"They're not generating, so we can paddle up the river," my wife said. "If they start generating, we'll float straight down into the dock."
Made sense to me. We had awakened with no plan other than to fish and enjoy the ease of the Little Red River. One of our annual post-graduation traditions is to leave town for just a day or two, and borrowing a friend's cabin on the Little Red provided a perfect atmosphere to unwind.
Let me repeat: We had no plan. That was the best part of it. If we felt like fishing, we did. If we felt like relaxing with a book on the big porch, we did. If we felt like canoeing, well, we'd give it a shot.
Early that morning, I'd been wading waist-deep with a fly rod near Swinging Bridge, catching nothing. But the sound of running water and the rhythmic pull of the fishing line made an entrancing backdrop to a beautiful day. Vapor crawled along the cold river, with sunlit mist creating a golden border between sky and water. My mind wandered.
I thought of those days when not-organized activities were prevalent. Those days when disappearing after breakfast and resurfacing only for meals was the norm. Why don't we let our kids do that anymore? Maybe danger is more at the ready now. Maybe we're just more aware of what can go wrong. Or maybe our world shrank so much that monitoring every child movement eases our own anxiety while simultaneously increasing theirs.
My old neighborhood park came back to me while standing in that river. My friends and I spent hours there daily--fishing in the creek, playing basketball on the smooth court, swimming in its simple pool. Back then, we had no plan. We simply enjoyed what the day brought. Yes, we found trouble from time to time. But a little trouble is often the best teacher. Simple kid mistakes turned themselves into consequences which turned into lessons and became valued experiences to draw from later in life.
I found myself easing a canoe and two kayaks into the river. My wife and I had our two daughters in the canoe with us and my sons manned the kayaks. I noted the waterline on shore so we could tell if the generators picked up and we had to make a hasty retreat.
We paddled up through the shallows, the boys casting into boulder pools along the way. We glided on almost still water and greeted fishermen in boats and on the bank. About a mile upriver, we came across some rapids. Maybe not rapids, but some shallow water moving fast over rocks. An old man smiled from his fishing boat and said, "Better get paddling. That's gonna be a workout." We dug in.
About halfway through the tiny rapids, we ran out of steam and pulled to the shore to portage. Making it to the other side, we floated once again. Another mile upriver, we noticed the current picking up. The generating had begun.
My wife's plan worked really well. We turned downriver and let the current carry us in an easy slide through the most beautiful parts of the Little Red. We paddled lightly and enjoyed the respite until we hit the tiny rapids again. Only this time, they weren't tiny. The faster-moving current had made it downright treacherous, and my wife insisted we portage again.
We pulled to the shoreline and I glanced downriver as the boys navigated their kayaks through the increasingly rough waters. They made it easily. More importantly, it looked like fun. I let my wife and two daughters out of the canoe and pushed off from shore.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm riding the rapids."
"That's not smart. That's not a kayak you're driving there."
Sounded like a challenge to me. I pointed to a small gravel bar down the shore about 20 yards. "I'll meet you there."
"Not smart," my wife repeated.
I shoved off. My daughter Kate was already at the gravel bar waiting for me. I passed through the rapids with ease, bouncing along a few rocks and picking up speed quickly. A lot of speed. Then more.
Kate watched with her hands on her hips as I passed her by. The current was swifter than I thought and I spun the canoe and started paddling upstream. The river was having none of it, and I let go, floating downstream for, I don't know, about a half-mile. I could see my wife and daughters in the distance. My wife was mouthing something that, thankfully, I couldn't hear.
They had to crawl through thorns, woods, and ankle-deep mud to get to the spot I beached the canoe. My wife tried to go around a steep bank and fell into the freezing water, going fully under. I didn't have to guess what she was mouthing that time.
I met them halfway on land and we trudged to the canoe. We hopped in, shoved off, and made it easily to the dock. My wife shivered, which made me shiver.
"What was your plan once you hit those rapids?"
"Didn't really have one," I admitted.
I waited for the torrent. She nodded silently and said, "Sometimes, that's just the best way to go."
The rest of the day was spent sitting dockside, grilling burgers and trout, and enjoying the not-organized day. My mind flashed to the neighborhood park once more.
Unplanned days with their disorganized activities often produce the best results, the best experiences, the best lessons. It's not that we should toy with danger regularly; it's that stepping away from the pattern of life and allowing what-ifs to unfold allows for exploration and learning. It allows us to bring order into lives on our own terms.
Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle.