Kevin and Beth use their umbrellas for protection.
Like yesterday, it was not a time to linger on the trail. I headed directly for our destination--the Muddy Fork River and Lava Springs. I left the others and took a quick lunch under some fir trees. We passed some gorgeous campsites at trail junctions-one had a thin waterfall directly above it, but the rain kept me in moving. As I wrote in my journal, "I cursed the rain and felt my nylon pants wet my legs as if I were an incontinent grandpa. I was miserable but I continued without much despair."
I left Mt. Adams behind, sad to leave it and vowing to come back someday when there was plenty of sunshine. As I descended into the forest, the weather started to turn. It was misting and then the sun made a few brief stabs at the cloud cover. I soon arrived at the Lava Springs but found the campsite taken by hunters. After looking around for an alternative, I went back on the trail about 1/4 mile toward the Muddy Fork river. Here was an off-trail site with plenty of creek water and a fire ring. When I got there, Kevin had already arrived. "I knew this was the place we wanted," he said.
I immediately got out the tent and the rainfly and put them on a hillside above the trail where I hoped they would catch some sun. Out also came camp socks, shirts, nylon pants-anything that could benefit from drying. I put on polypro tights and my rain pants to give the nylon a chance to dry off. But would there be enough sun to do the job?
Into our campsite marched a through hiker. His name was "Huff'--the guy that Tyson had told me about a few days ago. He was looking for other hikers that may have passed along the way, but I hadn't seen anyone. So he quickly hit the trail again, his black-garbage-bag-covered backpack making rustling sounds as he set off.
Kevin made a toasty fire and we tried to dry off our socks and shoes.
It started to mist again so I quickly set up the tent and rainfly-they had
dried off a little bit. I was already missing the cognac and it was only
the third night of the trip (On the section with Rick, the booze had lasted
six days). Well, it is the price I must pay to travel with other editors,
I said. Working with words often drives us to drink.
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