#i slipped on some mud and went ass up on the river bank day one before i even casted my rod

[unamused-kookaburra]

Some pictures from my 4 day/3 night fishing trip 🎣

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 10

The last two-and-a-half weeks of August went by in a pleasant blur. Buster almost forgot about Harry Brand’s gripes and grudges as he indulged his inner boy with the cyclone sequence. He spent the days slipping through mud, battling wind, clinging to an uprooted tree swung by the enormous crane, and clambering all over the Colusa. The production team landed a building on top of him and splintered it to pieces just after he walked out. They tore another building away from him, leaving him looking bewildered in a hospital bed. They slid buildings and piers into the river and rammed the steamboat into a building floating in the river. The more the sets collapsed around him, the more buildings were destroyed, the better he felt about Steamboat. He felt sure that next to The General, it would have the best finish of any of his pictures.

Louise, Jingles, and Myra took a train up one day so that Louise could double for Peanuts, who couldn’t swim, in the rescue scene. He put them up in the Senator where they played cards in the evenings and reminisced about Muskegon and life on the road. When his family wasn’t there, he spent the nights dining in good restaurants and playing bridge. If he tired of these activities, there was always a pretty girl nearby for added recreation.

Every week, a postcard from her mother arrived. I never hear from you. Are you sure everything is okay? Please write or telephone me as soon as possible, Nelly dear.

A spare moment came on Sunday the 28th, the day after filming wrapped and also the day before she was to begin arranging the shipment of the entire contents of the prop house back to Hollywood. Joe and Maggie were at church and had given her permission  to use their phone. She called her mother at ten o’clock, knowing that it would be noon back in Evanston and both church and lunch would be finished.

“Hi, Mother,” she said, when Lena picked up.

“Is that really Nelly? Well I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” said her mother. “Your father and I have been worrying our heads off about you.”

Nelly suspected they really hadn’t, but didn’t say so. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy here. I’ve hardly had a minute to myself. I work practically from sun-up to sundown.”

“Are you famous yet? Is that Keaton going to put you in his next picture?”

“No. And not as far as I know,” Nelly said. Her mother knew that she was acquainted with Buster and that he was a big name in pictures, but was too out-of-touch with the film world to be as impressed by it as she might have been.

“Well I wanted to tell you that Ruthie’s going to have a baby again,” said her mother. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Nelly’s stomach sank. “Oh my, that’s marvelous!” she said, forcing a smile into her voice.

She and Ruthie had been close as children, but drifted apart as they matured. Nelly liked books and the theater, Ruthie liked boys and homemaking. The younger by two years, Ruthie had always been her mother’s pet. That relationship had only strengthened when Ruthie married auspiciously at nineteen and had her first baby by twenty. This would be baby number three. Nelly loved her niece and nephew, but there was a stiffness to them that she didn’t like to see—as though they were an extension of Ruthie’s big, clean house with all mechanicals and servants running in regimented order.

“She thinks she’ll have it in February,” her mother said. “A St. Valentine’s Day baby. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Nelly agreed that it would.

“You know, Harold Jenkins still asks after you every Sunday at church.”

“Does he?” she said. She had not been to church since leaving Evanston, something she’d never tell her mother, and was very grateful to not have seen the loathsome Harold Jenkins for as long.

“Are you seeing anybody out there in Sacramento?” said her mother.

“Of course not. When would I have the time?” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose there are dances on the weekend, aren’t there?”

“I’ve gone to see the pictures a few times, but mostly I’m too tired to do anything on weekends. I work Saturdays, you know.”

The conversation was headed where it invariably did, the lines so predictable Nelly could recite them in her head.

Mother: When are you going to get married?

Nelly: When I find the right man.

M: Are you looking?

N: No, I am not.

M. Time is running out on you having children.

N: I know it is, Mother.

M: I just want to see you happy and settled down.

N: I know, Mother.

Marriage had never factored into Nelly’s plans as it had Ruthie’s. She assumed she’d get there eventually, but her real dreams had been built around the theater since she’d been ten years old and seen her first play. The possibility of having children seemed even hazier than marriage. She knew she was getting older and wouldn’t have forever to decide, but she also knew that marriage and children would put an end to her theater career. She wasn’t eager to declare the dream deceased before it ever lived.

“When are you going to settle down?” her mother asked.

Nelly did not attempt to conceal her sigh. “Just as soon as I find the right fellow.” She was half-tempted to add how bad she’d been at choosing men of late, what with the near brush she’d had with Tommy and the other workmen.

“I just want to see you happy. You’re already twenty-six. I had you and Ruthie by then,” she said.

“I am happy, Mother,” she said, frowning. “I’m working for a big star and I’m going to try out for a role in some of the other pictures just as soon as this one’s wrapped up. I don’t mind being an old maid. I’m happy. Who says happiness is marrying and having babies. What if I married the wrong fellow? I’d be a lot worse off than I am now.”

“I know you have more sense than to do that, dear,” said her mother, brushing aside her argument. “And you will be happy! I was when I met your father, and Ruthie and Gerald couldn’t be happier. It only gets better when the babies come along.”

Nelly rolled her eyes and withheld multiple sarcastic replies. “I’d better be going now. I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do. I promised Maggie and Joe I’d help.” She felt bad lying to her mother, but there was a danger of her losing her temper and that undoubtedly was a worse sin.

“Okay. I do hope you can make it back to Evanston in time for the baby to be born. Your father sends his love.”

Nelly sent her love in kind and said her goodbyes. She went upstairs and sat in her open window after she’d hung up the phone.

“She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, my household stuff, my field, my barn, my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything,” she muttered. Spoken previously by John Barrymore in one of her fantasies, the words had seemed romantic, but they didn’t seem that way anymore. She never wanted to become a man’s chattel or ass, his anything rather than everything.

The breeze was warm and the lemon tree outside the window was plump with still green fruit. No matter what her mother said, this was happiness. She was earning her own wage and working in pictures, and she didn’t have to go to church every week and endure Halitosis Harold’s clumsy attempts at courting. There was also Buster. Just being near his genius made her feel like a piece of dry tinder next to a spark. If they were acquainted long enough, she felt certain that she would ignite with the same ingenious fire that burned in him.

[thismightbeaterribleidea]

Accidental Snowbirding

So I went to Florida and accidentally became a snowbird. I drove south in September with no real timeframe for anything in mind, and I ended up staying on the Gulf coast north of Tampa (Pasco County) for almost three months, minus a couple of weeks I was in Georgia.

