For some reason, people naturally assume that I am smart. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I’ve got some tattoo on my forehead saying so. In what I guess is some unconscious attempt to squelch such rumors, I have what I call the “Dork Quota.” The Dork Quota means that every once in a while I have do something really stupid just to make sure that everyone knows I’m not as smart as they thought. Fulfilling the Dork Quota is usually accomplished by walking into glass doors and tripping up steps. The Dork Quota follows me like a plague.
My freshman year of college, I attended Faulkner University. Among other things, Faulkner is known for its horrendous waits in registration lines. My first time in the lines, I sensed what would be an eternal layover in between steps of the process. I decided to use my time wisely and be funny in order to cheer everyone up. I quickly made friends with the person in front of me, Karen Turner, who hailed from Fort Payne and was also a freshman. Together, armed with a couple of laughs, we survived our first registration day, and we actually enjoyed it. Over the course of the first year, we grew to be quite good friends. We joined the same social club and even roomed together in the spring.
During that year, I only met Karen’s family in person once. That was in the fall semester. She brought them to my door to introduce us. That spring when Karen and I were roommates, I fielded phone calls between them on a regular basis. All of the interactions I had with the Turners left me with the gnawing feeling that they didn’t like me. When I had the opportunity after my sophomore year to go home with Karen. I rejoiced in my new chance to better acquaint myself with her family. I was determined to give them a good impression.
Friday night we went to Karen’s sister’s graduation. Saturday morning we drove to Collinsville for Trade Day, a kind of outdoor flea market. When we returned to Fort Payne and Karen’s house, the Turners decided that we should all go down to the canyon. “Oh, the canyon is so much fun,” Karen told me. “It’s where my dad used to go when he played hooky from school.” I envisioned a quarry-type scene from “The Flinstones” with a bunch of rocks, a little lake, cold water, and no one else around. We changed into outdoor clothes and prepared to go.
Crossing the bridge over the canyon, I noticed three things. First of all, there was no little lake. There was a river, and it was immense. “Little River Canyon” was its name, and I found it highly inappropriate. Second of all, there weren’t just “some” rocks. There were tons of rocks—big slabs of them. Third, there were loads of people everywhere. This was hardly what I had pictured. I was completely wrong in my expectations.
We parked the cars and started down the trail to the canyon. When I say “trail,” I mean trail. Trees surrounded me. We hiked down this trail for what seemed like two hours. In actuality, it was only fifteen minutes at most. The trail gradually grew more winding and a lot steeper. I began to express my concern. I felt that, should anything happen, Karen’s family needed to know my insurance and last will and testament.
“I have Humana insurance, so I am required to go to a Humana hospital,” I began.
“The nearest one of those is in Atlanta,” Karen’s mother interrupted.
“Well, in that case,” I continued, “there’s a 1-800 number to call to let them know that. My insurance card is . . .” I felt my pockets. “My insurance card is back at the house.” I then told Karen that she could have my CDs and stuff. I also left instructions for my parents to be told that I loved them.
The trail became even more dangerous. Huge rocks surrounded the trail as did all types of trees. The trail stretched out in front of me, sloped down, and curved to the right. I had the sinking feeling that this was not a trail for beginners. I had the feeling that . . .that . . .my feet were beginning to slide!
My feet accelerated to what felt like 80 miles per hour, while the rest of me trailed far behind. I watched my feet slip and slide over the slick, enormous rocks. I attempted to clutch a passing twig, but I was moving too fast. There was nothing I could grab onto. I realized that I was in big trouble. I began to panic. “Lookout!” I howled.
Karen’s boyfriend, Shannon, was right in the curve of the trail. He turned his upper body around to see the commotion. About that time, my feet struck a rock and threw me into the air. I was flying face first, aimed precisely at Shannon. I blacked out before I collided with him and knocked him over. After that, my whole body began to roll down the trail, and I bashed my head against a rock. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but dirt in front of my eyes, no matter where I looked. Then Karen dove on top of me and stopped me from rolling any further. A couple of seconds later, I came to. I quickly told Karen to get off of me.
Karen’s family rushed to my side to check my vital statistics. I was bleeding from my left side and left ankle. Both of my knees and shoulders hurt. My head throbbed. Karen’s brother and sister went down to the water—which was finally about five yards away, and wet their towels. They brought the towels back and put them on my side and ankle. Karen’s mom propped me up against the bank in the curve of the trail. Everyone else went down to the canyon for a few minutes while Karen’s mom told me little facts about the canyon. I learned that it is the only river east of the Appalachian Mountains that is formed on a mountain and stays on a mountain. I also learned that the water level that year was very low, so more rocks in the river were exposed. They provided good places to get a tan.
When we trekked out of the canyon, Karen’s dad held my arm the whole way. I told him that the leverage was nice, and that if I had that going down it wouldn’t have been a problem. He asked me what went through my mind as I flew down the canyon. “A lot of words I’m glad I didn’t say, sir,” I replied.
At this point, Shannon decided to shed light on the whole trip. He said, “Well, Kim, you have to go back now.”
“And just why is that?” I questioned.
“So the mountain won’t conquer you,” he clarified. “So you can conquer the mountain.”
What I thought was “What kind of twisted logic is that?” What I said was “I don’t care if the mountain conquers me. I don’t ever want to go back.” Everyone laughed.
We arrived back at the Turners’ house and I was already stiff. I decided to take a shower. While the water heated up, I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw that I had dirt and grass skid marks on my shirt and shorts. I had blood oozing from my side, my knees, and my ankle. Then I noticed I had leaves in my hair. I began to laugh. “So much for a good impression,” I thought.
That night the reality of what happened sank in. I realized that if it hadn’t been for Shannon, I would have flown straight over the cliff into a tree, missing the curve entirely. I realized that if it hadn’t been for Karen, I would have kept rolling. Six feet from where she stopped me there was a six-foot drop off and nothing but the rocks. Sunday I listened as the Turners told my story to people at church. Finally, I understood that through my dorkiest move ever, I had gained their respect. I didn’t cry or curse when I fell down the mountain. I actually made a good impression.
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