Rain

So, it rained.  Ok, not every minute of the three days of my Annual Solitary Camping Adventure were totally sodden, but to be sure the showers were frequent.  The rain was not unexpected, and I had worked ‘must stay dry’ into my obsessive Adventure planning.  I pitched my little single-person tent underneath a substantial LL Bean Woodland Shelter, and squeezed out enough room in the dryness for my camp chair and a little table.

The campground (situated in the White Mountains National Forest of New Hampshire) was nearly empty.  Only a few determined souls opt to camp in the rain.  Though it was a bit gloomy, with constant overcast and intermittent rain, I did accomplish what I set out to do, which is hit the ‘re-set’ button of my grown-to-be-frantic thought stream

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I did experience some magic moments in the mist shrouded valley of the boulder strewn Swift River near which I camped.  One morning the dryness lasted long enough for me to take my notebook and pencil to a site near the Covered Bridge where there is a little stone fishing pier and a few benches. You see, I had a poem to write.  The pier was vacant save for a musician.  He sat on one of the benches and skillfully played guitar while he softly sang an enchanting melody, which seemed to flow seamlessly into the water and mist, like an ethereal soundtrack.  I sat and said not a word, listening, writing, and reveling in the peace and beauty of the place.

“Thank you.” I said as he presently moved to put away his instrument, “That was beautiful.”  The musician beamed and responded, “Thank you!” Poem written, I wandered away.

And then it was evening.  I had retreated to my dry perch underneath the shelter and was lost in thought when I heard the unmistakable and startling crash of a tree falling, not too far away.  I looked toward the wooded slope which rose steeply up the side of a mountain behind my campsite, and guessed that the persistent rain had loosened the soil to the extent that gravity had tugged the drenched and fully foliated tree violently to the ground.  Then I heard singing. It was a woman’s voice, tuneful and rather melancholy.  Although I knew that there was a hiking trail that descended that same slope, and the damp hiker was probably trying to raise her spirits by singing the last mile of the trail away, I couldn’t stop my mind from following a flight of fancy… The tree.  It had died in a crash of rent roots, broken branches, and shivering leaves.  Maybe the voice, the melancholy song, was the spirit of the tree ascending into the shrouded, clouded sky, or maybe a forest sprite singing good-by forever to her forest friend…. 

Now I’m home.  Got some gear to dry and some poems to edit.  It was a good trip! 

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