Some friends have asked me how the new, nomadic life is going, and I tell them that it hasn’t really felt that nomadic. I’ve enjoyed being close to my friend Ron — I had a regular rotation of several campgrounds, none of them more than half an hour from his place. It reminded me of the decade-plus ago when we both lived in Denver, in old, cheap apartments within walking distance of each other. A friend calls and says “do you want to come over?” and you just go over. It’s lovely. We both got into paddleboarding (more on that later) and explored some rivers. We even took an airbnb trip to the Smokies and northern Alabama before the pandemic escalated. So it’s been interesting and good, if different from the types of images that motivated me to buy this big-ass van (wilderness, solitude, aspen groves, desert mesas).

Here’s what I remember from the last few months:

A cotton-candy-pink bird forages on a shoreline and it is so quiet that you can hear its three-clawed feet pattering in the mud. Ninety minutes later we are scarfing down fried chicken in the car in a crowded parking lot.

In the trailer park, people drive golf carts around in loops: maybe this passes for exercise, or maybe they are hoping to run into someone to talk to.

Until November, I sweat and sweat and sweat, and then it cools off enough for me to run in the morning and it’s glorious. 

During the day, there is constant traffic and the lights are always red. There are a lot of billboards, all promising different things, but the one that makes us angry is the one that says “Jesus promises stability.”

I spend the night at a trailer park and the ladies in the office are sweet and efficient and wearing masks. But the spot I’m assigned is across from a mobile home with one of those flags that is half the U.S. flag and half the Confederate flag, and although my privilege probably keeps me safe here, I keep running through the equations with slightly different variables: who would be safe in this spot, in this trailer park/this county/this state/this country, and under what circumstances? What could make all of us safer? And the people who chose to pay for and display that absurdity of a flag, why is that flag the story they tell themselves? And what is the topography of the shared responsibility for all of this bullshit?

We paddle the Hillsborough River and see no other boaters but two alligators. One is basking on a log, and when I turn my head for a second it drops into the water with a massive splash: one moment there was a six-foot alligator; the next moment there was nothing but ripples. It was that fast. My friend decides he will not paddle here alone.

I see live oaks that have Spanish moss hanging from their branches, sure — but they’re also covered in lichens, and on the horizontal branches there are carpets of multiple kinds of moss and clusters of foot-tall ferns. It’s a whole ecosystem in one tree.

I’m driving “home” (most frequent campground) late one night and I am alone on a very dark road. In my headlights, I see a human figure in the middle of my lane, facing directly at me. I think: goblin! But it is a human person. I swerve into the other lane in case he moves. But he doesn’t move a muscle. He is in a half-crouch with his hands on his knees. I catch a glimpse of him in profile as I pass: his face is set in a rictus, jaw clenched. He is still staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if he hasn’t even seen me.

I call Ron just to reassure myself that I haven’t slipped out of the real human world and into someplace else.

“Oh my God,” he says. “But no, you’re still in the real world. There’s a lot of meth around here. He’s not a demon or anything. It’s just Florida.” He is wearing a dark sweatshirt and standing in the dark on a dark road; what if he gets hit? I call the police and I hate that to this day I still wonder if that was the right decision.

We get into paddleboarding. Ron already has an inflatable paddleboard, and I buy one with money I should be saving for things like van insulation or the loose crown on my lower left molar that is already living on borrowed time. But the paddleboard is amazing. Previously, I hadn’t gotten it: why stand when you could sit? I’m lazy and I have crappy feet; I hate standing. But this isn’t regular standing. It’s walking-on-water standing. In our favorite river, the Weeki Wachee, you can see all kinds of things from a paddleboard that it’s harder to see in a kayak, just because of the angle. On a paddleboard, you look straight down and there’s a fish striped like a zebra, an old pine log submerged ten feet down in the clear water, a scurrying blue crab, a bed of rippled sand.

We start at the public park and paddle up against a stiff current. Twice, we get to the three-mile mark and there is the same black-and-white cormorant in the same tree both times. We are familiar with the fact that if you time it right, so that you get back to the park as late as possible without actually paddling in the dark, and the crowds taper off so you have the river to yourself, the deepest pools are turquoise on our way upriver and viridian on our way down.

There are sometimes manatees on the river. In this part of the world, manatees are THE charismatic megafauna. And they are charismatic as hell. Once we are out late, a couple miles up the river with no one else around, and we see a mother and baby grazing on eelgrass in shallow water. We watch for minutes, mesmerized. The baby is tiny for a manatee: about the size of a Corgi. It must be very, very new. There is another manatee that I’m pretty sure I see several times on different days: it is very plump, with three pink slash marks across its back. We get to the point where, if there is a throng of other boaters stopped near where manatees are feeding, we don’t try to stop and see the manatees. We’ve seen them before, and we’ll see them again, when we don’t have to worry about the people and their kayaks and canoes in the current.

The last time I went to the Weeki Wachee, I went alone. The leaves were turning, because the calendar’s close-to-Christmas is Florida’s fall. I hadn’t ever planned on seeing a blazing orange maple next to tropical blue water, but it happened. Close-knit formations of big, soft gray, doe-eyed fish darted under my feet, and at the appointed time the water started turning dark green. In one of the final bends just upriver from the park, there is a deep spot called Hospital Hole. As I paddled down towards it, I saw one manatee, then another break the surface to breathe. I drifted over the hole, away from the manatees near the surface, and I saw the outline of another one eight or ten feet down against the very dark blue of very deep water.

The Weeki Wachee is a very narrow river, usually not more than thirty feet across and often only twenty. It’s also shallow, four or five feet on average, twelve where the current has carved a deep groove or pocket. Hospital Hole is at one of the river’s widest points, I’d guess maybe 150 feet from bank to bank. The hole itself — technically a sinkhole, but with a couple of small springs feeding into it — is only about 30 or 40 feet wide, but 140 feet deep. It goes down so far that there are different layers of water: freshwater, saltwater, a layer that is anoxic, another layer that is so full of hydrogen sulfide that divers can smell the rotten-egg odor even though they’re breathing compressed air. I read online that the manatees often go to Hospital Hole to sleep at night. The sinkhole-spring, like a big deep pocket, gives them space to stay together and still spread out. They can sink down below where they have to worry about boat engines or curious paddle boarders or whatever else manatees worry about. Every so often, they come up to breathe, then sink down again. Respire, rest, repeat.

