Zion, Day Two: Trial by Water

It is an incredibly daunting task to try and capture Saturday, May 9th. The day was so varied, so intense, so challenging that any 30 minute stretch of it would be more strenuous than any period over the prior six months...and yet we strung them all together into a day that ultimately was not survived, but accomplished.

The day began for me at about 4 AM when Moff shook me awake.

"Dude, we hear something moving around outside."
"No shit, there was something moving around there all night."
"Oh, really?"

I related the previous night's hour of horror to the others, which seemed to comfort us all on the intentions of whatever continued to rustle and snap through the forest floor around us, so much so that we all fell back asleep. When we awoke, the world had gone white. While the sleet hadn't coated the ground, it draped across the trees, bushes, and tent like icing on a gingerbread house. As it continued to come down, the view was whited out starting just a short radius around our ridge. It was bitter cold outside of the tent, so we pulled fleeces close as Dan set about making breakfast. Piping hot oatmeal was another unexpected luxury, lighting a fire that the day's trails would keep stoked.

The plan was to take a day-hike out west from Stave Spring to Cable Mountain, return, break camp, move northwest as close to Echo Canyon as we could while remaining in the open camping zone, make camp, then finally fetch water by passing down into the canyon to Weeping Rock.

I had taken Advil with breakfast, so while I could still feel a difference between my knees, there was little pain. With the day hike not looking too topographically challenging, I decided to join Moff and Dan on the trail to Cable Mountain. We tucked our big packs away beneath the rain-fly, secured the food, and set out into the surprisingly wintry world, remarking occasionally that, of all of the weather we'd planned for, we had not expected this:



We stopped only occasionally along the way, at times to guess at the spectacular views behind the white veil, other times to scrape inches of accumulating mud off of the bottom of our shoes, only to start off anew and feel the weight rebuilding with each step. Despite the conditions, there was definitely a serenity to the trail throughout, a side of it we might not have otherwise seen.

At last, we pushed out from beneath the last snowy branches and into a small clearing atop the cliffs of Cable Mountain. True to its name, the red earth led out to the broken-down ruins of a cable box that once lifted supplies up from the canyon below. That canyon, however, was purely theoretical, hidden behind a total whiteout.

Instead of disappointing, the experience was terrifying and thrilling, with all the vertigo of the elevation replaced with an uneasy disorientation. Beneath our feet, the rocks and mud appeared slick and shiny from the weather, but also richer against the blankness beyond. We found a log beneath a sheltering tree and snacked on Powerbars, joking and shaking our heads at the ludicrous quality of the morning. Forecasts had called for as much as 80 degrees.

The way back meant less sleet but more mud and more stops to kick it off. Thankfully, with the precipitation dwindling, we could lift our heads a bit more to appreciate the quiet scenery on either side of the trail.

Back at our home base, we took the remaining hour of the morning to catch some impromptu naps sprawled across the tent floor. Then, after waking into a warming midday and a clearing sky, we shook the last traces of moisture off the tent and broke camp, loading the packs back up and hoofing it down to the trail. We retraced the morning's steps past Stave Spring, but where the path lead back to Cable Mountain, we broke north toward Echo Canyon, passing into a wide field ringed with shorter ridges.

Along the way, we passed a family coming from Kolob Canyon on a day hike. They had staged water along the way and looked to have been hiking for most of the morning. The kids were no younger than middle school but still, I'm not sure I could have been dragged along on such a vacation at any age pre-college, no matter how beautiful the surroundings.

Echo Canyon snuck up on us as a yawning absence peeking through the pine trees beside the trail. Every so often, branches parted to reveal the grey layers and more adventurous trees lining either side of the canyon. Once we found more open overlooks, we took turns testing the canyon's namesake and sure enough, our ludicrous bellows carried back to us (and out to whomever else might be trying to enjoy themselves in peace and quiet).

The canyon opened up as we walked, adding the ruddy dirt tones and bleached white canvases of crisscrossing mesas in the distance.



