In the morning it is raining softly. My nose is dripping, legs wet, toes squishing in my boots. In this drama I'd rather be the audience. On the trail, the teens in a straggling queue hunch under ponchos, black plastic garbage bags, tarps, anything to shed water. Peter leads and this morning already is sprouting mountain-man grayish whiskers.
Mists swirl, raindrops snake down, and the wind hits the ridge in chilly blasts.
Not your sociable type, I will be forced to invite myself into someone's tent that night. I consider fomenting rebellion and a mad return dash to the cars, now so many miles back. Still, there is a certain monstrous beauty in the cavernous clouds. They devour whole mountain tops, sweep through the gorges, spray us with mist and magically, momentarily dissolve, allowing sword shafts of sunlight to pierce the ridge before us. Maybe I can do this, I think, in a sudden glimmer of sunlight.