It’s 7:17 p.m. as I am writing this, so they’re probably there right now.

***

So that’s Florida! Other, more nuts-and-bolts things that have happened include...

I installed lights and outlets. This was a big project and a big deal, since it means that I can have things like a fan (to keep me from sweating to death in the summer), an electric cooler (a.k.a. mini-mini-fridge) for things like vegetables and hummus and cheese and cold boozy beverages, and, well, lights at night that aren’t a harsh blue-white solar lantern, which is what I was using before October, when I made these improvements. Anything electrical is always a little scary; I’m nervous every time I have to go into the breaker box and always surprised when I’m able to touch it without shocking myself. I also had an extremely minimal understanding of how to splice wires together and how to connect all these lights to each other, to the dimmer switch, and to the breaker box. This involved a lot of googling, and even though the DIY van blogs seemed to say that installing lights would take half a day, it took me the better part of two days. But it’s done, and I’m very happy with it. Fiat lux, motherf***er!

My new favorite public agency is the Southwest Florida Water Management District. Occasionally, if I’d had a few drinks at Ron’s house, I spent the night parked in his driveway. Sometimes I stayed in private RV parks. (This was mostly driven by the need to empty the van’s port-a-pot once a week or so — public dump stations are not easy to find in this area of Florida; the closest was about an hour away.) But mostly, I stayed at campground operated by the SWFWMD. These campgrounds are in big tracts of forested, marshy, watery land, and they are great primitive campgrounds that cost $0. There’s no water, no showers, no other fancy campground amenities, but there is usually one outhouse, and each campsite has a picnic table and a fire pit. They’re basic and beautiful.

My favorite campground is called the Serenova Tract. It’s about 15 minutes from Ron’s house, and the campground is in a bunch of pines and live oaks. Horses are allowed, and on one of the last weekends I spent there, several people with horses stayed overnight and hung up Christmas lights. The next morning, they were joined by a dozen other horses and riders who all went for a morning trail ride through the woods. I was insanely jealous.

The other SWFWMD campground I stayed at was called Cypress Creek. It’s a little farther from Ron’s place than Serenova, so it was my second choice when Serenova was full but my van’s shitter wasn’t. It’s a beautiful spot, with tons of big pines. But right now I’m a little wary of it because the last time I stayed there I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:51 a.m. when I heard someone singing and talking to themselves. (The campground had been totally empty when I got there and still was as far as I could see.) It was probably just someone who had come in on foot and was drinking because it was cold (40 degrees) outside, but it was still a bit unnerving. 

I also have a favorite RV park. I was thinking that my relationship with these places would be strictly utilitarian, and it still mostly is. But out of the three RV parks that I’ve stayed at, there’s one small one called Suncoast that I actually kind of enjoyed: even though I only went there occasionally, the three staff people remembered me when I called or came in, and they often gave me a discount on their regular rates because I don’t use any electricity. They (both staff and most guests) also seem to be taking pretty good pandemic precautions. (I actually saw someone get kicked out of the office when they tried to come in without a mask, something that I’ve never seen in any other business since March!) The place has nice big pine trees, and by the office there’s a table where people put free food that they aren’t using, or occasionally two-day-old bread that someone got from Publix for free. The last time I was there, some people had decorated their campers and RVs with lights and it was kind of charming. I still heavily prefer to be out in the woods by myself and not spending any money, but I’m glad I found someplace pleasant for my once-a-week-or-so sewer/water needs.

I figured out how to stay warm while sleeping. This is a bigger deal than it sounds because a) I haven’t insulated the van yet, so at night, it’s only a few degrees warmer than whatever the temperature is outside, and b) I’m a very cold sleeper. Florida is SUPER WARM compared to any other place I’ve ever lived, but in December, it started getting a little chilly at night: down into the fifties, then the forties, then, a few nights ago, 30 degrees. I’ve camped in near-freezing or slightly-below-freezing temperatures before, but sometimes it wasn’t very comfortable — even with good long underwear and socks and a hat and a zero-degree-rated sleeping bag. But I’ve figured out a system for my bed that uses four blankets, layered like a licorice allsort: a quilt, a heavy wool blanket, another quilt, and a faux-wool blanket. If it gets below 40, I can add my zero-degree down sleeping bag and be not just comfortable but actively toasty, like a baking croissant.

Unrelatedly, I’ve been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

I’ve found that my life in a van is basically like my life has been anywhere else. I work. I sleep. I stay up late reading things on the internet when I should be sleeping. Sometimes I go running or do yoga (while trying not to bump into the cabinet or kick the front console or hit the ceiling). Sometimes I do fun things, like paddleboarding or talking to friends. I make goals and plans and don’t follow through on them, except when very very occasionally I do. But when I’m looking up van stuff online, I often run across photos of people who are #selfemployed #vanlife and the photos of them working are:

A woman is seated propped up on pillows in the bed in the back of her van. The doors are open, framing a view of the cerulean sea, so that you can practically smell the gentle breeze blowing over the dunes. She has a laptop on her lap and is looking thoughtfully out to sea while a cup of tea steeps on a tray that is on the white coverlet of her bed.

Or

A man is seated at the dinette in the back of his van. He has a laptop, a French press, a mug of coffee, and a plate with two scones on it on the table. The table, and in fact the whole dinette with its two upholstered benches, would be at home on a small luxury yacht, and it’s the kind of dinette that you make into a bed at night. The astute, intent expression on the man’s face give the viewer to understand that he is competent and disciplined and never stays up two hours past his bedtime because he’s too lazy to lower the dinette table and rearrange the cushions and put on all his sheets and blankets. We are also given to understand that the electrical system in his van would have no problems handling the power drain of a bean grinder, even though he is clearly parked in the high Rockies — again, with the back doors open, the better to take in the late spring air and see the fresh green of the aspen trees — and it’s often cloudy. Lastly, we are given to understand that he baked those scones himself, because when he’s not working, hiking, lumberjacking, or otherwise living his best life, he enjoys unwinding by baking bread and pastries. (Not in the van; don’t be silly! He bakes outside, over a wood fire.)

(A tangent: Why do so many people have their van doors open in photos I see online? Do they only stay in places with no bugs? If I tried that in Florida, or even Maryland or Colorado half the year, I’d be awake half the night swatting at mosquitoes and/or flies.)

