Where are Ravens When You Need Them?

If you have checked my blog recently and wondered where I've been, I have been busy finishing up the end of the school year and preparing for my trip to Uganda. I leave in just two weeks, so you may not see much activity here until I return.

Since many of you seemed to enjoy my May 13th story, I thought I would share another (humorous) Boundary Waters tale. Enjoy!

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?
by Sharlyn Guthre

“Would someone tell me how I ended up on this ledge?” I wondered aloud.

“You climbed.” Ordinarily Dan was a likable teenager, but at that moment, had there not been so many witnesses, I would have smacked him. The ledge we were sharing jutted out forty feet above the lake where the rest of the youth group and the other chaperones sat staring up at us from their canoes. One look over the ledge, and I headed back the way we came.

“The only way off is to jump,” my companion said matter-of-factly. “I’ll go first.” Again I quelled a violent outburst, but I did manage a death grip on his arm.

“No! Not yet, I mean…just let me figure this out.” He was right about the path we had taken to the top. We had climbed hand-over-hand, pulling ourselves up and over rocks. I’d broken two fingernails coming up. I could easily break my neck attempting to go down.

I tried to think of someone to blame for my predicament, and settled on my adventuresome, risk-taking husband, who was responsible for dragging me along on this trip in the first place. Concerning this latest adventure John had merely said, as compellingly as the serpent himself, “I dare you.” He had also pointed out that Dan, Gilbert, and I were the last remaining holdouts, and Dan was already making his way to the top. That left me in the same category as Gilbert, a constant shirker of responsibility, feigner of injuries, and genuine pain in the posterior region. If that weren’t enough, my entire family had already successfully leaped from the cliff.

“Hold up, Dan!” I had called out, oblivious to the shocked expressions exchanged by the others.

It can’t be that bad. Who cares that I’m the oldest female in the group? Besides, I’ll make my sons and my husband proud. Everyone will respect me, and news of my strength and courage will spread throughout the church -maybe even the city.

Such grandiose thoughts had fueled my ascent. Now, with Dan’s arm turning blue beneath my fingers, I considered the alternatives.

Jumping is definitely out of the question. Climbing back down is impossible. Maybe I can convince the others to leave me here and pray, like Elijah, for the ravens to feed me.

My musings caused me to loosen my grip just enough that Dan wriggled away. “See ya at the bottom, Mrs. Guthrie. Good luck.” And with that, Dan ran and leapt off the cliff. I couldn’t bear to watch, but several seconds later I heard a splash, followed by cheers and applause from below.

I had never been so alone. I searched the sky for ravens and, seeing none, edged closer to the ledge.

“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”

So this is the respect I get…twenty ungrateful teens heckling me to leap to my death like a jilted lover on a New York skyscraper. I’ll show them. They’ll be sorry when their little wilderness vacation is cut short and they have to figure out how to haul my body back to civilization. Guess I’ll end up in the papers after all, if only in the obituaries.

I sucked in my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped off the ledge…down…down…down. When will I reach the bottom? Down…down…down…better take another breath. Down…down…down…I’m coming, Lord Jesus!

Splat! I felt as though I’d been spanked –hard! Silence closed in and it felt like my lungs were held in a vise as I rose to the surface. I came up gasping, and immediately sank back under the chilly water. This time, several hands grabbed and pulled me up and into a canoe.

“You did it!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Way to go, Mrs. Guthrie.”

“Wait till everyone hears about this.”

“My mom would never do what you just did.”

I felt exhilarated, proud, and thankful all at the same time.

“See, aren’t you glad you did it?” My husband asked, embracing me.

“I guess so. It was pretty impressive how long it took to reach the water. I actually had time to think! I broke two fingernails, though, and my back end is a little sore.”

“You’ll get over it,” he said, with not one bit of sympathy –and I did.

Later, however, in the privacy of our tent I dropped my wet shorts, revealing a bruise the size of Texas. John gasped, then quickly tried to suppress a grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I dare you.”

Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Yvonne at My Back Door. Stop in and find links to more great fiction.

