The water running through our place is a creek. It’s wider in many places than most of the Rio Grande that separates Mexico and Texas, but it’s named as a creek.
Though mostly quite shallow, it’s usually deep enough to float a kayak. Through the years, we’ve put in upstream and kayaked back to our house dozens of times.
It’s a pleasant 3-hour float with a few rapids that are just enough to excite you and possibly make you spill your beer.
Our kayaks are the hard plastic, sit-on-top variety. You can stack 4 of them in the bed of a pickup, no problem.
On a hot summer day, as we were loading up the kayaks, neighbors came over with some useful information. They had just finished the float and thought we should know there was a dead cow in the creek.
“You can paddle around it, but it’s starting to swell up and it’s pretty nasty,” they warned.
I knew where it would be. About half an hour into the float, there’s a pasture with no fence along the creek. There is a spot where cows can angle their way down the 6-foot bank to the water, but the creek bank mostly serves as the edge of the pasture.
I wondered if the cow had gotten too close to the edge and fallen down the bank, but it seemed more likely it probably wandered out into the water and couldn’t get back. The creek is neither deep nor swift in that area, but its rocky bottom would be enough to confound a cow trying to maneuver in the water.
But good information, so thanks. And off we went.
Rollin’ on the riv… uh, creek
Sure enough, as we floated alongside the pasture, we spotted the cow. The creek narrows up a bit in this area, so we’d have to float within a few inches of the thing, but there was enough water to get by.
I was at the front of the group, so I would be the first to go through the cow zone. No problem, this was my creek and my kayak, and I had never fallen off it, ever.
Never say never.
I was right beside that swollen carcass when I capsized.
I was able to grab the kayak immediately, keeping it from getting away, but there I was, lying in the creek, completely submerged, bathing in - and sputtering out - dead cow water.
Everyone in the group behind me, including my wife, was laughing hysterically. They knew the only thing injured was my pride.
So what the heck just happened?
How could such a skilled floater like myself possibly fall out of a slow-moving kayak in a creek barely 18-inches deep? And right there at that dead, puffed-up nastiness!
I climbed back on my kayak, but with two hours still left in the float, there was plenty of time to wear my cow-soaked clothes and for the humiliation to fester.
The laughter from the rest of the group was relentless. One of the most miserable moments of my life was apparently making their year.
Finally back at the house I was able to get into the shower. I washed my body, I washed my hair. I washed my body again, I washed my hair again. Rinsed and repeated, over and over.
I used every drop of hot water available, then stood there longer as the water turned cold. When I finally stepped out of the shower, I threw the washcloth away, dried off and threw the towel away.
Let me tell you, friends. There ain’t enough soap and water in the state of Georgia to wash away certain sins. And being baptized in dead cow water is one of them.