In contrast, a photo of me being self-employed in a van would look like:

A woman is sprawled in an ungainly fashion on her narrow bunk. Her laptop is braced by her lower ribs and propped up with a pillow placed over her gut. The pillow has a cat on it. The windows of the van are covered in silver bubble-wrap, so very little light gets in. Absolutely no doors are open, because the van is parked behind a Dunkin Donuts so the woman can get free wifi and not burn through all the data on her phone plan. She takes a break to heat up a can of Campbell’s soup on an alcohol stove, adding a handful of dehydrated mixed vegetables, to be healthy. As she stirs the soup, she gazes contemplatively out the windshield towards the adjacent parking lot, where there is an IHOP. #vanlife

Or

A woman is sitting in the passenger seat of her van with her feet on the dashboard and her laptop on her lap. Beside her in the cupholder is a steaming Hydroflask full of the cheapest tea she could buy at Publix. The van is parked in a grove of live oaks. Spanish moss sways gently in the morning breeze. Behind the woman, in the dark recesses of the van, sets of clothes are hanging: leggings and a shirt, still sweaty, by the side doors, a bathing suit over the sink, a t-shirt and shorts for sleeping in by the rear cabinet. Several kitchen towels are draped on the driver’s seat and on the dashboard because the cab leaks above the sun visors when it rains, and even though she’s tried caulking it three times, she still can’t get it to stop. #vanlife

The good thing, though, is that I’m still getting work and making a living. I can do it someplace that’s safe, without having to risk my life to do it. And I’m getting paid a fair hourly wage. But then the very terrible thing is that everyone should be able to say what I just said, but so many people can’t: they’re not making a real living through their work, they have to risk their lives to do it, and they’re not getting paid a fair wage.

(Brief interlude as I stare at the ceiling angrily.)

***

Here’s what I’m doing next: I left Pasco County on the 16th. I’ll be in what I think of as “traveling quarantine” until the 30th, staying in a national forest near Jacksonville. (With a couple of stops at state parks to refill water, empty the port-a-pot, and maybe take a real shower.) I’ll be in Maryland on New Year’s Eve and will stay at my parents’ while I insulate the van, build interior walls, and do a bunch of other stuff so that I can call it (mostly) finished. Then I’m thinking of going to New Mexico and spending late winter/early spring there… parked on top of a mesa… sipping a cup of French-press coffee on my white coverlet while I thoughtfully gaze out the open doors of my van… (I really would like to park on top of a mesa though.)

[wilhelmjfink]

November (pt. 1)

So November is a really hard month for me for several reasons. I try to be open about it now in hopes of helping others who felt the way I did! In 2010 when I was a freshman in hs I attempted suicide November 9th. I spent a week and a half in the psych ward and was in extensive therapy after that and still am to this day and that “it gets better” BS is SO cliche but shit, it’s true... so herr we are...

Naturally they went straight to meds and I spent a lot of time sick & drugged out like WAY beyond anything I could’ve comprehended. So I struggled a LOT with horrible nightmares due to different medications after that and I still do now.. But I’ll take scary dreams over any of that any day. 

November remains a dismal time for me so I channeled all of those feelings into a story (cuz I can do that now thanks to @crossbowking) so here is a rapid, confusing story about conflicting inner emotions and high functioning manic bi polar disorder and major depression. There are your warnings. Enjoy my inner turmoil ❤️ I tried to make this uncommon and use a plot line that wasn’t already used before that I saw! Xoxox

PS I’m REAL bad with present/past tense shit so humor me ok thanks 

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, although everyone else had been convinced it was just another irrational worry of yours. And as you jog through the frozen woods searching for footprints or tire tracks or anything, you were fueled by fear knowing that Daryl was never late just because.

So when you come up on a long imprint of tire tread that jolted sideways and slid, leading you to a familiar overturned motorcycle that lay tipped over on its side abandoned in the snow, you about scream your heart out right then and there. 

The bike is lodged against a dead tree trunk that prevented it from tumbling down the hill behind it into a deep ravine, a big ditch of various whites and browns and the sound of rushing water. The front tire still rotates slowly, suspended in the air; you tried to focus on the minuscule relief you felt knowing that it had to have crashed pretty recently at least if it’s still moving, right?

You waste no time diving over the bike, sliding uncontrollably down the side of the steep ravine wall rather than gracefully scaling it like you intended to. You land harshly at the bottom, falling forward onto your hands and knees in the frozen riverbed, pebbles and rocks and Ice jabbing through your  thin gloves like shards of glass. And you know for sure that it will all really hurt later, but right now you’re so fucking scared so scared that your adrenaline won’t let you even think about it right now. 

You spot what you immediately recognize as his body laying motionless some feet away. Your heart literally stops and words lodged in your throat for a second, and the fucking fear you feel... it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

“Fuck, Daryl!” You finally clamber to your feet, slipping in the mud and trudging through the not-quite knee deep waters, the bitter cold instantly soaking your boots and clothes.  

“Daryl!” You call out again and again actually hoping to catch the attention of the four waterlogged walkers that are stumbling toward him where he lay just barely on dry land and out of the water flat on his back, not moving, and with an arrow sticking out of his side. Your breath comes out in white puffs in front of you and even through Daryl’s layers of clothing you can see the blood staining his jacket. His crossbow sticks out from a snow bank several feet away. You can’t tell if his head lulls or if it’s just wishful thinking.  “Hey! Hey!”

When the first walker spots you and changes his target to you instead, you fumble blindly at your side for your holster that isn’t in its rightful place on your hip.

“Shit,” you whip around and quickly spot it back on the bank where you’d fallen, the metal contrasting the white snow it lay in. You’re frustrated now because running in water is fucking stupid hard, especially when you’re already freezing, and when you finally manage to snag your pistol and unholster it with almost numb fingers, you aim and flick off the safety just as the first walker stumbles over itself and face plants into the water in front of you, successfully colliding with your barrel as it lands. 

The shot misses, hitting the ground to the left of where it lands. You curse again, your sights locking on the other three walkers that have still taken an interest in Daryl. 

You fire two shots rapidly, the first one hitting its chest and the second one it’s skull,  and then watch in horror as it falls forward on top of Daryl and the the other two fall of top of him, still alive.

“No!”

