By 3:00 AM, both of our rain flies failed, our hammocks were filling with water, our sleeping bags were soaked. It was more than half a moon, but torrential rain darkened the night sky and made it impossible to see more than a couple of feet. Rob crouched, in his poncho with his hood and hat covering his eyes, against one of the trees I tied my hammock to. I was sitting on my backpack, drenched, under what remained of the rain fly. In the loud blackness of the nocturnal storm, we both silently wondered if we’d be like this for the rest of the night.
At some point the rain let up momentarily, so we picked our way, by flashlight, up a slippery winding trail, to a rock outcropping about 100 feet up from our camp. We found an area just sheltered enough that we could try to start a fire, while Rob and I hid under the outcropping. Occasionally, I’d brave the storm and darkness back to camp to see if the wood we stored under our hammocks was still dry. It wasn’t, but it was less wet, and we managed to burn it. It was probably around 4:30 AM when we boiled enough water for coffee. By 5:00, we’d sacrificed the remainder of our bottled water to boil for dehydrated Breakfast Scramble. We wedged ourselves into a couple of dry places and ate breakfast while the rain waxed and waned between downpour and steady drumbeat. Nothing was visible beyond our little, dying, fire.
I tried to sleep, but the ground was too hard, my clothes were too wet, and the temperature was falling. Rob later recounted that he dreamed he was warm and comfortable, although he was actually in wet clothes, under a plastic poncho, pinched between two large rocks. We lay like that until early dawn.
Daybreak never came—there was no sudden sunlight illuminating the valley below. Instead, the sky began to show itself in small glimpses through the black silhouette of forest canopy. Below the canopy, everything remained hidden. I lay watching it grow imperceptibly, listening to the rain slow to a constant chatter.
I don’t recall that Rob and I discussed it, or said anything at all, but when we saw the shapes of trees, we stirred the damp dead remains of our little fire and proceeded downhill to our camp. It was still raining, but only barely. By the time we’d torn everything down and shoved it, unpacked, wet, into our backpacks, the rain was only a drizzle and the trail was visible. If we could find Bison Way Trail from here, we could make it back to the car within half a day.
The trail was muddy, the rocks slippery, and the gullies were full, as last night’s rain found its way to the Red River. The air was clean, and the forest was starting to wake. Rob turned to me, “By the way, happy birthday.”
It was.
M. T.