I went into the car-camping wilderness, endured over 24 hours of on-off downpours. We went through it all―leaking tents, failing rain gear and blow-up mattresses (for those who had them; I used a single foam mattress), soaked gear, crushed spirits, and misery. All of our modest plans, for hiking, walking to the beach and swimming, dissolved.
But, thanks to my resilient party who re-rigged the tarp to give us cover during the deluge, we stuck it out, rewarded by a clearing sky on mid-Saturday evening and a waxing moon with clouds scudding past, playing perk-a-boo, and glimpses of sharp constellations.
There was beer, wine and whiskey and other drugs of choice around the fire, of course, including pre-rolls and drops, but we also shared coffee and food, potatoes; carrots, beans, beans, pork, spinach and all sorts of potato chips, two-bite brownies and even lemon cake. We also shared jokes and memories and grievances and passions to raise each other's spirits.
I went looking for epiphanies and found them, pinned them to the notebook page in the morning of Sunday, the only sunny, temperate day we had. The view of the three-quarter moon and the Sunday weather felt like recompense after our grim uniting experience. Some of us have camped together since 2002. I am exhausted but grateful. This was one for the books.
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