Tree House.

My family does not camp. Lots of spiders and mosquitoes, plenty of grime, no available kitchen facilities, memories of sopping-wet tents in the middle of a rainstorm...my sisters and I could give plenty of reasons why camping has not been a favored pastime in our family.

Instead, we rent cabins. And these aren’t the rustic cabins you find in the backwoods; they are spotless, air-conditioned cabins with all the necessary amenities—comfortable beds, microwave, great view of the river— to keep us city kids content.

(DISCLAIMER: I actually do like camping. I went last summer in southern Alberta with Monique, and we had a great time. I just don’t like camping down here in the South simply because humidity gives me terrible migraines. Horrible excuse, I know. But what can you do.)

This cabin, dubbed the Tree House, really does resemble a tree house. It stands on stilts and is made entirely of wood. You have to walk up 25 steps to get to the deck, and the first thing you see once you get there are three water hickory tree trunks sticking right out of the deck. The next thing you’ll notice is that the river is rushing right beneath the house and that it is crystal clear. I can see the dark green moss and little jumping fish from up here on the deck.

When we first walked onto this deck, my parents, sisters, and I also gawked at the view.

“Gorgeous,” Mom said.

What made it even more breathtaking was when a bald eagle dipped down across the water. I’m not making this up. We were looking out across the river when Em and I heard Mom gasp. At that moment, a bald eagle flew down across the center of the river and landed in a nearby tree. Mom said that the cabin owners must have planned it for our benefit. I was inclined to agree; the eagle’s timing couldn’t have been better.

The cabin itself is spotless and has a spacious loft where my sisters and I will sleep, but nothing compares to that deck and its view. Already I’ve stared out at it, romanticizing about sitting in a wicker chair as the sun goes down, watching the river drift by, and reading my latest Joyce Carol Oates novel, all while drinking a sumptuous glass of Chardonnay.

All of this could move from dream to reality in the next three days, except that—even after six months of being “legal”—I still feel awkward drinking any form of alcohol around my parents, and I’m pretty sure that the feeling is mutual.

We all threw our swimsuits on and ran to the water. The first step in was bitterly cold and the current was moving fast, but I quickly adjusted to the temperature change. The river bottom was covered in slick big rocks that were separated by thin red cracks.

To walk against the current, I used the skills I learned in HPER: Swimming; put all effort and might into walking, and swivel your body around to keep from toppling over. It worked for a while, and my mom and I ended up farther upstream looking at the thick green moss on the edge of the river.

Meanwhile, a couple of canoers on the side of the river weren’t keeping track of their canoe. Mom and I watched as it slowly began to head down toward the center of the stream. I started “running”—more like frantically splashing and flailing my arms around—toward the canoe in an attempt to save it.

I made it halfway through when I slipped. By then, the canoe’s owner was rushing out to grab it, shouting “oh no! Shit!” I landed on my bottom in the river, slicing up the side of my hand and almost having a Janet Jackson-like wardrobe malfunction in my bikini. I braced myself as I slammed against another rock in the water.

The guy could get his own canoe, I decided. And he did.

“Thanks for trying to help!” he called as he grabbed the rope from the front of his canoe. My heroic moment of the day hadn’t exactly panned out. Even Rachel and Emily were downstream, laughing at me. Admittedly, it hadn’t been the smoothest save on my part.

Mom said that we should probably just float back down to our cabin. I stood up awkwardly, made sure that my hand wasn’t bleeding too bad, and— after checking to make sure my swimsuit was alright this time—let the current slide me and my water shoes across the rocks.

At the risk of sounding like I’ve lived in Northwest Iowa for the last thirty-eight months, I found that sliding across the slippery rocks in the river was a lot like walking on ice without skates. You have to watch your step, but if you crouch down and try to remain still, the current will take you downstream.

We’ll probably do more swimming and deck-gazing tonight and tomorrow morning. But, once 10:00 AM rolls around, we’re catching a bus that will take us to the start of our 12-mile kayaking trek. It’s no 20-mile trip like we had two years ago, but I’m willing to settle with this. I’m sure my slightly cut-up hand will thank me for it.