Flagstaff Lake
Morning broke. Is this the third or fourth day of rain? Yesterday, the Bigalows in the wind and rain. Before that, the Crockers - no views, wind and cloud. Leaves litter the path like a yellow and tan carpet, below which roots lie in wait to catch the careless boot. Every bit of gear I carry is wet. Even my beautiful down bag has mopped up the condensation from within the tent. Fortunately, it's only damp. Condensation, the rain of my breathing, water of my sweat dried to revisit me again. The tent doesn't ventilate as well as it should; a design flaw that makes for my own little rain forest within the nylon shell. How can they improve the air flow in these things without letting in the rain from outside? Hot air rises, then condenses. Most tent flies secure themselves low to the ground - the air can't circulate. If the fly had an exhaust vent - like a ridge vent in a house, the heat rising would take the condensate with it. But would that be a source of leaks in a strong blow?
From the Bigalows, one can supposedly see Katahdin. As I wrote before, she remains a blind date. Time to take my bandana and mop the remains of my breath and sweat from within the tent. Dab and wipe - stick a hand outside the bug fly and squeeze. Repeat. A sump pump exercise to keep some little bit of gear a tad less wet. Of course, my bladder wants in on the act. Guess I have to get up and get to business. It is an insistent organ -- no longer apt to wait patiently for an opportune moment. It says: pay attention to me NOW. Or else. Not an idle threat. OK, OK, let me work the zippers. Benefit of camping alone is the clothing-optional aspect of early morning relief. Oh man, it's cold, too. Competing urges and urgencies.
Packed up, snacked on poptarts and gatoraid water. Hiked a few miles to warm up. A more proper breakfast here at the outlet end of Flagstaff. Make that brunch.