My son and I brought two little pieces of Wisconsin home.

They flew the friendly skies Saturday from Madison to Denver, too, comfortably warm in their new quarters. We found them two days later. One wood tick was doing business behind Robby's ear. I don't want to talk about where mine was, but let's just say my reaction to its discovery was an alarmed, “What the hell is that?”, coupled with the panicked thought that I had picked up some bizarre STD.

Wood ticks are as commonplace in humid Wisconsin as mule deer in urban neighborhoods flanking the Colorado mountains. They're as much a part of the Dairy State as cheese, beer and big rivers – which is really where this story is headed.

I don't much enjoy talking or thinking about bodily functions, much less hearing them; in fact, I don't allow Robby or his friends to produce audible farts unless it can't be avoided. I know that's extreme, but it's one of my weird things. But this seemed blog-worthy, and if I stretch the definition of completing 12 new feats in 2006, it just might fit.

Last week, I peed in a river.

This is significant because my failure to do so in college cost my sister and I a once-in-a-lifetime experience of our own.

We decided to partake in an annual float down the Mississippi River. Most of the folks who did this early summer event were fellow college students, but the city and river authorities cleared the way for it. They shut the river down to barge and boat traffic during the four-hour event, when hundreds of people – almost all accompanied by tubes full of beer - floated a few miles down river.

Neither my sister or I can swim, but we both wanted to participate in the annual event that truthfully was nothing more than a floating drunkfest.

We packed up our 12-pack of beer and three tubes and started down the river with everyone else. It was a sunny day, perfect for river floating and beer drinking. After both of us had consumed a couple of beers, Nancy announced that she had to pee. Or perhaps she didn't even announce it, maybe she just silently did it; I can't recall.

Lest you think she and the other tubers were polluting a River-Runs-Through-It, crystal-clear body of water, let me paint for you an accurate picture. It isn't called the Muddy Mississippi for nothing.

Standing on the shore, watching it flow smoothly by, it's a wide and picturesque body of water, a powerful, ever-moving force. But step more closely and look down into it and you'll see nothing but cloudy, brown water. The bottom is under there somewhere, but just how far down is a mystery. And what's floating around in it also is a great unknown.

I kind of like its dirty reputation. It is, after all, a working river, transporting barges and the goods they carry from the country's north to south side.

It's the antithesis of Colorado, where the emphasis is on clean-and-healthy everything. Rivers here are puny things that churn up muddy water only during spring runoff. Otherwise, they're cold, clear streams. Standing next to them, you half expect to see a grinning, still-hunky Mark Harmon emerging from the woods with a Coors beer in hand, as he did in those long-ago Coors ads. (Dating myself, I know)

Colorado rivers say, “Look at me. I'm pretty!”

The Mississippi says, “I'm busy. Love me or hate me, I don't give a rat's ass.”

Anyway, when the beer provoked the urge to pee in this dirty body of water, I couldn't do it.

My sister was in disbelief. “Please, just do it.”

“I'm trying,” I told her. “I can't.” Nevertheless, I kept drinking beer, and my need grew correspondingly stronger.

But even when things got painful – extremely so – I couldn't pee in the river. My sister and I had to paddle for shore. Somehow, in that quest, our beer floated down river. Even though I quickly found a sheltering bush that made for a wonderful bathroom, we abandoned the rest of our float.

Over the years, my sister has often reminded me of my urinary failure and the toll it took on our planned day of drunken fun.

Last week, while we stayed with my sister, she and her husband were working. Both their kids were in school, which left Robby and I with a couple of days in which to find our own fun. We discovered a tubing business a few miles away and decided to take the three-hour tour. This was the Wisconsin River, smaller but no less grimy than its neighbor, the Mississippi.

As the resort bus transported us upriver to our drop-in site, the driver and I struck up a conversation about change, agreeing that we both liked it, congratulating ourselves on the fact that we believed life can sometimes be more fun when you don't know what lies ahead. In other words, we mini-bonded.

It struck me then that I'd neglected to buy some beer, a regret I voiced aloud.

“What kind do you drink?” he asked.

“Any.”

“Tell you what, when you come in, I'll bring you one,” he said.

I felt our bond grow instantly stronger and knew we'd have been friends if circumstances had allowed it.

About an hour into our trip, I had to pee. We paddled to a sandbar, which offered just enough weedy protection to do the deed. As we lingered on shore, burying our toes in the sand, I heard the sound of a faraway engine. Coming toward us was a yellow dot that took the shape of a jet ski.

Wouldn't it be just too cool if that's him bringing me my beer?, I thought.

Happily, it was. He (I never did catch his name) beached the jet ski, grinning broadly, opened the hood, and handed me a grocery store bag heavy with ice and two cans of beer.

“I'm a man of my word,” he said. “You got another couple hours out here. Enjoy yourself.”

With a nod and another grin, he roared back down river.

This small kindness made me extremely happy. Celebratory, in fact, and thirsty. Too thirsty to remember the beer/pee connection. I drank them both within half an hour, laid my head on the back of the tube and watched the sky go by. It made me pleasantly dizzy. Robby sang and bounced cheerily. We were both at peace.

In short order, I needed to go to the bathroom again.

But before paddling cross river to shore, I decided to give it -pardon this very bad pun – the old college try.

Perhaps it was the fact that we were alone on the river instead of bobbing along with hundreds of other merry-making people. Maybe it's the maturity of my bladder. It could have been the utter state of relaxation in which I found myself. But I peed in the river.

Once, twice, four times in all.

I was absurdly proud of myself. So was my sister.

And the ticks were so excited by the news they gave us an escort home, Wisconsin style.