(continued)
Sometime between the leap and when I landed hard in gravel-bed under two feet of water, it dawned on me that this was not going to be Up The Creek-ish.
The first sign of trouble was my sled. Not to blow your mind or anything, but plastic sleds bought at Toys-R-Us do NOT float. They don't come close. Unfortunates who have been whacked by the mob and dumped in the river with cement shoes float better than a plastic sled. My race was over before it began.
Or was it? My gloating buddies took to the river in their inflatables. Yes, they did float. But given the glacial pace of the current in the Menomonee River, they were due to arrive at the finish line approximately ... now. They weren't going anywhere.
So here we were, Up The Creek ... literally. Since we were already drenched with river water that smelled like a Holstein cow's ass and industrial metal, riding the bus back was out. We were forced to make a death march down river, through a city golf course, to a point where we could get out and walk home.
I cannot tell you how sublimely ridiculous my friends and I must have looked to the golfers at Hansen Park that day. I almost wish I could have been in their head when they caught the first glimpse of two dudes marooned in plastic rafts (and since it was '85, those rafts probably had a Smurf emblazoned on them), joined by yours truly walking down river with his snow sled. This was at the height of Just Say No, after having witnessed us, they probably had Nancy Reagan on speed dial.
Failing that, they called a golf marshall and let us know in no uncertain terms that the authorities would coming soon if we didn't haul ass out of their golf round. So now we had to Das Boot it to the Swan Boulevard bridge, about a half-mile away, in double-quick time. We had to do it via the river, as any entry on to the golf course itself was an invitation for law enforcement.
A river, by the way, that had the muddiest bottom I've ever had the misfortune of walking through with a plastic snow sled in my life. Honest to God, it was up to my chest at one point, every inch of it probably saturated in heavy metals and pesticides.
**** that, **** the river and **** my friends too, I was sick of this ****.
I finally risked certain misdemeanor hard time, and possibly, exposing myself to the first Darwin Award won by a living person if the tale of our stupidity got out, and exited stage left out of the river on the golf course. I dodged golf marshall trouble and waited for my friends at the bridge. Five-0 never came, of course, so my friends ended up enjoying a relaxing float down the Menomonee before we met up again.
We were still about 4 miles from home. I walked the bitter walk of Up The Creek, snow sled-division defeat through Wauwatosa that August day. Caked in river mud, smelling like the Loch Ness Monster's vagina, with sled in hand, it was a sorry site.
Somehow, my dad never found out about it until years later. Or at least, he acted like he didn't know.
To sum up. **** you, Up The Creek.