We walked around the rim, enjoying the views, but not finding much in the way of open space for a campsite. To the left of the trail, scattered trees and cacti stood between us and the cragged lip of the canyon, while the ground rose swiftly to our right. We continued around the crown of the mesa hoping to get lucky, but when the trail began to drop swiftly, we knew we were passing beyond the open camping ground. The best place we'd seen was back in the open field, not all that far from our spot the night before. Still, we needed to set up camp soon to get on out way towards water, so we began to backtrack.

Luckily, before we got all the way back to the field, we happened to look up the hill from the path and see a giant red-orange boulder through the trees. Somehow we leapt from "whoa look at that" to "I wonder if there's any camping space up there". Dan shrugged off his pack to climb up and take a look. Sure enough, he was able to find a small, clear patch of ground with room for the tent and space not far off for cooking. The ground was at a slight rake back down to the path, but if we set ourselves up feet downward, we would likely avoid rolling down through the trees, across the path, and out into the waiting maw of Echo Canyon. And this seemed important. Overall, it had a nice view and put us in a good spot for the rest of the day.

We raised the tent, hoisted the food, and finally pulled out every last water container we had besides the 50oz safety sac. We were down to what little was left in our bladders and 2-3 water bottles, so our planned march for water was just in time. We loaded all of the bottles and bladders into our daypacks and crunched back down the slope to the path. A short hike later, we were back where we had turned, facing the swift downward descent littered with rocky steps and slick stone slopes, and it was here that I thought I might need to turn back a second time.

The knee had been patient but present all morning, but the first few 6 inch to foot-high steps down went straight to where the pain was. I stopped and called ahead, telling the guys I was really having some trouble. They had me describe the pain in more detail and gave a trail diagnosis that it sounded like an IT band issue. Suggesting a quick stretch, they even waited patiently, on a narrow path hundreds of feet up the side of a canyon, while I tried the stretch and confirmed that it engaged the source of the pain. Hearing that it was a common issue made me feel much less worried about something being seriously wrong, so when the guys asked if I wanted to continue, I told them that I would be really disappointed if I a) missed the canyon hike and b) had to hand off my share of the water load for them to fetch for me. Right now is actually the first time I've thought about how that would have gone down. If I had sat at camp, passing the day quietly in the tent or sitting against a log, until the two of them got back just before darkness, both exhausted but triumphant, it would have been brutal, and that's even without the knowledge I have now of how the afternoon would go.

I still didn't want to power through the pain, though, so I began working around it. Since my right knee hurt when being bent while my full weight was on it, I took that out of the equation. Downward steps meant planting the right leg down first and following with the left. Upward meant planting the right beneath the step and leading with the left. I even relied on a side-stepping shuffle to get down smooth, sloped surfaces, my right leg locked and leading as though stuck in an Electric Slide time loop.

Thus, I held my own and made my way with Moff and Dan down to the canyon floor, picking over gorgeous rock formations and stopping to marvel as the mesas rose around us. Despite the quick drops in elevation, it was still a long way to the canyon floor, so we paced ourselves, with Moff and Dan regularly remarking that this hike was all we had to do the rest of the day.

We had the trail to ourselves most of the way down, though our constant companion was the view down the canyon, both awe-inspiring and mildly taunting as we knew our water lay all the way at the other end.

Once we reached the cool canyon floor, the trail became more erratic, the dirt track running into broad, flat rocks where the way was marked on occasion by lines of rocks but more often by small stacked cairns spaced fair enough apart that finding the next one became a puzzle. The rock itself was beautiful, with rich, sun-baked hues contrasting against the green of the ever-present pines.

(See cairn at bottom right)

It's hard to report on the conversations on the trail because what wasn't fleeting conversation about work, family, general life stuff was a cyclical but never dwindling appreciation for our surroundings. We never tired of pointing out trees that had found scant purchase on the canyon walls or rock formations that looked like they were just about to fall, before inevitably adding that, geologically, "just about" is probably 1000 years.