The scream rips through your throat and hurts like fire, echoing through the stillness of winter around you and bouncing off of the ravine walls and trees. In a panic now you completely drop your gun while you scramble over to him as fast as you absolutely can and you’re already positive it just isn’t fast enough. 

As soon as you’re close enough you throw yourself into the dog pile, noticing at the very last second how Daryl seems to stir. But it’s too late to do anything about it, because you catch the top two bodies — one alive, one dead — and the three of you tumble down the slate drop off and sink like stones to the bottom of the cold water.  

It knocks the wind right out of your lungs and for a second, you’re paralyzed.  It takes  you some time to gather your bearings, finding the surface while you’re tossed around by the current, tangling with a heavy body that you can’t decide is alive or not. 

Your heavy winter clothes are quickly soaked and act as anchors, holding you prisoner underneath the rushing water. Amidst all of the fear and panic you’re faced with, you can’t seem to stop worrying about Daryl.

 By the time you resubmerge your body is so fucking cold that the gasp of oxygen you desperately inhale pains you, like you were swallowing electricity and letting it settle inside of your body while it burns every inch of you, inside and out. 

                                                                 ~

You finally drag yourself out of the river, slipping and sliding with little grip on the wet rocks, until you’re finally out and able to lay flat on your back and catch your breath. 

The obnoxious clicking you hear turns out to be your own chattering teeth and you can hear yourself gasping audibly while trying to breathe but you can’t help it because it’s so fucking cold. So fucking cold that it hurts. 

All you want is to find Daryl and make sure he’s okay, then you remember the last thing you saw was two walkers falling on top of him as he laid unconscious. 

So you were pretty positive he wasn’t okay. 

You can’t tell if it’s the cold air or the absolute feeling of disbelief that washes over you that renders you useless but you just lay still, staring up at the endless gray sky, too cold to move and too cold to scream and cry.

Daryl is gone. 

Your heart hurts. 

It really, physically hurts. 

The dull ache turns violent when it tries to function, like a broken bone inside of your chest. You want to scream and cry and fucking thrash around to try and relieve the pressure that was building up inside of you, threatening to boil over and send you whirling out of control.

But you were just so cold. 

How do you expect to make the trip back like this? 

You would be fine with just freezing to death here, actually. Less painful than having to live through this shit world without Daryl by your side to help you and tell you to chill out because everything would be fine. It wasn’t going to be fine. Nothing was going to be fucking fine. 

And even if you could make it back, how did you plan to just tell them you let Daryl get eaten? What would they think? You were better off dead than without him, anyway.

It was dark when you stirred next, the silent snow falling around you eerily nostalgic, the flakes landing gently on your skin and eyelashes and disappearing when you blinked. 

Sitting upright you felt like a board, so stiff and immobile, and your body ached with every movement and your head throbbed with every beat of your heart. 

It was quickly becoming nighttime, the last of the suns rays barely lighting the forest around you. You were confused, dazed, completely out of it and unaware of your surroundings or the frostbite that was setting into your limbs dangerously fast. Despite not being able to feel it, it loomed over you like the dark and heavy clouds above your head, and when you pushed yourself to your feet to take your first few steps, you quickly collapsed back into the snow. 

Your fingers couldn’t bend, your toes couldn’t move. Your extremities wouldn’t listen to your brain and so you crawled, blissfully unaware of the snow that was soaking through your already drenched gloves, burning your numb fingers so violently that you couldn’t feel it at all. 

Eventually you couldn’t crawl anymore. So you collapsed down onto the frozen ground, chest heaving, body screaming, head swimming. Dizzy. Confused. Tired. So tired... so, so tired. 

“C’mon, girl, getcher ass up.”

You shifted uncomfortably, shaking off the weight that was trying to get you up and away from the comfort of sleep. You know, you haven’t had a migraine in years, thankfully, but you had one from hell today and you didn’t want to have to wake up for anything... especially work. 

You swatted the hand away, refusing to move for your boyfriend as he sighs — he was even harder to get out of bed in the morning than you are, you remember bitterly — when the voice came back even louder than before.

“Fuck’s sake, woman, come on! Are ya serious right now?”

You felt a surge of energy in your bones that stemmed from the anger that rendered, and were prepared to sit up and lash out when you opened your eyes and realized you were not in your fucking bed. 

“Patrick...?” You mumbled for your boyfriend into the bright white above you. When your vision settled and you blinked through the pain, you were looking up at bare tree limbs blanketed in snow. Not your ceiling. Not your boyfriend.  Not your warm, cozy bed. 

“Real nice,” the familiar voice beside you muttered — now obviously not your boyfriend. “Nah, it’s me. Get up n’ lets go.”

“Ouch, whew, that stung a lil’!” Another voice howled from somewhere around you so loudly it made you flinch. “Isn’t ‘at her ol’ man’s name? Ha!”

“Shut it, Merle,” the first man growled, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. Daryl — your brain was racking itself to decipher who that was. Why the fuck didn’t you recognize his voice? What the fuck were him and Merle doing there? Wasn’t it just Patrick who was shaking you awake? Were you drunk? 

“Ya just gonna lay there n’ daydream, or what?”

“She ain’t comin’ with us,” Merle stated matter of factly. You subconsciously rolled your eyes — didn’t you lose him on a roof like a week ago? They must’ve found him. Where the fuck did his hand go?

When your eyes found finally found Daryl, he was standing at your feet, his boot nudging the sole of yours impatiently. You just groaned. 

“Come on!”

It was weird — he looked so much older than you remembered: his hair was much longer, shabbier, down to his shoulders now. He’d filled out more — he was more muscular, his eyes darker. He has a thick poncho on, too, despite it being, what, 90° in Georgia? He didn’t look like the Daryl you knew anymore and it didn’t sit well with you. Especially because Merle looked the same as you remembered him; almost as if he hadn’t aged a day. Despite his hand being replaced with a blade.

“Just leave ‘er there, man! She obviously ain’t gonna get up. She don’t wanna come with ya! Didn’t ya just hear her call out for ‘at other guy?” He laughed. “Or did I jus’ imagine that?”

Daryl was staring down at you pointedly, as if he was trying to figure out what you were thinking. But you didn’t even know what you were thinking. Everything was too bright and too loud and your head was foggy, the world was tilting around you. Stupid migraines. Everything hurt. But you wanted Daryl to stay, to hold you and tell you everything was fine.

