I had plans last weekend. The blueprints were sketched on the back of my hand. They lacked finesse and brilliance and better resembled a set list for an open mic at a local dive. They weren’t very detailed, but they didn’t need to be. All I required was a little acumen for getting the most out of these next few days.

—

I’m not sure how long it’s been, but the precise time isn’t that important. The only exactness I’m concerned with at this point is in negotiating this rugged and windy road.

I’m glad I’m in a rental.

These are the last few miles leading to the visitors office at Devil’s Den National Park.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m driving this road, or it’s driving me.

—

My set list has faded. I can only make out a few things now. I probably lost it to a drain at a truck stop somewhere off 30, swirling away, unnoticed through a grog that comes with being awake for 36 hours. No matter right now. It’s time to settle on a campsite.

—

A site that requires a mile hike including about 30 yards of rushing stream over slippery rocks with a big red cooler that advertises a lack of foresight was probably not something I had on the agenda, but the added adventure was too seductive to pass over in favor of an unimaginative car side spot.

I’m sure about this sunshine, though. It’s one of the few parts that hasn’t completely eroded from my outline. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have forgotten this part. The sun is definitely a thread I want stitching these days together. This buoys me up a bit. I may need it. I need to focus on not slipping. It doesn’t look like pleasant floatation is a service this creek offers.

—

I’ve lost count of the trips it took to get everything on site, but I’m glad my tent is up and everything is in it’s right place. I’m not glad that my shoes feel like they’re carrying 5 pounds of creek water. Why did I pack flip flops as my only backup footwear?

I need a nap.

Then steak.

—

I don’t know if things are following any program at this point, but things feel right. Ribeye and an open bottle of Corralejo blanco can tend to do that. Add to that a stockade of trees surrounded by the sounds of chirps, croaks, and a creek gently running in the ravine just below and suddenly nature is producing my new favorite song. This tequila is good.

And half gone.

So am I.

—

Something’s not right. A tepid night has turned to a very cold morning. This isn’t as disheartening by itself as it is coupled with the grey and sunless sky that derides hope of things getting balmier as the day matures. Without any cell signal there’s no way to check the weather. The day has barely started and I’m feeling defeated. I’m going to need fire and breakfast before I can work up any defiance.

—

Someone slipped some Johnny Cash into the set while I wasn’t looking. I know it wasn’t me. I don’t think my voice is stalwart enough to carry it through. This thunder sounds like it’s up to the task, however.

—

“Intermittent” should have meant these storms would have something of an intermission or two.

This matinee is running long. I’m not impressed with this show.

I try to sleep, hoping to skip the day ahead a little quicker, a little closer to some calm. But I’m not tired, and the thunder is using the mountains as an amplifier, and the rain’s theatrics refuse to be ignored. This might be beautiful if I didn’t feel so confined.

—

Four and a half hours have passed. The last half hour has been calm. I guess we all got the cue, because we emerge from our tents at exactly the same time.

We’re ready to build a fire and and prepare dinner. It feels a little repetitive, since that was about the last thing we were doing before seeking refuge from the rain, but after hours of incarceration this feels like a grand festivity.

—

Things are just getting kindled when the rain decides to show up again. We are low on wood. We’re not ducking out this time. We can’t afford to.

We’ve begun to build a wall of wet wood around the fire to dry it, laying in wait to be the next source of fuel. We’re trying to outplay the elements this time. It looks like a fence meant to corral a wild animal, except we don’t want this animal tamed. We need this beast to remain feral and uninhibited, fiercer than it’s showery cousin.

I’m wearing my warmest article of clothing, a cotton hoodie that nicely soaks up every bit of water it comes into contact with. I’m again reminded I wasn’t prepared for this. In fact, a look through my bag tells a story of a completely different trip in mind.

I’m miserable.

But somewhat satisfied. We’re winning. So far.

—

After an hour and a half of keeping the fire in operation things have quieted again and dinner is finally made. It’s delicious. I’m not sure if it’s seasoning is heightened by the labor it took to get to this point, but I really don’t care. I devour it. We all do.

The last scrape of my dish is punctuated by an ear-splitting crack of thunder.

Here we go again.

Not moments later the rain comes down with an intensity not yet seen and certainly not open to any bargaining.

It is not compromising this time.

We clean up and clear out within minutes.

—

Once again forced into my tent, this feels all too familiar.

Except it doesn’t.

I’m not sure if it’s because it’s dark now, my belly is full, I’ve been completely worn down, or all of the above. I’m conceding, but it’s not bitter.

All this time I thought I was fighting something, but now I sense a generosity. This final act was always coming, there was no stopping it. We were allowed our moment, our nice meal, but this storm was going to have it’s attention.

I finally realize this isn’t happening to me. It’s just happening. And I get to be tangled up in it. It’s flexing it’s might and I’m dangling from it’s sinew. I’m suspended in a moment where the only thing keeping me from annihilation is the thin ripstop nylon above my head.

Some things you just can’t control.

For the first time, this idea is comforting.