Whitewater baby

I was feeling sorry for myself the other day because it occurred to me that pretty much everybody I know has gone ziplining except me. How could that be? I'm the adventuresome one. What had my life come to?
But then I remembered the whitewater rafting adventures I had in Colorado, specially the tandem ducky trips on the Dolores and San Juan rivers.
The ducky is a inflatable kayak.The tandem version is referred to as the divorce kayak by people in the know. I sat in the front and a friend commandeered the back. He did all the work and I helped steer with my little paddle. "Hard left!" he'd yell, and I'd plunge the paddle into the rapids, paddling fiercely with all that was within me. I knew when to stop, when the water calmed and we were out of danger. I did a pretty good job considering the only experience I had with paddles was with the ping pong variety.
One Saturday morning in May, as the sun peeked over the cliffs and warmed the chilly spring Colorado air, we gathered on the banks of the Dolores with friends. Some I knew and some I did not, and even the ones I knew I didn't know well. But the thing about Colorado is everybody is your friend, even the people you meet for the first time. No jealousy or suspicion or insecurities or judgments there. Nobody cares who you are or where you've been, what color you are, how much money you have or the clothes you wear. Those things make no difference. It's the Colorado creed.
A couple of oared rafts were unloaded from trailers on the water's edge along with our ducky, ice chests, boxes of food and supplies. An ancient Suburban barreled down the dirt road towards us, dust flying in the sunlight, obscuring our view of the driver. When the dust cleared, an earthy woman in a long-sleeved moisture-wicking shirt, shorts and battered Chacos stepped to the back door of the Suburban and hauled out three kids. They were all tow-headed and lively. Mom - she was obviously their mom, you could tell by how familiar she was with the routine of unloading them from the car - held a little girl on her right hip and a box of Cheerios under her left arm. She and the other two kids - a boy about 8 and a girl about 5 - grabbed tote bags and backpacks from the cargo area and headed to the water.
But here is what this recollection is really all about. Turns out, the mom was one of the raft guides. Before she climbed into the raft to take over the long heavy paddles, she slipped a swath of gingham cloth around her neck and tied it around her waist. She was familiar with that routine, too, and knew exactly where to drape and slip and fold and tie the cloth so it sat just right.
Then, she scooped up the littlest curly-headed girl toddling barefoot through the rocks and sand and slipped her into the cloth sling. When she was done, the girl was tightly strapped against her mother's chest, casually chewing on a carrot stick. She seemed unconcerned that she was about to ride some Class 3 and 4 whitewater rapids strapped to her rowing mom's chest. She had obviously been there before.
I, on the other hand, was quite nervous about the child not wearing a personal flotation device. But then again, she was semi-permanently attached to her mother, who was wearing a PFD. So it was what it was. It was as good as it gets.
I may not have gone zipping through trees on a wire, but I have rafted with a whitewater baby, baby. Pretty rare, I think.