My brother and I were on the River with our uncle. We had been out about 10 days, paddling up the Licking River in a Grumman Canoe. It was August 1965. We didn't expect much rain. We were camped in the River bottoms that night. First, you could hear the pleasant light drops of rain on the canvas. Then it immediately became a violent downpour. It continued. The violence overwhelmed the canvas. Water was coming in. Our sleeping bags got wet. Water was now puddled on the floor. Miserable, our Uncle turned on a light and we got up. The rain got even harder. After about two hours, our Uncle told my older brother to go check the river. It was on the rise. The rain got harder and water was rushing around the tent from the hill above us. My Uncle got nervous. He told my brother to check the river again and make sure the canoe was secured. The river was much higher. Several hours had gone by and we were in the early morning hours. The canoe was pulling against its rope. The sound of flowing water filled our heads and the rain was still beating the canvas. Everything was now floating and moving in currents. My Uncle was now a stage beyond nervous, he was in panic. He was telling us (we were in our early teens) that the river would soon become a roaring torrent and wash us from the face of the earth. He finally decided that we better put on our wet clothes and move to higher ground. We were nothing but indignified wet rats. Nothing can make you feel lower than to be washed from your last modest refuge of security, wet, tired and scared. We waded through water, walked through mud, and stumbled up the hill until Uncle gave us the command to halt. There we waited out the night.
Oh, Jo, rain may be wonderful but in the right place, amount and at the right time.
