My mother's good opinion of me is shot.

My mom and sister came to town this weekend, which meant I completely neglected my schoolwork and ate a lot... good thing I also walked a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean a lot.

On Saturday, we had a couple hours before dinnertime, so I suggested that we go for a walk and a dip in Barton Creek. This is what I had in mind:

I went to his wonderful swimming hole on Labour Day this fall, and I wanted to bring them there. It was a short, thirty minute hike along a pretty gentle ridge down into the creek bed.

Naturally, this didn't go according to plan. First of all, we parked at a different trail head (easier to find) and I figured, hey, I got this. I can navigate a trail, suckers. I've been hiking since I was a munchkin. And, believe it or not, I actually have a decent sense of direction. 

Our hike began with a descent 300 feet straight down into the creekbed, complete with the sun beating down. I love a good incline and I love to hike, so I wasn't worried. My mother and sister are in good shape, so it wasn't the physical stress of the hike that pissed them off.... it was the fact that I casually said it would be about a half mile to the creek and that... well it wasn't a half mile.

Once we got to the creek bed, I started moving upstream, remembering that we had hiked upstream for about ten minutes once we got to the bottom last the time I had come here. Problem was, this trail head was farther upstream than the swimming hole I had in mind. Long story short, we hiked for about an hour and a half down a roughly marked trail, clambering over rocks and stumps, my mother growling at me every ten minutes that "it had better be soon" and me frantically insisting that it had to be just around the corner and I didn't remember it taking so long.

At about five o'clock we admitted defeat and trekked back downstream. When we ran across a swimming hole - not the lovely, clean, clear, secluded one I know - I suggested a swim, to cool off.

So this hole was frequented by a bunch of frat and sorority kids drinking copious amounts of beer and smoking lots and lots of pot. My mother, to her credit, gracefully perched on a rock and didn't lecture me, but my little sisters eyes were like saucers. I squirmed as I floated around in the water - which even smelled like beer, gross - feeling like I had dragged my family to a frat party and my good reputation with them through the mud.

We made a quick escape, and there was an awkward silence as we headed back towards the ascent. I'm sure my mother was calculating the cost of sending me to college to - apparently - learn how to drink, throw a football while standing knee deep in water and smoke grass. I could see her running through the names she's heard me bring up and decide who sounded like a pothead. I imagined how she was going to end every phone call from now on: "Be careful, don't smoke too much pot. And don't drink so much beer that you get a beer belly. Oh and don't drink and drive. And limit yourself to wearing one fluorescent color at a time, for the love of all that is holy."

It was like she had seen me in a quintessential party school habitat. Which, to be honest, is so not my crowd. My idea of a super-exciting Friday night is to sleep more than five hours.

Weakly, I tried to say, "That's really not a typical crowd at this creek..."
"No, Bethie, I feel like that's a very typical crowd."

We surveyed the steep incline and I said, with false - and at this point, lackluster - bravado, "It's not too bad, maybe a twenty minute climb."

My mother turned to my sister and said, scathingly, "Don't listen to her, Sarah. She lies."



PS: My Mama really loves me. And she doesn't actually think I'm a crazy party animal... I think.