The Soggy side

Rainy day doodles

Day 50

After last night, I have learned to trust the weather underground forecast. After we finished blogging, we walked back to our tent in the dark, noticing that the stars weren't out. I had read the forecast, and it said it was about to break loose and rain like crazy. We decided not to put two and two together.

A few hours after we crawled into the tent and snuggled up for the night, we heard it begin to rain. Because of my experience as a trail guide in the Shining Rock wilderness, I can sleep through the rain. Apparently, I slept through about 8 hours worth of torrential downpour.

We awoke to wet feet, which is never a good sign, even for a mermaid. Further assessment proved that one end of the tent was now a puddle, and all of the sides of the tent were wet. Plus, the rain had not let up in pitch or tempo in several hours. We began to brainstorm.

As I mentioned, I worked as a backpacking trail guide when I was 19 and 20 at a camp at the base of Cold Mountain. The two summers I did this were some of the rainiest in history. This rainy morning on MDI has stirred a cellular memory of functioning comfortably though I am very wet. I prioritize warm over dry, and turn my frown upside down. I decide that I will be the one to leave the tent and trek down to the office to see if any cabins are available. The new rain pants I bought for this trip work like a charm, the twenty year old rain coat not so much. My top is wet and my bottom is dry; the opposite of what a mermaid generally prefers.

It turns out that there is a cabin, but it's not open for another 4 hours. No worry there, I have had to slop through rains like this for days at a time with no respite in sight. I can do 4 hours. Back at camp, I decide to make coffee. The stove is soaked and will not light. It takes some coaxing, and finally catches. I am tempted to use the many inches of water we have collected in our cups and pots over the night. As the water works at boiling, I sit hunched over letting the rain pelt my back, and remember those summers in Shining Rock that now feel like so long ago.

Needless to say, I get a few points for making coffee and delivering it to my Pirate. We spend the next 3 hours sipping our dark brew and eating granola bars dipped in peanut butter. Time flies. Miraculously, just as the clock struck 1 pm, the rain lets up to a relentless mist. We begin hauling our things over to our tiny camping cabin. The final load is carrying the tent still set up, which must have been a sight.

Scrabble score: The Pirate Lost

Our cabin is one room with a covered porch. The already set up clothes lines are filled in minutes. The bunk bed is strewn with the things which are merely damp. We gather things in piles that need to be totally washed, and things that can go straight to the dryer. We throw away soaked cardboard egg containers, cracker boxes and ruined food. We hang the tent, still set up, from the side of the cabin.

Once we're in dry clothes, we start doing the rounds of laundry, which requires a short hike through the woods and over the roaring brooks that run through the campground. While the clothes are processed, we sprawl out on our luxurious double bed and play scrabble, drinking scotch on the rocks. We're so warm and cozy after about 11 hours of being soaked. I tell the Pirate that this is just as fun as eating lobster or seeing a whale, and I mean it. The two of us seem to have indiscriminate fun as spiritual practice.