“D...?” You really wanted to speak but you couldn’t form any words, your mouth dry and unwilling to move other than your teeth that you couldn’t get to stop occasionally chattering, despite being so fucking overheated and sweaty. So cold. What the fuck was wrong with you? “Don’t...”

“She don’t want ya,” Merle was suddenly much closer to you, inches away from your face, sneering down at you. Daryl remained behind him, eyes darting between the two of you. You felt like he was looking right through you. “Ah, ‘sa real shame, too. I bet she was a real treat under the sheets, lil’ brother. Ha! Can’t wait for you to tell me all ‘bout it.” He elbowed Daryl, who shoved him off before turning and stepping away from you. No, no. You tried to reach for him but your arms felt like lead. You couldn’t even tell Merle to shut the fuck up and god that was all you fucking wanted to do! “Good for you, Darlina.”

“Man, shut up and le’s go.”

No! Was Daryl really just going to leave you there? Paralyzed and hurt or frozen or whatever you were — helpless and afraid and alone? You tried to scream for him, plead for him to come back and help you, hold you, anything. But Merle trotted up behind him, throwing his arm around him harshly, and leading him away from you. 

“Daryl...” You finally choked out, though feeling like you had a mouth full of marbles or cotton, preventing you from crying and screaming like you wanted to. “Daryl! Please...”

But he was gone.

You didn’t even know what you were doing but you wanted to give up on it. Quit and not feel anything. Not have to deal with anymore. No more loss. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Daryl was somewhere back upstream. And he was probably a walker by then, if there was even anything left of him. 

Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad. 

It didn’t seem real. You had seen him brush with death so many times and he always came out unscathed — it was just what he did. He just seemed to avoid death. Like he wasn’t meant to die. He was supposed to be okay and be strong for everybody else. This world needed him — you fucking needed him. 

Whatever realm of purgatory you were stuck in allowed you to feel everything, and somehow, absolutely nothing all at once. You couldn’t feel the cold that was chilling you to the bone, turning your blood to shards of ice that coursed through your veins agonizingly, but you could literally feel your heart that had shriveled up inside of your chest, trying desperately to resume its regular beat,  like everything was fine and you were okay and Daryl was okay, and just failing miserably. 

You couldn’t picture anything but his eyes; it was always funny to you how he was so closed off and dark and angry but those blue eyes, God, they were the brightest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. And his small smirk, a smile that he’d flash so quickly sometimes you were sure it was your mind playing tricks on you. The light, breathy chuckle that only you could seem to elicit from him, when it was just the two of you. 

You felt like you were floating, weightless, surrounded by dark water that both cooled you off and lit you on fire at the same time. It was a peaceful ignorance, to feel no physical harm, no  sickness or fear, but you were happy once you remembered how to move, and all you could manage to do was curl yourself into a ball and tuck your head in and hide away and dig your nails into your skin just to feel something and you screamed your fucking lungs out. 

It felt good to finally be able to let something out of your tightly wound soul; unfortunately it didn’t relieve the weight that was resting on your shoulders and crushing you until you felt minuscule and broken and worthless. You were so, so angry. 

You screamed until your throat was raw and you were sure you could taste blood. And it was bittersweet, remembering you that you were very much alive somehow, but very much alone.

So alone.

Maybe your unconscious would swallow you whole and you could live inside of your own head forever. 

Every time you made a noise there was a bolt of lightning in your throat and you gasped for breath, dragging your fingers through your hair, tangling themselves carelessly amongst the strands and emerging with knots of it stuck in your dull, bloody fingernails. 

Why? Why? How did you get here? Why did have Daryl leave you?

You screamed again. “You fucking asshole. I hate you! I hate you!”

Now you were sure you could feel him holding you, if you didn’t know any better. His grip was definitely holding you down, holding you back the way it would before when you’d playfully or otherwise try to run and he would quickly catch you. You’d laugh and sometimes he’d even kiss you. Did those memories even happen, or did you make it all up?

“I fucking hate you! Why did you have to leave? Why did you fucking leave me? I needed you. I still need you. I need you, please come back. Please don’t go. Please say something...”

Though you jumped when he answered you back. 

“Y/N?”

The sweetest sound you’d ever heard. Frantically you searched for the source of the voice, unable to find anything in the vast brightness of the world you were stuck in. Empty and bright. Where the fuck were you?

There was nobody there with you. But it was him. He was there. And you needed to fucking find him. 

“Daryl!” You were yelling into thin air. But he sounded alive, so he had to be alive, and was he going to leave with Merle again? Had that not happened yet, and you had the opportunity to try and prevent it? You clambered to your feet. “Daryl? ...Don’t go — please don’t go with Merle. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you... I’m so sorry.” 

Silence. 

“Daryl? Where are you? Please, come back!” The words began spilling out of your mouth with the tears and you just tucked yourself back into a ball because you just wanted to be as small as possible and disappear. It’s your fault you were stuck there anyway. “I’m so sorry, Daryl. I’m so sorry.” 

Who were you kidding? 

He would leave you — everyone did eventually. He would go with Merle. Gone. Just like that.

No, wait, you killed him... 

“Y/N!”

Your head snapped up — he’d come back for you! 

But he sounded confused or lost or in trouble. It worries you. Or maybe you were dead too, and you were in your own personal hell and you were about to watch him getting eaten alive by those walkers. No, no, no, no, please, not Again. 

You pushed yourself back up and screamed for him as loud as you could. 

“Y/N, relax.”

He was holding you again, trying to pull you somewhere else from where you wanted to stay standing until you dropped. So you tried to shrug him off, tried to fight the invisible force that held you back, until it finally gave way and you tumbled and hit the ground with a grunt. 

There was somebody else there with you. You could feel it. 

Rolling over you saw the first walker, grotesque and gray and bloodied, it’s jaws snapping as it meandered toward you. 

It slowly got closer and closer and closer and you just sat there, waiting for it to get closer. But why?

It got close enough. It was Daryl.  

You didn’t want horrified scream to tear its way through your already raw lungs and throat as he stumbled forward, falling onto you and grasping you with those cold, boney fingers. He was not your Daryl. Not you’re Daryl. Not your Daryl. 

You wrestled him frantically, looking anywhere else to avoid catching sight of those yellow eyes. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. It wasn’t Daryl. There was no way, he couldn’t have died. He wouldn’t turn into one of those monsters even if he did. He was too strong. Too smart. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. 

