The Morning After

I woke up the next morning soaking wet but alive. Pleased that I had not been turned into supper and eaten by bears, badgers, killer B's, wallobys, saber tooth tigers, saber tooth mooses, saber tooth mosquitoes, I sat in my tent and had my breakfast in dampened peace before I had to get up and get to the unpleasant task of packing all my rain soaked gear back into my rain soaked backpack. Even thought the rain never transformed from anything more sinister than the hazy, misty, northwest drizzle that has a knack to seep into everything it touches, I felt lucky that it was not the kind of rain that we are capable of getting. A fusillade of meteorological destruction. The kind that causes car crashes, knocks out power and topples dams and bridges, forcing people to drive rowboats to work. An unending bombardment that they can make billion dollar action movies out of. THE RAIN, a modern day Noahs Ark deathudrama. Starring Tom Cruise, Sandra Bullack, John Malcovich and one unlucky rowboat, produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, coming to theaters Summer of 2015.

It was more like 1950's B-Monster Movie rain. Undetectably surrounding you then slowly creeping into all kinds of things with a muted chuckle until the inevitable female shriek splits the night. Then silence. Rising from the ground up, the rain Frankensteins its way into car trunks, basements, garages, baseball mitts, wrapping itself around tents, sleeping bags and backpacks. Squeezing like pythons until all dryness has vanished and all mold has taken hold forever.

The Blob. The Creature. The Thing. The Fog. The Rain...

After breakfast I skulked around in the growing light and packed up my gear with methodical determination. I was not really worried about being discovered. I could only see a tiny section of the road and it there was no way that anyone zipping past that tiny piece of forest at 50 MPH would be looking over in my direction. Even so my need to hunch over as if I was up to no good was inescapable. I so rarely get the opportunity to skulk for reals. To sneak around like a car thief or prowler. Why do criminals skulk? It is perhaps the single most incriminating evidence that something illegal is about to happen. It is absurd. Yet there I was, trying to stay low as I pulled out stake pegs and unfastened poles from grommets. Even alone in a wet survival situation I still goof around and try to make things more fun than they actually are.

I put my rain jacket back on, I am not sure why since everything was already wet, for fun I guess, packed the bags and secured them with my anti-rain garbage bag security system, to assure all that wet stuff inside stays wet, then I put the pack back on. Only about ten percent heavier I would say. Pretty good. A lot better than I thought it would be that is for sure. I made my way through the forest and back out to the logging road, met up with the main highway and with my body much refreshed considering I slept on the ground, continued the journey East.