Every summer we make the trip to Schlitterbahn. Somewhere along the way it stopped being just another vacation and quietly became one of those traditions that marks the passing of time. Every year we tell ourselves we'll ride the same favorites, find a few new ones, eat too much junk food, and wonder why we don't come more often. It's one of those trips that always seems worth the drive—or, in this year's case, the flight. This summer, though, the trip carried a little more anticipation than usual because for the first time it wasn't really about us anymore. It was about Ripley.
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