The angry foam rushing by was as loud as ten semi trucks rolling along the highway. The White Salmon River was a river full of hatred seemed to feed on my ever growing fear of drowning. My family was in the great and beautiful state of Oregon and about to risk our lives by going white water rafting.

We started this beyond petrifying experience by squeezing into wetsuits and going over what and what not to do if you ended up falling out of the flimsy yellow raft and hit your head on a rock. One major rule was, under no circumstances were you to touch the bottom of the river unless you wanted to sink down into the rock bed that turned to quicksand at the lightest touch.

As we began our journey down this crafty river, it seemed our raft was looking for ways to throw me into the clutches of the bone chilling ten degree water which rolled straight off the back of a nearby mountain. Slowly, I began to realize that the river would have to do a lot more than rock me back and forth to get me out of the raft. I was soon being rocked to sleep! I wouldn't be tired for long though.

At one point in the river made a sharp bend that even a one person kayak couldn't get through. We had two choices, we could jump off a twenty foot cliff into the rocky water below, or crawl along jagged rocks so sharp they could cut through just about anything. Me, not feeling too adventurous, opted out of the cliff jumping, and went for what I believed to be a safe choice. The woman walking in front of me slipped quite a few times, almost pulling me in with her when she finally did fall. But this was not the most dangerous part of my rafting experience.

Farther along the river, there was an optional 15 foot waterfall you could go over. My entire family decided to try it. It took a while to convince me though. I had good reason to be afraid. You were expected to keep one hand, the one holding your paddle, outside the raft, which I just could not do, which resulted in my mom's teeth almost being knocked out. Now, I should explain how we were seated in the raft. My dad, my brother, and a bag of sand named Bob, were all in the front row, making the front end too heavy. My mom and I were in the next row, my sister behind us, and the guide behind her. When we went over the waterfall, we were under way too long. When we finally surfaced, I had thought I broke my arm because I was holding on a rope on the back of my seat and had completely flipped over. My sister and the guide had both disappeared, and we had no clue where either were. It was a moment of pure chaos. I had no idea where I was due to the pain in my arm. Eventually everything straightened out, we found my sister, and my arm was not broken. But I will never forget the day I went white water rafting.