I am in a boulder field listening to the tent go flap flap flap. The winds came up on us four hours ago, all of the sudden, as if they had been waiting until we got into a precarious position.
We listened to them howl as they tried to snatch us from our perch on tiny stone ledges, winding our way up and around these strange mountains or hills.
I looked down, drunk at the height and easiness of a long, solid fall — the valley floor only one misstep away.
But, dragging myself away from the fear, I was met with the wind pushing wisps of cloud and fog over the mountain top and into our path. The wind ran, hands out rustling the low brush here. It all shook as it went by.
There were fifty different colors of green in that brush and fifty different shapes of leaves, some prickly, some soft and round, some boasting tiny little flowers as prizes for those who make the journey and look down (but isn’t that selfish to make it all about me? They probably are for the brush’s own joy.).
The weather whipped in, in a dark mood, and Avry’s feet were hurting.
I carried my fear on my back, nestled above my stove and water, pushing me further into the soil as we pressed on into the storm. Until we finally flopped down our packs in the shelter of a lonesome boulder, hoping it might stay the wind.
And so here we are, on some windswept mountain, on some tiny stretch of the desert, tucked into our bags with full bellies, listening to the mad wind whip at our tent, like I do with the top sheet when forced to make the bed.