After clambering across the canyon floor, the path began rising along the right side of the canyon so quickly that we actually second-guessed our route, wondering if we'd accidentally followed an off-shoot in the direction of Observation Point (where no doubt we'd find 50s muscle cars and necking teens). As Moffet and Dan pored over the maps, I found myself feeling a bit prickly, wanting to keep moving so that my body didn't have time to stiffen up on me. Finally, after backtracking a bit, a small group of hikers came from the way we'd been heading and we confirmed with them that the trail led to Weeping Rock.

The trail stopped ascending and leveled out shortly beyond where we'd stopped and we began passing more day-hikers. Though they weren't loaded for overnight stays, the initial few groups still meant business, with visible water supplies, walking sticks, and plenty of sun coverage. The closer we got to the mouth of the canyon, though, the more casual the hikers became, down to one family that either coordinated or all independently decided that black was the new appropriate hiking attire.

Unlike the verdant mesas we'd come from, the canyon walls became steeper and barer as we approached our destination, though the variety of colors remained.

The pictures convey the scene better than I can and they even fall short of capturing the beauty of our descent through the canyon. Frozen images of the soaring cliffs and ridges don't move the same way the landscape does as you make your way along, the perspective on each outcropping shifting in small ways but differently from the one just behind it. Altogether, the stone seems to flow around you in waves or drain down into hollow spaces carrying you with it.

The Narrows was becoming less and less likely as we realized it would mean doing this same hike with full packs, so we were happy to come across the sort of close-quarters canyons we had seen in pictures. Instead of rising off at a distance, the walls were just beside us, blocking out the light and cradling the path.

All around us, the long process by which the rivers had carved the canyon showed on the face of the rock, the striations like ripples flash-frozen

Finally, curving around yet another cliff face, we saw the main canyon road and, beside it, the Weeping Rock turn-off, where there were bathrooms and, we hoped, running water. Unfortunately, the sight wasn't a complete relief as the road ran hundreds of feet beneath us while our path ran off to the left into a series of relentless switchbacks. Dan had forged ahead, so Moffet and I spent the hike down trying not to think of how every downward step would be an upward one in less than an hour. At least it was a lovely view!

Finally, we reached the bottom, only to find out that the bathrooms did NOT have running water. A slight panic set in, but seeing as there were canyons all around us, it didn't take long to find a nearby stream with a log perfectly positioned over a three foot drop where the water flowed as closely to a faucet as nature could provide. I shimmied out onto the log and we enacted an assembly line with empty bottles coming from Dan and full ones handed off to Moffet. 17.5 new liters later, we were back in business, with Dan handing out the iodine tablets to treat the water and PopTarts to power us up for the return. We shook our bottles and snacked while watching more day hikers head up the trail. The busyness of the entry point surprised me, as the first 30-45 mins of the trail were those switchbacks, which had the same (admittedly gorgeous) view throughout. Seemed like a recipe for a family fight to me. Amidst all of the casual parties, we did see a group of three girls loaded with overnight packs set off up the trail, which earned immediate badass credentials because part of my mind was already looking up and whining about making the same climb with just the water.

It was around five pm when we finally set off again and Dan set a goal for us to reach the base of our mesa by seven. Since the water treatment required a delay while the tablets worked their magic, we would have about 30 minutes of hiking before we'd get to tap into our new supply, which was upsetting information to learn 30 seconds after a PopTart had turned the inside of my mouth into spackle. Luckily, that and just about every other thought was pushed from my mind as we started back up the switchbacks. The sheer exhaustion of that exercise is such that I'm becoming exhausted while writing about it. I was never worried about making it back, as my mind just kept assuring me we would because we had to. Simple but consistently effective. Still, on those switchbacks, nothing but the rise in front of me mattered. The knee was fine, but we were spent and had to stop at the end of each turn to breathe, basically once every 100 ft / once every few minutes. It was slow going and I just stared at the ground or the walls so as not to see how close we still were to the road or how far from the trail's summit.