You screamed his name a hundred times it seemed, trying to get him to wake up and respond to you, to snap out of that trance and go back to normal. 

But when you looked back up at it, using all of your strength to keep it hovering over your body as it flailed and wriggled and barred it’s teeth at you menacingly, hungry. Starved. Dead. It really was him. Your best friend.  Your best fucking friend. Why? You had loved him with everything that you had, tried so hard to keep him safe as he did you, you just wants to rescue him when he didn’t come back by dusk that fateful night, and it wasn’t enough. You had known something was wrong that day. 

Tears blurred your vision and they were warm and stung your cheeks as they fell. You stopped struggling. You let his body fall on you, deadweight, and sink his rotted, yellow teeth into your neck.

Confused?? Good. Stay tuned for pt. 2 :-)

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[supermysanju-blog]

Here I am on my way back home and the last thing I feel is homesick. What just happened? Disoriented, overwhelmed, nostalgic, I can barely contain myself as a multitude of feelings launch at me all at once. I pulled the plug on routine and found myself in the middle of virgin Himalayas.

A week back my relentless search for beauty brought me to a piece of nature etched by the gods themselves. The Rupin Pass, tucked away in a far corner of the great Himalayas, a trail along the humble Rupin River through hanging hamlets, gushing waterfalls, endless forests, crisp green meadows, pebbled rivulets, magical valleys, snow bridges and I feel tempted to give the plot away already.

Day 1: Dehradun to Dhaula

We began our journey up the winding roads of Mussourie. The ever-changing scenes that rushed by us charged us up for the week that awaited. We gazed down Yamuna and the trippy patterns of tall forest pines. We were slowly beginning to lose our connectivity to the world, one bar at a time. By the time we got to Dhaula, the rain gods emptied their stash of monsoon showers upon us. Curious us, we explored the modest campsite that lay by the river Rupin despite the spell of rain. A group of 18 strangers sat huddled in a tent that was soon labeled the hangout area. The group was a great mix of people across ages and different walks of life. I’d been assigned a tent that I’d share with Archana, a fellow first-time trekker. Meanwhile, the nip in the air was as real as it could get. Made me realize how spoilt I was by the convenient weather in Bombay. Minutes after the introduction and a quick debate on the trek, I found myself panicking about being hit by AMS or having the required levels of stamina to scale a height of 15350 ft, Rupin Pass being one of the country’s most difficult treks. I’d underestimated the whole affair. I crept inside my assigned tent at 8:30 and then inside a cozy sleeping bag and slept a sound sleep, something that evaded me for months.

Day 2: Sewa

Woke up at 5am after what seemed like a decade and rushed to get my backpack ready! Yummy pancakes laced with honey awaited our appetite, who’d have guessed such a delish treat at a remote campsite!

I was asked to line up with our pilot (Treppan a.k.a. 53) for the trek up ahead and off we began our week-long hike. We were immediately flanked by terraced mountain meadows on our right and rugged hills to our left and the foamy waters of rupin kept us company all along.

And then we were met by the first steep climb of the day. I remember thinking, I push myself at the gym, run every other day till I smell sweat. But none of that compared to climbing a small piece of the great Himalayas. I got to the top and collapsed on the nearest rock. Noticed that the guys in the group already got there before me. Before I could catch my breath, we were rushing off to climb another patch of heights. My muscles shivered, my mind drained, body screaming as I got to the top. Two minutes later I stood up to find myself staring at another majestic scene. Yep, it was worth it. We gorged on the juiciest peach before rushing off again. We weren’t even half way through.

This time around I lost the rest of the trekkers. It was just me, the mountains, the sound of the river echoing miles below me. I walked for an hour before catching up with them again. My back stung from the heavy weight of my backpack, despite having packed light. A quick lunch break and we were off to the little village of Sewa. Oh, did I mention the sea of red greens en route to Sewa? Beaut! Still trying to figure what they’re called.

I spotted a tap amidst all the afternoon heat at Sewa and went running to Rhik, our trek lead. Asked him if I could indulge in a hair bath. I couldn’t. No hairwash. No bath for the next week. Cold Water = Pneumonia. 😦 We spent the rest of the day playing Mafia in clever disguise of getting to know each other. Two servings of bhajiyas, a fun donkey ride and a dinner later, we gave in to sweet well-earned slumber.

This had mentally been the toughest day, perhaps because we didn’t know what to expect.

Day 3: Jiskun

Up again at 5am, maybe I could get used to early mornings after all? We began our trail through neck high farms of mountain weed and greeted the river Rupin at its pebbled bed. Somewhere along the way, a very hyper four-legged babe latched on to us. I christened him Rupin a little later in the day, it seemed like he meant serious business with all the tailing us. After a quick hello to the lush banks of Rupin, we set sail again and crossed the bridge that separated Himachal Pradesh from Uttarakhand. This time I was racing ahead of the pack. Maybe to prove a point, girl power! The climb got tougher. I had to keep stopping to catch my breath. My friend, P1, kept reminding me to stay hydrated and sip on water. We emptied a packet of glucose into both our water bottles, bought a few candies for the journey at the first shop we’d spotted since Day 1. After the first patch of relentless climbing, the trail straightened up a tad bit to bring some temporary relief to our aching knees and thighs. I picked some speed again as we whizzed past the loveliest greens. Up ahead a recent landslide played spoilt sport owing to which we were left with no option but to climb a steep patch of fallen rocks and a slippery mud hill. Our trek pilot a.k.a. 53 pulled me up in a fashion I was left feeling like a sack of feathers (I am not).

Post the little adventure; we parked our tired asses at our second home stay of the journey. A beautiful wooden abode perched atop the edge of Jiskun, a little hamlet. We gazed up at the naked mountains, made peace with the fact that we won’t be greeted by snow at the Rupin pass. We didn’t let this dampen our spirits though. Compensation came our way in the form of Maggi  Mahaan noodles, a yummy local delicacy at Jiskun along with some hot spicy momos with a side serving of good ol’ mountain conversations. 🙂

That night we slept like babies while it rained down on Jiskun. A surprise awaited us on the other side of ‘morrow.

Day 4: Saruwas Thatch

And it snowed! Pristine white snow laced the mountain caps at a distance as we stepped down for some brekky next day. Rain at our current altitude translated to snow at our ultimate destination. Yay! Energy pumping through our veins, we begun our next trail however we had to bid adieu to Subhash & Archana from the group. I’d grown fond of their company but their departure meant I was the only girl left in the group. A bout of self doubt crept back into my mind.

