The snowstorm catches us with tent down, fire out. The lake is
churned white, and in the half-dark shouting commands above the
wind we secure our sailing tent to the earth.
By Mike Hedrick
The snowstorm catches us with tent down, fire out. The lake is churned white, and in the half-dark shouting commands above the wind we secure our sailing tent to the earth.
Inside, the water achieves its boil slowly like our long climb out of the valley – switchbacks riding ridge after ridge. The soup is a steamy garden filling our tent with aromatic arguments against the cold. And now the tightness which has grazed at our corded necks begins to release – a long sigh of expectations eased.
Outside, the elements are a jealous howl hurled through the darkness, as we lie ensconced in warm down bags. With dawn the storm is gone our tent stands still – a white sail on the edge of a blue lake.