Luckily, one rise turned away from the cliffs and into the narrow parts of the canyon, which meant shade and level trails. Once we weren't leaning into the path quite so much, our spirits lifted and I once again felt able to appreciate the surroundings.

We supported each other the rest of the way back, with Dan in particular encouraging us whenever we turned a corner and saw a rise. I told the guys I wanted to make a hiking T shirt that says "Hiking: When the declines you don't remember become the inclines you'll never forget." Actually, whenever I joked like that, it felt like I was emerging from a hole I'd buried myself in while focused on the last stretch of the trail. I also assured Moff and Dan that my quiet was purely focus, as the knee seemed to be drinking in adrenaline and erasing any pain.

There were definitely fewer pictures on the way back, too. We had our goal to consider and I think we all knew that we had to keep on keeping on. That said, the setting sun did us a few favors along the way:

Beyond the switchbacks, we moved at a great speed, even though we still stopped wherever needed. In fact, we got to the base of our mesa at about 6:30 and thought we might make it all the way to camp by our deadline. However, the final billygoat climb up the mesa slowed us considerably, returning us to frequent stops and tunnel vision. I only surfaced from my mind when I realized we were passing the spot where I'd made the decision not to go back to camp. Hours later, I was exhausted and sore, but so deeply proud of that choice and of the accomplishment of the day. We all seemed to have the same realization at the same time; we had conquered an intense and necessary hike and now we were close to camp with daylight to spare. It would probably be a quiet night around the campsite. I barely felt like eating, wanting only to rest.

Our tunes changed, however, when we reached the mesa ridge, turned a corner, and happened upon the campsite of the three girls we'd seen setting out from Weeping Rock. They were set up close to the trail (across it, really) and seemed to be preparing dinner. We greeted them through our deep, panting breaths and as we chatted, just the simple interaction with other people so far out in the wilderness reinvigorated us. They invited us to bring our whiskey back to join their wine (God bless them for spending some weight on wine) and we told them we would.

When we got back to camp, we happily dropped our water-heavy bags and I went into the tent to change clothes and stretch out every aching muscle (read: every muscle). I was still recuperating when the guys called me out for some more warm couscous. Another meal made more delicious in the earning.

By the time we finished eating and dressed warmly, the sky had grown dark and so we had some concern that the nearby camp had gone to bed. This was reinforced when we found the camp quiet, with no one outside the tent. Then, as we shrugged and turned, someone called, "Hello?" from within the tent. We apologized for coming late, but then the three of them piled out and breathlessly told us that they'd actually spent the last half hour or so terrified of mountain lions and would appreciate hanging out with us for a while.

The next hour was spent in lively conversation, five of us sitting along a log while one of the girls faced the group. The whiskey was passed up and down the line in my trusty TARDIS flask and we swapped stories of where we were coming from (they had all just graduated from University of Michigan), where they were headed next (two more days of camping for us, San Diego for them), and how unlikely a mountain lion actually was, much less one interested in poking around a campsite. Thanks to a setup by Moff, I even got to tell the rat story in one of its finest venues, atop a mesa in the middle of the woods, looking out over a canyon hidden by the darkness, beneath a cloudy but clean sky, miles from even the thought of a Georgetown townhouse.

Eventually, the talk lulled and the day's weariness crept back in, so we said goodbye and walked back up the trail. No contact information was exchanged; it was a fun, friendly, random meeting of two different groups of folks, similar to meetings I've had in hostel common rooms and departure gates. Only this time, it was so far afield, so detached from the world that once we had run into them, it seemed inevitable and necessary to connect.

Our headlamps lit the way up the steep and cluttered hill to our camp and at last, at the end of a long day that inconceivably began with a snowy morning, we went to sleep.

