The Snake River, Yellowstone National Park

Decent Essays

As the gentle Colorado sun peaked through the hotel blinds, serenely flooding the room, I dreamt that I was drowning. My hands are frantically grasping for a flipped raft, my body haphazardly tossing and twisting through the rushing current like a rag doll as my mind flashes with some last fleeting images of my terrified family a few feet away. And right before the water closes in, I catch a quick glimpse of the sign directly above me--Snake River, Yellowstone National Park.
Coming to a conclusion that whitewater rafting down the Snake River was one of the worst decisions my family has ever made, I sulked, and whined, and complained the whole walk down to the docks. My parents, the guides, and a girl about my age in our group, all told me, “don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” But their efforts were pointless, and I picked up on a conversation behind me, where someone was casually talking about the overwhelming chance the raft would flip over. Nevertheless, everyone apparently believed it was something I would look back on and maybe even write a personal narrative about.
Suddenly, in the middle of all that sulking and whining and complaining, I found myself in a wetsuit and oversized life jacket, glaring at the side of a roaring river, scowling at the wispy trees that seemed to be waving goodbye while they whispered about my tragic, inevitable death. I barely caught the tail-end of his speech as the guide droned on about, “--and that is how you lift someone out of the water using

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