Twenty years in the pouring rain ON THE FOURTH OF JULY is just nineteen years too many.
We’re back at Seaquest State Park for the long holiday weekend. It bears mentioning that Ralph and I take turns planning our trips; every other month, one of us is responsible for the activities, food, reservations and keeping the gas tank full. Ralph always plans something fun but his long-weekend philosophy is sheer insanity to me: Stay close to home. And don’t try anything new.
It’s not his fault that it rained—nay, poured—from the minute we unhitched. Our isolated site among the trees (read, no view) was filled with mosquitoes and we struggled to keep a limp, soggy fire alight to try to repel them. We spent most of the time drinking and playing cribbage in the DWR (which, to be fair, is what we usually do anyway). We finally packed up and fled halfway through the weekend but not before I cut off the tip of my left index finger with a bread knife.
Since we met, Ralph has been planting subliminal messages about our someday leaving the Northwest for drier climes. I resisted until this weekend, when something snapped, and now I’m ready. (My written journal uses the phrase “the Northwest is a very verdant and beautiful soaking wet hell hole.”)