Fine. We’ll get our shit together, load up the dusty Honda and drive to East Missoula. Shove the tubes in the water, wade in, scream bit, and jump none-too-gracefully into the tubes, butt-first. Stop laughing.
Drift super-slowly past the teenage river rats, hillbillies and tramps, slinging back beer and standing around aimlessly for hours in bikini tops and board shorts so lowww…I avert my eyes and paddle with my hands to get out of the eddies and into the deep green current.
Slide under the bridge. Roll gently around the river’s curve. Legs and arms floating lazily on the surface of the water. Call out across the water, grab onto one another’s shoulders, arms, toes, yelling and cursing and splashing in joy.
Forget the troubles of the past three months. Never mind the troubles of the next three. In less than a week I’ll get sick, and it will last until this moment, typing blog post after blog post on my couch with a splitting head and aching ears. Fuck all that. We’re on the river; we’re in the river. It’s a late summer afternoon in Montana and life is good.