Just blowin' in the wind
The wind raked the rocky point, an onslaught that just beats down anything and everything in its way.
“I dunno, bro, but this is like 30 miles an hour,” Cap’n P said. “You going to be able to light your stove in this?”
No way. The picnic table is exposed. Our tents are exposed. We’re exposed, in full raingear, with our backs to the punishing wind.
“You could always cook in the bathroom.”
“Or we could just call it a night.”
It’s 6:30 p.m.
“Hey, this is nothing,” said the Cap’n, a former Navy SEAL. “Try being in Honduras where you’re not really supposed to be.”
That’s the thing about being out-of-doors; even in less-than-ideal conditions, for a few of us, it beats being inside.
We’d just paddled a little more than 12 miles on Whiskeytown Lake. The idea was to get a little hot food in us, chat a bit and go to bed. We had another 14 miles to paddle on Monday.
We watched a patio boat instead; the wind and the waves tossed the little boat – with nine people on board and a woefully too small engine for propulsion – like a cork.
“Why don’t we wait it out? It can’t blow like this for much longer.”
But it did.
The Cap’n got desperate and opened a jar of olives.
“OK, how about sandwiches?”
We ended up in the alcove of the bathroom, out of the wind – but not actually in the one-holer. Eating pepper salami and cheddar on wheat bagels, the glow from our headlights cast drunken shadows out onto the oak and pine that bent in the wind.
“This is good salami,” Cap’n said. “Of course, anything Italian and I’m on it. It’s the ‘ee;’ salami, linguini, porcini.”
After a few ginger snaps, we stretched out in the alcove as best we could to talk (it was interesting and yes, I will blog it). The wind never let up. We laughed and joked and wondered – out loud – what kind of day we’d have on the water come the dawn.
And that’s when we noticed the sign.
Taped to the bathroom door was a sign about bears. It is a $175 fine for leaving food unattended in the campground. The recreation area is lousy with black bear.
“A fed bear is a dead bear,” the sign warned.
“That’s a grizzly bear,” Cap’n said of the photo that went along with the warning.
They’ve been extinct in California since the 1840s.
“Leave it to the Park Service,” we said, in unison.
Finally, the cold concrete and cramped space got to be too much.
“I’m headed for the tent, if it hasn’t blown away,” Cap’n said. “And my nice, warm sleeping bag.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
It was 8:30 p.m.
And except for the blue heron that decided to start making all this crazy noise past midnight – “Bro, did you hear that bird? I could have killed it.” – we slept until 7 a.m., through the wind and through a pretty good rain.
And I felt better for the experience.
“I dunno, bro, but this is like 30 miles an hour,” Cap’n P said. “You going to be able to light your stove in this?”
No way. The picnic table is exposed. Our tents are exposed. We’re exposed, in full raingear, with our backs to the punishing wind.
“You could always cook in the bathroom.”
“Or we could just call it a night.”
It’s 6:30 p.m.
“Hey, this is nothing,” said the Cap’n, a former Navy SEAL. “Try being in Honduras where you’re not really supposed to be.”
That’s the thing about being out-of-doors; even in less-than-ideal conditions, for a few of us, it beats being inside.
We’d just paddled a little more than 12 miles on Whiskeytown Lake. The idea was to get a little hot food in us, chat a bit and go to bed. We had another 14 miles to paddle on Monday.
We watched a patio boat instead; the wind and the waves tossed the little boat – with nine people on board and a woefully too small engine for propulsion – like a cork.
“Why don’t we wait it out? It can’t blow like this for much longer.”
But it did.
The Cap’n got desperate and opened a jar of olives.
“OK, how about sandwiches?”
We ended up in the alcove of the bathroom, out of the wind – but not actually in the one-holer. Eating pepper salami and cheddar on wheat bagels, the glow from our headlights cast drunken shadows out onto the oak and pine that bent in the wind.
“This is good salami,” Cap’n said. “Of course, anything Italian and I’m on it. It’s the ‘ee;’ salami, linguini, porcini.”
After a few ginger snaps, we stretched out in the alcove as best we could to talk (it was interesting and yes, I will blog it). The wind never let up. We laughed and joked and wondered – out loud – what kind of day we’d have on the water come the dawn.
And that’s when we noticed the sign.
Taped to the bathroom door was a sign about bears. It is a $175 fine for leaving food unattended in the campground. The recreation area is lousy with black bear.
“A fed bear is a dead bear,” the sign warned.
“That’s a grizzly bear,” Cap’n said of the photo that went along with the warning.
They’ve been extinct in California since the 1840s.
“Leave it to the Park Service,” we said, in unison.
Finally, the cold concrete and cramped space got to be too much.
“I’m headed for the tent, if it hasn’t blown away,” Cap’n said. “And my nice, warm sleeping bag.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
It was 8:30 p.m.
And except for the blue heron that decided to start making all this crazy noise past midnight – “Bro, did you hear that bird? I could have killed it.” – we slept until 7 a.m., through the wind and through a pretty good rain.
And I felt better for the experience.
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