollably, shaking my entire head until my vision became jittery as well. I looked ceaselessly for a way out, but there was not a single patch of slackwater to be found. No calm places, no coves … just endless rapids. As much as I loved riding the bucking bronco, enough was enough. My blood temperature was plummeting, and I began to worry I was passing the place where I’d stashed my bike.
To exit the creek, I realized that I needed one hand to hold the paddle, one hand to grab the tube, and one hand to grab a branch or anything I could use to slow myself down. That’s three hands. But then at last I found it: a grassy bank with a gravelly approach, and I flung myself towards it like a shipwrecked sailor. Shivering and dripping, I scrambled up into open country and saw with grateful eyes that I was exactly where I needed to be. My bicycle brought me back to my Jeep, and my Jeep brought me home to a warm shower.
That night I ate an entire roasted chicken and began to sneeze uncontrollably. I didn’t think it was possible to catch a cold in such a swift and obvious fashion, but that’s exactly what happened, thanks to a seriously compromised immune system. The day had been insane … and insanely fun.  Next time, however, I’ll ask my neighbor if I can borrow a paddle and a wetsuit.
 
Bryan is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and works as a naturalist at the Rancho Alegre Outdoor School in Santa Barbara, CA. You may reach him mid-journey at foolsby@hotmail.com.