And A Little Rain, Never Hurt No One

Well, the little jaunt into the woods on Friday was relatively without incident. No bears, no wolves, no satyrs playing pan pipes as the moon shone through an eerie fog. I did ride the seven miles down to the Dirty Shame Saloon to watch a bit of the ballgame, a ride during which I was reminded that it’s somewhat important to eat during the day, and that nothing but a belly full of beer combined with a little physical activity can lead to lightheadedness and near-crashes.

The Dirty Shame was as charming as ever, and Jenny the Bartender was delightful (I’m afraid Nadine is history – my troth is now pledged to the beer-servin’ beauty of Crouch, Idaho). Unfortunately, her enchanting presence captivated me for an inning or two longer than I had planned to stay, and the ride back to camp in the dark on the narrow, windy, unpainted road filled with people driving home from the bar on a Friday night was somewhat nerve-wracking. (What more do I have to do to prove myself worthy of your affections, Jenny? What?)

That was pretty much it, excitement-wise. Some time later, after one of the best garlic burgers evah, a couple of succulent ears o’ corn, and an eternity staring into the glowing embers of what was left of the fire, reminiscing of loves long lost poking a stick into the fire for a bit, I stumbled into the tent to stare up at the stars. As is always the case, even a night as close to perfect as Friday was can be made better if you get the opportunity to gain a little new knowledge, and after several hours of deep sleep, I was thrilled to learn that the rain fly is likely far more effective when it isn’t shoved down by your feet in the tent when the skies open up.

Heaven, I tell you.