Rain.
With winds picking up during the night - tearing branches off the giants above. Small sticks come falling down striking my tent and picking at my nerves. It mostly passed as I turned pages in my book, having decided that going outside would be most disrespectful to the last bit of dry skin I have left. The rain seemed to have no end, swinging from regular monsoon to that which is worse. I knew that a move was inevitable, if nothing else then to relieve a stressed bladder and to pay for another night.
Break in the weather came around 3 p.m.. I walked to the booth payed my $5, chatted for three minuets and returned to camp. As the skies were still fair I decided to cook. But my propane ran dry before the water could boil.
The host - now formally known as Bones - is a collector. He told me so last night when we talked by his trailer. He told me of all the things people leave behind - tarps, tents, sleeping bags, full camping kits. Having head this I figured he may be the man with propane. The trailer was dark but a tv or radio was running. I knocked and stepped back. No one answered. At the entrance booth works his wife. She didn't believe to have seen any propane laying around. Bones turned up shortly, confirming no propane, but invited me for mexican in town at 4:30 p.m.. He also told me worse weather was coming and I might want to consider getting out from under the trees. This left me with an hour to pack up and move some place more protected.
The overhang by the restrooms - my refuge. Unheated, and open to 3 out of 4 sides, but at least there is a roof above, stronger then the tissue my tent is made of.
We had mexican. Bones spoke of his time in the navy.
Thunder and lightning as I feel asleep.
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