On Rope Swings, Part 1

Speaking of doing things that frighten you...

Every town has at least one of those little spots that only the locals know about. In fact, if your town only has one of those little spots, I'd recommend moving to a town with three or four.
These little spots are usually characterized by four things:

A) They're secluded, but accessible

B) They're either natural formations or abandoned buildings/mines

C) There's an element of danger or a rumor that someone was disfigured or killed in that area

D) There's usually some rite of passage involved. You almost always end up standing on some precipice, thinking "this is how all those stupid rednecks get killed," before doing it anyway or chickening out and waiting for your next chance to prove your mettle.

One of my favorite local spots, a 30-foot rope swing at whiskey town lake, hit all the marks.

Accessible? Yeah, but you had to earn it. It was right off highway 299, but you had to know where to turn off and you had to swim a quarter-mile to get to the thing.

Natural? It's rope tied to a tree.

Dangerous? Keep reading.

This rope swing consisted of a knotted rope tied about forty feet up into an evergreen tree that jutted out of a rocky slope that descended into whiskey town lake. To get to it, you had to swim across a hundred-yard expanse of water and climb a gut-wrenchingly steep rock slope with the rope in one hand and your other hand grasping at the ground in front of you to keep from sliding face first down the granite cheese grater on which you were standing.

As with many rope swings, you have to clear a certain amount of area before you can safely let go. In this case, you had to clear the rocky ascent and then about fifteen feet of shallow water to avoid breaking your legs and drowning in four feet of water because you can't stand up and your friends are laughing too hard to help you.

Also, be sure to enter feet first. Anyone who's ever belly-flopped into a pool knows how bad it hurts from four feet. Imagine the pain of belly-flopping from twenty. Check this kid out.


Once you were at the top, you were faced with one of those life-defining decisions. Staring down at your friends (who were egging you on) and a gaggle of girls (who were inevitably gauging your viability as a mate based solely on whether or not you jumped), you either thought, "Screw this, this is how all those rednecks get killed" and climbed back down, or you thought, "Screw this, this is how all those rednecks get killed", took one last look at the girls (who were judging you) and one last hateful look at the friends (who brought you to this point), and you jumped. I jumped.

Luckily, the fear of swinging back towards the rocks overcame my fear of letting go, and I managed to peel my fingers off the rope at the apex of my swing. It felt like a literal do or die situation. I did. And after what seemed like an eternity, I plunged feet-first into the lake.

The bottom line-I survived. Established my masculinity in the eyes of my peers, and duly impressed (maybe) the girls who were present.

Heck, I married one of them (although she denies that the rope swing had anything to do with it).