Keeping My Head Above the Water

In a recent conversation with my brother, we spoke about taking risks.

I am so determined to try things on my own and not let others stop me that whenever I do make a mistake or find myself in a dangerous or scary situation I’m hesitant to tell people. What if my friends and family see it as a sign that I can’t take care of myself?

My brother used my niece and nephew as an example for me to follow. He estimates that over the last decade at least one of his children has broken a bone every year. Would he prefer them not to break their bones? Absolutely! However, he doesn’t want them to stop taking risks and determining what they are capable of. He doesn’t want to thwart their senses of adventure. So his children breaking their bones because of their activities and adventures is preferred to them sitting at home on the couch not living their lives to fullest.

My brother explained that he has noticed that when I make a mistake or take unnecessary risks, I learn lessons. I keep my head about me, make smart follow-up decisions, and at the end of the day I make it home.

He would hate for me to stop living my life out of fear.

He also told me my crazy adventures tend to make for great stories and once he knows I’m safe, he gets a good laugh out of it. So he hopes I continue to tell him about them.

So here it goes.

This weekend I fell into an icy river while out for a hike.

I was visiting my parents and decided to go for a short 5-mile hike about an hour away. It was in a public forest in a small, unincorporated town.

A few miles into my hike, the trail ended abruptly at a swiftly flowing but small river. There was no bridge and the river was too wide to leap across. It was definitely shallow, and I could see the rocks below -- I would estimate it was knee deep; however, this was January.  There was no way I was going to wade across.

Not to be thwarted I started hiking along the embankment, searching for any sort of natural bridge (fallen trees, strategic rocks, thick ice) that could aid me across. The river widened and narrowed along the way, and sometimes debris caused natural dams with deeper water.

The hike was not easy and I often had to maneuver around tree trunks and slippery patches. Every once in awhile I would test some thick ice along the waters' edge only to immediately step back when I heard it crack.

I became overconfident in my adeptness along this snowy uneven ground.


Look at me! Amy, the Adventurer!

And then it happened.

I fell.

One minute I was on my feet and dry and the next I was thigh deep in freezing water. There is a shock to such cold that is impossible to describe.

The current was strong as chunks of broken ice and twigs thunked against me. I immediately lost my footing and fell backwards.

My one saving grace at this point was keeping my head out of the water. I was shoulder deep, cold, and raw.

I watched my hat float down the river. I imagine it’s on its way to Lake Michigan.

No time to dwell (I bought that hat that morning), I needed to move.

I stood up, made it to the shore and struggled with my wet clothes and heavy boots to climb out of the water. I kept shouting the word “shit.”  It was instinctive. Hopefully if someone else was in the woods on this cold, winter day they would realize I meant “help.”

Once I was safely on dry land, I kicked it into gear. I needed to keep moving. Don’t slow down.

I headed in the direction that I thought would take me to the road (falling in the river temporarily disoriented me), and tried not to dwell on the water sloshing in my boots. I checked to make sure all my pockets were zipped. I still had my car key (thank goodness!), my camera was in a pocket filled with water (spoiler alert – my camera never recovered), and my phone was wet but not soaked. The battery was almost zapped so I tucked it away (spoiler alert – I had to get a new phone). My Garmin watch had apparently shut off when I went in the water. I had no idea if would still work (it does).

This is when it began to snow (son of a...).

When I made it to the road, I decided if I saw anyone I’d flag them down and ask for a ride. But how would I explain what happened? How do you start that conversation?

This is when I stopped saying “shit” and started to repeat the phrase “I fell into the f-ing river.”  Except every time I said it I changed the emphasis:

I fell into the f-ng river.

I FELL into the f-ing river.

I fell into the F-ING river.

You get the idea.

I began the fastest walk I could muster back to my car. It was at least a mile and a half away. Naturally I never saw another soul and never had an opportunity to blurt out that I fell into the f-cking river.

Thankfully the wind was at my back. While I rapidly made my way along the country road, I began to realize how much my hands hurt. They were covered in dozens of micro-abrasions.  All these minuscule little cuts and scrapes that had the tiniest amount of blood. The scratches burned. I suspect it was from grabbing onto the clumps of frozen snow to get out of the water.

About a half-mile from my car, my legs stiffened. It was hard to bend my knees and my thighs ached.

Don’t stop. Keep moving. Don’t slow down.

My boots were concrete blocks.

Cleary, because I’m sharing this story, I made it back to my car, which is where I promptly dropped my car key and it skittered under my car. (Come on!) I had to crawl on the cold pavement to reach under the car, cursing the f-cking river, and snatched my key.

Once my car was on, I grabbed all my spare items of clothing: extra jacket and hat, one pair of ankle socks, one t-shirt, one pair of hiking boots. (Notice, I didn’t say pants.) I had some blankets in my car, so I set one on the ground for me to stand on as I struggled to remove my boots and socks. Unfortunately, my shoelaces had frozen into icy fists. I was a moment away from cutting them off, when they finally loosened.

I put on every spare, dry item I had and wrapped a blanket around my waist to drive home.

I did it. I survived. 


How was I going to explain this to my parents when I showed up on their doorstep in a blanket? I did the grown-up thing and said nothing.

It's just like my brother said, the most important thing is at the end of the day I make it home.

A hot shower and a nap were next on my list. The most therapeutic and healing shower and nap I've ever taken.

As the adrenaline wore off, my muscles shouted at me in rebellious fury. For the next several days my body felt like I had been hit by a truck.

Now that a week has gone by, it feels like a misadventure that was had by someone else.

Of course, my brother keeps bringing it up. Apparently, he uses me as an example to the Boy Scout troop he leads.