What Was I Thinking?

This story is more truth than fiction, even the ending, as I just may be joining my husband and the youth group for this trip once again this summer -sigh!

What Was I Thinking?
by Sharlyn Guthrie

I still don’t know why I said “yes” when he popped the big question. No, I’m not talking about a marriage proposal. The question my husband asked went something like this, “I finally talked the youth pastor into taking the youth to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area this summer. Isn’t that great? He wants us to chaperone. You’ll go along, won’t you?”

I was raised in a hotel loving, all-girl family. I had never been in a motor boat, much less a canoe. Still, my sense of adventure was stirred. When my teenage son blurted, “YOU’RE going to the Boundary Waters?!” something in his tone challenged me.

My husband was like a child waiting for Christmas. He counted the weeks and then the days. He dragged me to stores I had never shopped in before to purchase items I didn’t know existed –collapsible dinnerware, green vinyl rain ponchos and camouflage hats with netting that tied over your face. I laughed, informing him that I intended to maintain my stylish reputation. He laughed back –an evil cackle, really. I should have been very scared.

We began packing. “I’m having a little trouble over here,” I informed him. My pack was bulging, while another sizable pile of necessities waited to be included.

My husband quickly pinpointed the problem. “You packed too many clothes. You only need one set to stay dry and one to get wet.”

“For a whole week?” Doubts were mounting, but the next item to go was my make-up. “You’re kidding me!” He wasn’t.

Thirty one teens and chaperones launched fifteen canoes into Farm Lake, following prayer and a few instructions. “Don’t stand up or shift your weight suddenly. Remember the phrase ‘up a creek without a paddle?’ It can happen here. Tents don’t float.” Halfway across the lake those instructions were demonstrated with much more clarity than any flight attendant’s oxygen mask routine.

The occupants of two canoes playfully lunged at each other as they passed. One canoe flipped, depositing two teens, their packs, and tent into bone-chilling water. Ignoring the shrieks of bobbers in life-vests, the guides grabbed their packs instead. But the tent had already sunk. The canoe was righted and repacked, though one paddle had drifted away unnoticed amidst the commotion.




At camp two cold, wet boys solemnly spread their wet belongings on tree branches, then huddled near the fire. Although they were sheepish in their request for tent space it was soon granted. Three now had to squeeze into tents designed for two.

“Let’s go for a walk,” my exultant husband called, grabbing a shovel.

“Okay,” I responded, skipping ahead of him. “This is fun. How far are we going?”

“How about over here? It’s off the path for privacy’s sake, but not too far away in case of bears.”

I hesitated. “Just what are we talking about doing over here?”

“We’re digging the latrine.”

Speechless, I just stood there watching him dig that hole. My husband ignored me, but a sinister grin played at the corners of his mouth.

Meanwhile, the contents of a bag labeled “beef stroganoff” were dumped into boiling lake water. The resulting substance convinced most of us to skip supper and retreat to our tents early. It was a good thing, too. The stroganoff moved swiftly through those who ate it, resulting in many trips to the now totally disgusting latrine.

We awoke to rain. Grudgingly I donned the ugly green poncho, casting sideways glances at my gleeful husband. On day two of drizzle I became openly hostile. “What were you thinking? What was I thinking?” His smirk remained intact.


The sun broke through just before going down on that second day, creating a spectacular sunset. My husband raised his arm, attempting an embrace. “You stink!” I snapped, and reality hit. We hadn’t bathed for three days, yet we had paddled hard, sweating under ponchos. Using a tarp my husband fashioned a shower, then poured cold lake water over me as I yelped and hollered. Then I returned the favor. It was a high price to pay for cleanliness.

Mosquitoes as large as hummingbirds converged on us at dusk. Out came the funky hat my husband had selected for the occasion.

I wish I could say that things improved after that. They didn’t. Joyfully I returned to the land of warm showers and flush toilets.

Yesterday my husband asked, “Are you going back to the Boundary Waters with us next summer?”

I have no idea why, but I said, “Yes!”











Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina Bradley on her blog, A Work In Progress.