Zion, Day One - Enter the Violator

Morning came swiftly and mercilessly to Dan, Moff, and me, but thankfully with it came the Tropicana breakfast buffet and its onion-heavy breakfast potatoes, the latter of which surely became the bane of every park ranger (and one other authority figure) we would meet throughout the day.

While Dan wrapped up the last vestiges of work (God bless him), Moff and I filled our water from the Tropicana bathroom sink. I'll say now, nothing mentally purifies sinkwater like necessity and by the final day of the trip, water from that bathroom was a luxury item. Such a shift in perspective was still to come, though, and I didn't even know how long we'd be able to go on our supply. All in all, it was 17.5 liters across three 100 oz Platypus reservoirs, seven individual water bottles hovering around 1L each, and one 50 oz reservoir we dubbed the "safety sac" as our last resort. After filling, the bladders and bottles found homes in our three packs and with that, our hermit crab shells were complete. Dan finished up and we slung everything we had across our backs and checked out.

Vegas in daylight is always a bit jarring, so we gladly took I-15 out of town, laughing at billboards for strip clubs and sleazy lawyers (knowing Vegas, that Venn diagram has to cross somewhere to hilarious results). Of course, beyond the gaudy ornamentation lies the beautiful Mojave, and after thirty minutes or so, the mountains and sky no longer had to contend with the Vegas simulacra. Moff took the musical reins, Dan had the helm, and I navigated, a job made simply by the raw, unadorned Southwestern interstate. Unlike the suburbs queued along the metro Atlanta highways, I-15 ran from Nevada into Arizona and on into Utah with mostly bare shoulders and its only signs of civilization meted out like morse code, with solar-powered billboards for dots and oasis towns for dashes.

Mesquite, NV was one of the latter and we stopped briefly at its Wal-Mart for a few odds and ends we still needed. Dan collected cured meats, Moff searched fruitlessly for long underwear, and I decided I needed a day-pack more substantial than the meager soccer bag I'd brought. As Dan and I browsed the outdoors section, we saw an older couple scanning beside us, clearly bound for Zion as well, and so the first set of kindred spirits we happened upon.

We continued onward, debating the proximity of the visible mountain ranges and reading through the park regulations to refresh ourselves. While Moff read about flash flood warnings and proper human waste disposal, my brain continue humming along, refusing to convert the information into nervousness. These were just the realities of the undertaking, I thought. Then, even the small vestiges of concern vanished as we rode headlong into beautiful canyon stretches of the highway. Great gouts of stone began forcing the road this way and that, while other times, the nearer ridges pulled back like a curtain, revealing again a vacant landscape and the painted quiet of mountains farther off. We even caught glimpses of white-capped peaks framed beneath by clouds so that they seemed to hover in the air.

Dan kept his eyes on the road while I leaned over the dash and murmured appreciatively at the brushstroke striations of the hills on either side. It was terrain that would warrant its own protected park in Georgia, but in Utah, it was pedestrian majesty, seen and passed by at speed on the way from here to there.

After we'd passed through Hurricane, UT, a small city with a big name, we saw a sign for a Zion news radio station and switched over to hear a broadcast that was about 1 part trail advisory to every 6 parts endorsement of the free shuttle from nearby Springdale to the Zion Visitor Center. We only needed to stop at the center briefly to get our permit and a more detailed map, so we coasted through Springdale, admiring the cozy, boutique infrastructure that seems to pop up around a destination National Park like Zion. I'm actually a little envious of the Springdale residents, as they get to walk out their door to a beautiful view every day.

After Springdale, we had finally arrived.

From the moment one drives into Zion (and arguably before), the experience begins. The landscape leaps up on either side into walls of layered stone, with great blind arches carved out into unattainable amphitheaters hundreds of feet above the canyon floor. The guys had to remind me to save some camera battery, as we'd seen all the same scenery coming out, on what we hoped would be a nicer day, and with the perspective of how these initial looks compared to what we would see from the thick of our trip.