Two hours into our trek and we arrived at the hanging village of Jhaka, where houses literally hung off the mountain edges. We hung out at one of these quirky houses before resuming our journey. A daunting climb at every juncture, this was slowly proving to be one of the most difficult trails on our trek. While the ever changing scenes took my breath away, the thinning air with every little climb was quite literally taking my breath away too. Stay away from me, AMS, I barked in the quiet of my mind and went back to drooling at the greener landscapes around me!

After lunching by the Rupin river, we found ourselves creeping along the walls of the mountains that flanked us, high above the river. The trail was only wide enough for a single foot. Tricky that. We spotted the first snow bridge, jumped over logs of wood, climbed further up the hills, collapsed on random stones, got up again to run and climb and walk!

Late afternoon we camped by the forest at Saruwas Thatch. We battled the shivering cold to collect wood for a bonfire however our plans went down the drain much thanks to the rains! We had to initiate an unplanned hike to cross over higher up the river and across a daunting snow bridge in the evening. Our campsite for the day had to moved to a different location owing to bad weather and logistics issues. We embraced the change in plans!

My warm clothes were drenched after the climb, the temperatures dipped further and so did my confidence. Any remains of energy and enthusiasm I had left in me, waved goodbye! I was convinced I’d need a miracle to complete this. P1 lent me an extra pair of fleece from his towering backpack. It was a painfully cold though short journey back into my little tent. My hands were so cold, they trembled as I struggled to open up the sleeping bag. The bag was drenched on the outside, uninviting and cold. I fought every nerve in my body to slip into it and forced some sleep upon myself. The following day proved to be my toughest.

Day 5: Dhanderas Thatch (Lower Waterfall Camp)

At 5 AM, I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and froze. How was I supposed to crawl outta my tent and brave that cold, get past breakfast let alone the trek. My hands begged for some warmth, out came the leather gloves. I momentarily contemplated skipping the meal over a few extra minutes of warmth in my tent.

We’d only just begun the climb for the day, and I found myself breathing heavier than sedated monkeys! I stopped two minutes into my hike and let the others pass me by. I needed to breathe. My thighs refused to support my climb. I had three full days of climbing left to reach the top before we begun our descend into Sangla. Nothing qualified as legit motivation at this point. I perched myself on a huge rock and watched the others go past me. A few moments later, Arvind came up to me and chimed in, ‘Chalo Reemaji, dheere dheere chalo. Pohoch jaoge!’ I wasn’t going to succumb to petty tears of self defeat. Despite being without will, I got to my feet and took the tiniest and slowest steps in the history of forever. This continued for a good 60 minutes during which I halted at every other twist and turn. I resigned to the assumption that the rest of the guys had probably completed the trail and were perhaps already napping for the day.

After pushing myself for a few more miles, we saw 53 running towards us! We’d somehow managed to catch up with the group. They’d halted to grab a bite. Somehow in that moment, seeing everyone raring to go, hearing them go, ‘Don’t give up!’ lifted my spirits. I looked around me. When did we arrive here, at this unreal beautiful juncture in our journey. My eyes had to witness the scenes atop the Rupin pass. Picked myself up again and walked across the most beautiful display of pebbled Rupin waters, climbed higher up the hills, crossed a slippery snow bridge and found myself in the middle of the greenest meadows peppered with cows on the moo. 🙂

I jogged my memory to check if I’d seen something more beautiful than what surrounded me in that tick. Nah! This was the BIG HIMALAYAN SHOW OFF. The landscapes stood around us as proud paintings etched in hues borrowed from paradise.

We stood and just stared. So beautiful. I would never do justice to that beauty with my shabby words. The journey had all been worth it. I remember Uncle Colonel telling me that I’d make it. He said let the others pass by, you enjoy the trail at your own pace, but don’t give up! We’ll all be up at the pass together.

That night, I found myself singing a song to a huddled group of hikers around a bonfire and the silence of the mountains. I’d never find the courage to do this back home. The steepest climb stared down at us the next day but I was going to try and focus on the happy vibes!

Day 6: Rati Pheri (Upper Waterfall Camp)

Today, we were going to quickly gain 1000 mts in height. I knew I’d make it. My immediate neighbours, Chohan and Harish gave me the last remains of their Gatorade to help me conquer this next climb that had been labeled as the toughest yet. 🙂 I’d already won the battle against my mind the previous day, I plunged head first into this day with a truck full of confidence.

The climb had been broken down into three waterfalls, one above the other. It was tough but so was my resolve. Quick small steps, aching muscles, couple of water sipping breaks and we were through to the top of the third waterfall. A few DDLJ poses and a lunch later, we set off to scale the last flash of height.

What we didn’t anticipate was that this was going to wreck us! We were looking up at a damn near 90 degree steep climb. Soon, an acute headache entered my world! That mixed with breathing trouble and muscle ache made a terrific combo. The climb didn’t seem to end. Every little patch I’d somehow finish conquering would immediately say hello to a new pile of height. This was definitely that same damned eternal beanstalk poor Jack had to climb in a fairytale. No clue how it got here.

I climbed and climbed and climbed and climbed some more. Hello? Anything upstairs? I have been played by the Himalayas, I screamed. Oh, the pain!

After what seemed like an agonising eternity, I reached the campsite and how. It was a basin locked by beautiful barren mountains laced with snow. Thank goodness I reached when I did, ‘cause minutes later we found ourselves at the epi-center of a hailstone shower. Tiny shiny little morons! If I subtracted the chill from the scheme of things, then I’d probably admire their icy beauty. All hail the mountains! Soon little flakes of snow crashed the party too! The campsite had slowly turned into a semi-white wonderland. Acclimatisation. Check.

Shivered I did, for the rest of the day. That evening, I managed to win a round of Mafia as the mafia for the first time since meeting my comrades! :p

I refused to go seek my tent, ‘twas colder than ever! I would turn into cold slaw. I couldn’t possibly put my family through that. Not to mention, the horror stories that plagued the campsite.

But the porters traveling with us needed a place to sleep too, so after dinner we evacuated the activity tent and crept into our respective little plastic dens. I slipped into 5 layers of clothes that night. Brr!

We were almost there! I could barely wait! 🙂