We decided to go
anyway. The weather report predicted a 90% chance of rain, and in Oregon we
learn to take that seriously. But we had made our reservations weeks ago,
managing to get the very last tenting site available in Silver Falls State
Park.
Piggy-backing on
the end of a family reunion, the dates were not negotiable. And what’s a little
rain to Oregonians?
Our son-in-law
helped by loaning us their larger, more water-proof tent. And our
brother-in-law kicked in my setting up his canopy over the tent. We pitched the
tent on the highest ground at the site and hoped we’d be able to stay dry.
We enjoyed the
first night, the sounds especially. It wasn’t just like being in a
forest in the rain. We were in the middle of the trees, with the music
of real rain all around us.
Our careful
preparations worked. No outside water creeped into the tent. We stayed dry.
The next day
showed us once again that you can’t always rely on weather reports. A window of
clear skies prompted us to hike one of the waterfall loops. We walked for about
six miles alongside a flowing Silver Creek, making our way from one waterfall
to another. It was glorious, a sensual feast. On the last leg of our hike, the
rain returned and we let ourselves enjoy it, all part of the adventure.
After supper,
which we cooked and ate under our tarp, a make-shift kitchen, we entered the
tent to prepare for sleep. It was then that I discovered that the water bottle
I had left upright had tipped over and soaked the inside of my sleeping bag.
By then it was
cold, rainy and dark. We needed to wait for morning to pack up, a day early,
and head home. So we improvised once again and made it through the night.
Looking back, I’m
grateful for the beauty, the adventure, and all the creative improvisations we
came up with. We’ll so it again, probably consulting the weather reports.
But it’s ironic
that after all our carefulness to make sure water didn’t get us from outside
the tent, it finally defeated us from the inside, sending us home a day early.
Through my carelessness. From my water bottle.
Surely this is a
metaphor for some great life lesson.
But I think I’ll
let it go. My good memories are more than enough for now.
