Come to think of it,
bad decisions often make the best stories.
In the bohemian days of the mid-1970s, when establishment folks sought disestablishment refuge from establishment storms, I traveled frequently to the backwoods of Maine.
There, in tiny towns north of Farmington, friends lived off the land and off the grid in modest manufactured homes, drafty old farmhouses, and lofty log homes with no electricity, telephones, or water.
Never mind handpumps for washing dishes or midnight runs to the outhouse. The highlight of that rudimentary lifestyle was a trek to the Sandy River for bathing. If it was good enough for the ancient Abenakis, it was good enough for modern-day hippies.
The Sandy River descends 1,700 feet over a rocky riverbed from its mouth near Mooselookmeguntic Lake to the Kennebec River, about 73 miles to the southeast. More rocks than sand, the scenic waterway is studded with boulders and hemmed with rocky shores.
“Let’s go swimming,” my friends suggested one spectacular summer day. A heavy downpour had scrubbed all clouds from the deep blue sky and freshened the river.
There was one rule, however, among the skinny-dipping hippies: “Stay away from the banks. You don’t want to get leeches.”
No, I didn’t, so I headed for the jacuzzi-like eddies in the middle of the stream.
Bad decision.
Round and round I went, becoming one with the brisk current until—oops—I cascaded into Class 2 rapids. Grabbing onto a boulder, I looked up. Surrounded by a lofty sky and towering pines were naked hippies running up and down the stony embankment.
“Hold on!” they advised.
What else was I going to do?
While trying to devise a rescue plan, two boys came floating by in inner tubes. Probably 13-years old, I suspect they had seized on the swollen waterway to enjoy watching the naked hippies as much as we enjoyed playing the part.
“Need some help, lady?”
I was a naked babe. In the woods. In a waterfall. In danger. Of course, I needed help.
Forming a bridge with their tubes and their arms, they hauled me ashore, where I turned to them in all my glory and thanked them profusely.
I suspect they thanked me.
And probably still do. Can’t you see it? A couple of balding retirees are sitting around a local bar, a granddaughter’s wedding, or maybe it’s a class reunion. Regaling themselves and their companions with stories of the good old days, one jabs the other in the ribs.
“Hey, man, remember saving the naked lady in the Sandy River?”
“Oh, yeah! Now there’s a good story.”
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