At the Visitor's Center, we all scattered. Moff looked for the map, Dan sought out the permit he'd applied for, and I split time refilling water bottles we'd worked on the drive out and shopping for souvenirs. Ultimately, Moff and I rejoined Dan as the park official ran down the rules again. Our plan had two potential wrinkles: a landmark spring in our route was currently dry (which we had known for a week or two), and there was a flash flood warning for the Narrows. The latter was a bit of a hit, as we had all been excited about the prospect of hiking through the river bed, the canyon more of a corridor on either side of us, but we certainly didn't think ourselves impervious to a flash flood, so we determined to keep an eye on conditions and see if it was possible. It's almost hilarious in retrospect how disappointed I was, given the intensity of the hiking we DID do.

From the Visitor's Center, we struck out on the road to the East Entrance, marveling along the way at the rich reds and bleached whites of the giants all around us. The road dipped through a pair of tunnels, the first bearing a man-made infrastructure broken up with windows out into the grandeur of the park and the second a rock-hewn arch straight out of a Roadrunner cartoon. Mesas swelled and sank around us as we continued east, still in the touristy mix with campers and selfie sticks to be seen at every overlook. When we finally reached the East Entrance, however, the reality sank in that we weren't just visiting with the terrain; we were taking advantage of its hospitality.

It seems an appropriate time to bring a map into the equation, considering how important maps (and there were several) were to our trip. We were going to be hiking the East Rim of Zion Canyon, which has its own feel to it with some significant changes in elevation and conditions...all of which we certainly enjoyed.

On the map below, we parked off the right side of the area shown, at the East Entrance labeled about halfway down. Our first day would be traveling the 6-7 miles from the entrance to Stave Spring, the dry water source we'd been warned about. Despite being dry, it was still a good landmark for all of the various East Rim trails, so we planned to camp nearby and start the next day from the heart of the area.

I should also mention, as I did NOT to my traveling companions, that I had never been camping before. Ever. I can't think of a night I ever slept in a tent before this trip. Sleeping bags, sure, as there had been everything from sleepovers to Catholic mission trips, but never actually at the mercy of the elements (aka without A/C). I do have some hiking experience, as our family trips to the Adirondacks usually involve 2-3 day-hikes over the week. So I'm not new to the hiking game...just the camping...and the packs...and the limited water supply...and the lack of modern or any facilities to speak of. I add all this context and suspense now and, looking back, the concern in the eyes of close friends makes more sense, but once again, at the time, I didn't think twice. Instead, sunscreen was applied, bandanas were cinched, our canvas carapaces were hoisted, and the car was abandoned. It was time to take on Zion.

The first mile or two of the hike was a trail climbing slowly off the canyon floor from the road. A sign welcomed us to the Zion Wilderness as the wilderness itself crashed down from the mesas in waves of stone and hearty trees. Dirt paths gave way to rock faces that seemed spooned out in dollops over the trail which turned into stone staircases and at one point even a manmade bridge across a thin stream that did not seem capable of wreaking the kind of monumental change that created the surrounding terrain.

The path switched back on us and rose more swiftly, hugging the sides of the mesas and bringing us out onto one overlook after another, including Jolley Gulch (sic), one of the first stop-and-stare moments of the trip.

We stopped frequently for pictures, a Powerbar break, and a chance to throw on our rain jackets for the occasional spitting rain that followed us along the way. We also passed a handful of day-hikers who surely belonged to the cars we'd joined in the East Entrance lot. Their loads were naturally much lighter and one woman with walking sticks spotted our packs and called out:

"How many nights are you staying in?"

"Three."

"Oh...well, may the sun shine down upon you!"

Half a blessing, half a genuine hope for us that I'm sure all three of us shared beneath the looming black clouds you can see in that panoramic shot above. 

The hike itself wasn't as strenuous as I expected, though as we reached the crest of the hillside trails, my knee began showing signs of a weakness I'd contend with throughout the trip. Thankfully, at the same time, the trail leveled out into the Ponderosa pine forests atop the mesa and we strolled through the fading light keeping our eyes peeled for signs of our telltale dry spring. 

