One of my best friends just returned from a whitewater rafting trip on the American River.
Well, she called it “rafting.”
Her version of this adventure sport involved a case of cheap beer and a lazy float down the Lower American River—a stretch of water that’s occasionally mild enough to snooze on. When I heard that she’d spent more time cracking cans of PBR than actually paddling, I couldn’t help but laugh a little. My own experience on that same river had left me with some of the largest bruises of my life. And I loved every second of it.