A SQUATLO STORY: NUMBER SEVEN ("That sign's for tourists, c'mon!")

       When my lovely wife and I were single and carefree individuals with adult children out of our hair we used to take happy little day trips to scenic places within driving distance of our respective homes.  One such trip provided us with a story we are often asked to retell in front of the uninitiated.  Here goes...
        To anyone who hasn't seen Fall Creek Falls State Park in middle Tennessee, I highly recommend the trip.  There is a man-made lake full of hand-sized bluegill and shellcracker, bass, and catfish waiting for you, along with a couple of truly inspiring waterfalls.  One of them (Fall Creek Falls) is the highest waterfall east of the Mississippi River, measuring 250' from the top to the gorge.  It is spectacular, and the park service has erected a wonderful platform across the gorge from the falls that affords the visitor with a fantastic view of the falls.  One couldn't possibly ask for more in a scenic vista.  Or, at least, one shouldn't.
       Yours truly is rarely satisfied with public viewing platforms that any ol' regular tourist might settle for, and is constantly looking for that unique, one of a kind shot when he's out with his camera.  That sometimes leads to wonderful photography, even if said photographer ends up a little scratched, muddy, or bruised in the process.  This is one of those tales, only without the camera.
       The future Mrs. Squatlo and I took in the sights and sounds of the falls from across the gorge like any of the other assorted tourists standing on the overlook.  Yep, very nice.  Magnificent.  What a view.  Yadda yadda.  After about thirty seconds of pondering this wondrous scene my ADD took over and I suggested we walk around the canyon lip for a closer view of the falls from near the top where the stream flows over the edge of the rocks.  Seemed like an acceptable idea at the time, and off we went.
       At the end of the trail near the top of the falls the Park Service has erected a huge sign warning visitors to go no further.  Danger, achtung, do not do not, this means you, we're serious!
As I walked around the sign to continue toward the now roaring falls I heard the love of my life ask, "Should we go any further?  The sign says stop..." to which I replied over my shoulder as I walked into the brush, "That sign's for tourists! C'mon!  You won't believe this view!"
       Now, my wife is a brave woman.  There's nothing I can do that she can't do better (with the possible exception of writing her name in the snow with urine...) and for sure there's nothing I'll try that she won't.  If I'll do it, she'll do it too, only upside down with no hands... and in that particular reference I'm thinking back to our zipline canopy tour in Costa Rica, but I digress...
       So off through the underbrush we go, and within a few yards of the sign that warned us of imminent danger we came to Fall Creek.  Standing on the side of the creek we surveyed the challenge.  The creek was only ten inches deep, at the most, and less than twenty feet across to the other side.  To the right was a gently sloping hill and creek that went up into the mountains.  To our left was fifteen or twenty feet of creek that disappeared over the edge of the canyon.  The quintessential "infinity" pool.  A canyon gorge of roaring water.  The highest falls east of the Mississippi.
        "You won't believe the view from the other side of this creek!" I said.  My future Mrs. nodded in silent apprehension, because she was not looking at the other side of the creek or thinking about the glorious vista it might offer.  She was looking left to the edge of the rim where the water was gliding over the top... taking leaves and twigs on its surface on the longest thrill ride east of the Mississippi.  
        I didn't want to get my shoes wet, so I took them off, stuffed my socks into my shoes, and stepped out into the icy cold water of Fall Creek.  I made some comment about how cold mountain water could be, then took another step.  Now, I had crossed at this exact same place on at least two other occasions, so I knew exactly what to expect.  The current would be strong, but not overwhelming.  In fact, I had never seen the creek down this low, a mere trickle compared to it's usual flowrate.  What that SHOULD have told me was not that the current would be much easier to ford, but that the bottom of the creek would be a lot slimier.  You see, strong currents keep the smooth rock bottoms clean.  Slow currents allow for mossy slime buildup on those same rocks.  That fact came to me very quickly as both feet began to move involutarily down the creek toward the falls.
      I laughed and said something like, "Hey, I'm moving!" even though I wasn't walking... just sliding along, turning very slowly toward my partner like a figure revolving on a music box.  What happened next is a point of contention that always interrupts the retelling of this story.  My version has my wife reacting in hysterical laughter, almost manic in nature, as my feet flew out from under me and I landed flat on my ass in the water.  Her version explains that laughter is her auto-defense for tense situations and she was only doing what came natural to her as she watched her companion sliding backward on his butt toward the precipice of the highest waterfall east of some river he'd mentioned earlier when facts were being presented.
       All I can say for certain is that mountain water is ball-shrinking cold.  Seriously, ball-shrinking cold.  The water was hitting me in the lap, and the extra body surface gave it a lot more thrust than mere feet and ankles had offered, so now the pace of my slide began to increase precipitously.  At this point the humor of the situation began to elude me.  I glanced over my shoulder at the rapidly approaching edge of the falls and had one of the few moments of actual panic in my adult life.
       Unless someone grabbed my hand this would not end well.  My only hope for a helping hand was bent over in knee-slapping hysterics, tears of laughter now running down her cheeks.  I was apparently the funniest man alive.  For the moment.
       I said a few terse, choice words to explain my situation in a way that might elicit a bit of concern, and she seemed to respond by laughing less loudly, but her laughter might well have been muffled by the ever increasing sound of the highest waterfall I would ever back over.  All I could think was, "Shit!  She thinks I'm kidding!"
       At about this point in our narrative we come back into complete agreement.  She took my hand firmly and pulled me out of the water.  In reality, I was probably only in ball-shrinking cold water for a matter of seconds before she jumped into action and saved my ass.  But reality is a funny thing when you're sliding backward toward certain death...
       We use the tourist viewing platform now when we go to Fall Creek Falls.  I highly recommend it.