“C’mon, I’ll drive you down there, and then let’s see if we can’t put something on those cuts” she said. She motioned me to an old ’69 Ford Country Squire station wagon, parked a bit off the road and near the edge of the gorge. “I was just out here enjoying the scenery myself when I saw you having some trouble down there.”I piled into her car and we raced down the road, stopping now and then so I could get out and look for the raft. Finally, about a mile down, I saw it, overturned, caught in a jumble of branches on our side of the river.“You wouldn’t have a rope, would you?” I asked. “Of course, honey. I was a Girl Scout, you know, and I am ALWAYS prepared,” she laughed. Sure enough, she took me around to the back of the station wagon, and after rummaging through a few things, produced a coil of thick rope. I scrambled down the embankment, my chest and shoulders burning now in pain, managed to grab and tie the raft, and began my ascent. I suff
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