Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [83]
I’m ashamed to admit that, back when I camped a lot, part of my motivation was provided by boyfriends who were gung ho about it. As soon as I shifted into a pattern of dating men who laughed derisively at the idea of spending the night in the great outdoors, it all came to a halt. I was too chicken to go by myself and too depressed by the thought of the forced gaiety and intimacy I might encounter in a group excursion with people I had never met.
That’s why when a magazine asked me to write about an all-women’s white-water rafting trip in Utah, I had conflicting emotions. The part that proved thorniest was overcoming a fear I had been unable to shake since getting trapped for several hours in a stalled elevator during a lightning storm a month before. I realize that an elevator and a raft usually are listed in different categories under “modes of transportation,” but I was haunted by the memory of how I had heard the lightning and thunder before I got into the elevator that day. I kept revisiting the image of me perfectly safe moments before, but too distracted or stupid to say to myself, “Electrical storm. Electrical elevator. Burn some calories and take the stairs.” Even later, as I was being pulled from between elevator doors, which had been pried open with crowbars by uniformed firemen, I had already begun berating myself with “For Christ’s sake, woman—learn to think before you act.”
This voice was haunting me now. If ever an event seemed to have the potential for unforeseen consequences requiring critical calorie-burning thought before action, it was an all-women’s white-water rafting trip.
Yet somewhere else, deep inside of me, the idea of waking up in the morning, hearing a river, and looking up at pine trees rang an ancient but really clear bell. The photos posted online of the last version of this trip were calling to me like the Sirens (or their hetero-female equivalent, which in my case would be three long-haired indie rockers with sad, knowing eyes, stranded on a raft with their acoustic guitars singing carefully phrased, psychologically astute, semi-autobiographical songs).
“Where red rock canyon meets alpine forest,” said the text, describing the adventure that would unfold. It went on to describe “waterfalls … prehistoric Indian pictographs … slick rock grottos.” “Yes! All the things I love and miss,” my soul cried out, followed seconds later by the voice of Ashley, the horror-movie star with whom I was now sharing a head. Ashley was a likable, somewhat sensible girl who became increasingly hysterical as signs of danger started to add up. She was carefully scrutinizing the rest of the promotional copy and finding red flags everywhere: “ ‘It’s an investment in yourself. A chance to renew both body and soul,’ ” she read aloud. “You want to be trapped on a raft with people who talk like a commercial for feminine hygiene products? ‘Spectacular river canyons offer secluded beaches where your facilitators will share the ancient art of hatha yoga and the healing techniques of massage therapy. You’ll experience excitement and female bonding as you run the rapids with women guides who understand the nature of the journey,’ ” she continued.
By now, Ashley was obsessed with the list of pretentious buzzwords she thought meant trouble: “investment,” “renew,” “healing,” “guides,” and “journey” as pretentious buzzwords that meant trouble. She was also bothered by the presence of “facilitators” and by “massage therapy” as a mandatory activity.
“And then there’s the part where it says ‘female bonding,’ ” she said, clearing her throat and looking out of the corners of her eyes. “As though entire genders are destined to get along.”
“Well … come on! I love yoga!” I shot back. “And I have tons of female friends.”
“Merrill, I’m not talking about yoga. I’m not talking about friends. I’m talking about female bonding.” Ashley was well acquainted with my previous unhappy experience with this very thing since she and I had met for the first time on an all-girl trip to Italy right after high school, where we both watched