You could hear, once you walked up the boarded steps, the people yelling, screaming, and panting. You could hear the water trickling down the long, dark, scary ride at Wild Mountain.

Even though I was only 5 or 6, I was forced on by my dad. I bent down and laid on my back trying to yell and scream, scared for the next thing that was going to happen. The guy standing there pushed me and I flew, yelling and screaming, “I’m going to die!”

The screws inside the tunnel dug into my back, and I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t see a thing, except for the two or three holes that peeked through the inky blackness. I felt like I was falling off a slippery, steep mountain. My nerves knotted my stomach into a tight ball; I thought I’d throw up at any moment.

Finally it was the end of the ride. I splashed right into a pile of dark blue, clear water. I could have just kissed the bright green grass. When I climbed out, I couldn’t believe it – I had actually ridden that big scary ride!