Yesterday, my friend Alison and I determined to cross "crick stompin'" off the bucket list.
Little did we know what an adventure we were in for.
Plunging into the frigid waters of Cool Creek, we began to slowly waddle along. I took nothing with me but my orange, waterproof watch. Before too long, an older lady upon the designated walking path on nearby land (which is rumored to be used for travel more than the creek bed) asked if the water was cold. I am pretty sure neither of us played that one cool. She then said "I know it's not clean!"
I looked into the water, and it was very, very clean. It was clear as could be, even in the parts that were waist deep. There was no scum, and it didn't smell bad unless you got too close to a dead fish. Clean by my standards.
As we meandered upstream, we found the creek winding us through a golf course. Thus, the competition ensued. Whoever retrieves more golf balls from the creek wins. Colored balls are obviously worth two points, and if they happen to sparkle that would, of course, also contribute an additional point to the end total.
I started out strong with four golf balls from near the same area. At this point, any dryness that may have before existed was discarded with distaste. By the time I was holding about seven of the slippery spheres, it became evident that a strategy update was in order. Tucking my tank top into my shorts, I began to store my little trophies in my shirt in the manner of a woman curiously pregnant in the most lumpy way imaginable. Alison soon adapted to this form of play.
When both of my flip-flops and one of Alison began prancing inconveniently and simultaneously downstream, we made an executive decision to turn around, even though we had not yet reached the half-way mark of our allotted adventure time slot. We retrieved our footwear, as well as a couple more golf balls each, when we saw a sight that I had never before found quite so frightening: a golfer. Evading him with great care, we came to our next obstacle: a residential pocket on the creek bank. In this state, the last species I wanted viewing me was the human beings. Sneaking ever so carefully, we climbed onto these land paths that we had heard of. "Less squeak, more sneak! Less squeak, more sneak!" became our flip-flopping motto of the return journey.
In all, we avoided the golfer, the residential pocket, a group of teenagers (the most notable of whom sported flannel and a sombrero), and a group from our former educational institution. Parking at picnic tables, it was the proverbial moment of truth. You may feel free to at this point make a drumrolling noise on a drum of otherwise.
Breakdown: 27 golf balls, one of which was yellow, for an additional point.
Breakdown: 32 golf balls, one of which was pink and shiny, for two additional points.
Yes friends, I am victorious, not only crossing creek stomping and spotting snakes off my list, but also winning the spontaneous and very serious competition.