Finally, the trail between the trees began descending as we knew it to do just before reaching the spring (thanks topographical maps). Having sighted a high ridge we liked, we decided to make camp, have dinner, then stroll down later to confirm our location near the spring. So ended the first day's big hike, one of the longest we'd have with our big packs, which would also lighten as the days went by. 

It felt good to drop the packs and I even changed shirts as the heat of the hike left me and I found myself hastily pulling out my new EB fleece. Another first, this rapid layering, and another process I'd grow very used to. We strolled around the campsite we'd chosen, picking out spots to cook, to hang up our food, and to pitch our single tent that would be very cozy each night. 

Setting up camp was yet another division of labor. After we all set up the tent and the rainfly, Dan took to cooking us dinner while Moffet hung up the rest of the food. I meandered between the two of them, grabbing stuff from the packs when requested and cutting up summer sausage to complement Dan's warm, delicious couscous. I liked couscous fine before, but to have it piping hot at the end of a long hike, in the middle of the woods, with dark clouds overhead and shelter just nearby...that was an experience I didn't know I was missing. 

Unfortunately, freezing rain set in soon after dinner, so we cleaned up quickly, then walked through the sleet down the hill from camp. We found the spring where we expected, marked with signs, and as expected, it was dry. What was NOT expected were the two groups we passed on our short walk up the hill, still chuffing beneath their full packs, on their way to set up camp. It was a shock to see new people, as we'd left the day-hikers behind hours before. Still, there were hellos and nods and wishes of good luck as we passed. The trail is a very friendly place.

All the way up the hill to camp, my knee proved troublesome, particularly a dull pain when I bent it while it bore weight. Considering it was a hiking trip, I had no intention of being a hero, so I told the guys of the issue and they said I could do whatever I was comfortable with. I have to hand it to Moff and Dan; from that point forward, not an hour went by when they didn't call back or forward to ask about the knee. I know it directly affected them, but it was a comfort to know that they had no intention of letting me power through anything. 

We returned to a considerably whiter camp than we'd left and it seemed there was little option but to get in the tent and get some rest, especially considering the short night's sleep we'd had all the way back in Vegas. 

And so in we went, elbow to elbow, our gear slung in the various pockets of Moffet's tent, our shoes outside (something I had to be told to do after tracking some dirt in earlier...oops), and our bodies huddled into our sleeping bags against the cold just a few layers away. Thankfully, the sleeping bag I'd purchased was a rockstar and kept me very warm; in fact, I was warm enough to fall asleep at a gentlemanly 7pm or so. 

Of course, at 9pm, I awoke to the sounds of movement. Moff and Dan remained asleep, so I stared at the tent walls and listened as branches snapped, leaves rustled, and clear, definite steps were taken around the campsite. My mind did me the unkindness of serving up various explanations: bears, mountain lions, crazed meth-heads. I decided to unzip my sleeping bag, not wanting to face any possible attack with the mobility of a grub. One zipper tooth at a time I went, hating alike each cacophonous click and the silence that followed. And of course, there was the frantic town hall in my head:

Where is my big f****** knife? What about my headlamp? Wait, light would be a terrible idea. Oh, god, it it getting closer? Stop unzipping! It can't be a bear, right? If it was a bear, it would be making those ambient, rumbling bear sounds. Oh, God, what if that's all movie and TV magic and I die screaming at the paws of a non-canon quiet ninja bear? Wait, is that breathing right behind my head? Calm down, it's probably just the other guys. Ok, I hear three breaths...that's Dan...that's Moff...and that's m-...wait, I'm holding my breath to listen....NOOOOOOO. 

And suchlike for about an hour of panicked stillness. The breathing was in fact outside of the tent, just behind my head, and it continued for a while. It was deeply troubling, but ultimately I decided that it was even and placid enough to probably just be a deer. Strangely enough, that decision made a difference and with no change to the sounds outside, I finally fell back asleep.