All-Natural Nightmare, Part 4

               Most people can’t tell you the last time they were afraid for their life.  They almost certainly can’t tell you the last time they willingly placed themselves in a situation of mortal peril, let alone paid for it and made tremendous effort to ensure it occurred.  But we can. 

Lying awake, helpless but for our advanced half-assed yoga knowledge, our tent somehow seemed even smaller.  The tent fit three six-foot-plus men inside of it, with sleeping bags and not much else.  At its apex, it stood four and a half feet above the ground.  Its two canvas layers were supported by a system of aluminum poles. 

“Would lightning melt the poles?” Schil asked no one in particular, as the thunder grew audibly closer.  With two friends within elbowing distance, somehow it was still clear that this question was only asked to himself. 

“Think the tent would melt onto us?  Wonder if that’ll make us harder to ID.” I semi-responded, also not expecting my query to be fielded.

Schil started to reply, but was stopped midsentence by thunder so close it could have come from one of us. 

“What’d you say?” I followed up.

“I said, just don’t decide you’re cold and need warmth right before we fry.  My parents will have enough to be sad about without wondering if we Brokeback’ed it.”

The water fundamentally changed our individual worldviews.  The mere sight of the cache from a quarter mile out replaced Spa and I’s blood with rocket fuel, Mentos and Diet Coke.  Schil couldn’t exactly move any more – dehydration and sunstroke had left him shivering, slurring, and incapable of productivity.  He rested in the shade while Spa and I nearly sprinted to the bearbox storing our treasure. 

With 5 gallons of our own water plus a few marked “free” and “yummy,” Spa and I returned to the ranchhouse.  We were in a verbal pissing contest over who was happier.  This ended in a tie when we saw the bounty of trail mix and snacks Schil had artlessly arranged on the cold dusty hardwood.  I hooked up the stove and we soon learned what it feels like to consume, in 15 minutes, 2 quarts of water, 2 packets of oatmeal and 1000 calories of trail mix.  Each. 

The demon of dehydration behind us, we decided to march onward.  The three of us are unburdened by the weight of financial inheritance, and were all looking forward to the 9 hour drive home, and work on Monday, with the same utter lack of optimism.  The more miles we crunched tonight, the more hours we could sleep Sunday.  Plus the temperature was dropping precipitously, which we welcomed.  Onward.

The arid, bleached mountain terrain gradually gave way to greener, equally frustrating mountain terrain.  Ever the optimist, Spa posited that this could mean wildlife sightings.  Ever the pain in Spa’s ass, I countered that with our luck that wildlife would be large, hungry and toothy.  He conceded.

We hiked into a canyon shallow enough that calling it a canyon could be written off on my taxes.  The hard, dirt path of the previous lifeless wasteland gave way to a thick layer of gravel, giving our calves a workout akin to playing soccer on a beach.  Kick us while we’re down, Big Bend.

And then it did.

“Wait…is that rain?”

Big Bend National Park averages about an inch of rain per month.  At the time of our visit, no celestial water had graced it for over four months.  To say we were underprepared would be to say Hitler wasn’t a big bagel guy. Schil’s clothes were exclusively cotton.  Half of mine were.  We had two garbage bags to our name and zero rain gear.  But by this time it was 2 miles back to the ranch house.  We had to push through it.

We chose poorly.  Rather than pass us by as a minor inconvenience, the storm settled on us like Pig Pen’s dirt cloud.  Worse still, once the storm zeroed in on its target, it deployed all available ordnance.  Pea-sized hail struck our necks, prompting the return of our soaked hats and bandana-cum-turbans.  Thunder threatened in the distance.  Swirling winds propelled us according to their caprices, and the temperature dropped into the low thirties.

“I don’t think the heavy stuff’s gonna come down for a while,” my attempt at Caddy Shack referencing was ignored.  Spa was busily navigating, while Schil, I soon realized, was once again busily trying not to die. 

“You ok dude?”

“Little chilly,” Schil deadpanned.

“Keep moving.  It’ll keep us warm.  We might actually have a situation here.  Hypothermia is real.  You have only cotton clothes?”

“Yes,” Schil audibly shivered.’

“Shit.”