pedadidact

March 11 - Day 26
Bear Creek Campground

__Someone set the sky a'weeping,
____howling billows sobbing loud.
__Spilling down, her black eyes seeping
___tears in waves from broken clouds.

My peaceful slumber was carried off in a true torrent of rain, drumming down hours before sunrise and lasting to mid-morning. Several times I became concerned the wind, now worked up into a violent huff, would any moment snap the tent poles and carry off the fly like a kite. Memories returned of a trip in Joshua Tree, California, where my tent was left unattended through a storm and found its way into a thorn tree. Thankfully, this night, the low-profile of the shelter did its work and she held her own admirably.



With dewy grass for a clean table, I made breakfast under the vestibule, an artful task with a venerable history to those who know it. The meal consisted of simple oatmeal and, rather than the staple cocoa, an experiment with one unmarked slip of tea given by a friend in Wisconsin. The smell was herbal, my preference usually being toward black or green; but to my taste, so long as one crosses his teas with a few dots of sugar, I think there is none too bad. In one of his Sierra tales, memorable as the scent of fresh-ground nutmeg, Muir mentions the flavors which prevailed among California shepherds of his day,

“Coffee...has its marvels in the camp kitchen... A low, complacent grunt follows a mouthful drawn in with a gurgle, and the remark cast forth aimlessly, “that's good coffee.” As to tea, there are but two kinds, weak and strong, the stronger the better. The only remark heard is, “That tea's weak,” otherwise it is good enough and not worth mentioning. If it has been boiled an hour or two or smoked on a pitchy fire, no matter, – who cares for a little tannin or creosote? They make the black beverage all the stronger and more attractive to tobacco-tanned palates.”

The weather having hemmed me in, I set about listing supplies for the beach trek that coming Saturday. The proposal meant hiking three miles to the bus stop in Sappho, riding an hour to Niah Bay, and trekking some forty or more cumulative miles to Rialto Beach over wilderness coast. Trails were reserved to a few overland tidal crossings; I looked forward to free-strolling down sandy slabs, an occasional starfish twinkling out from nearby pools.

By the maps I estimated a week for the route, resting all the Lord's Day, and covering seven miles daily for the others. To make the trip more manageable arrangements were made to leave all excess stuff with a pastor in Forks. I suspect he thought I was a bit of a gazer, but he was gracious to assist me. The wild card for this excursion was the backpack, not substantially different from usual school bags having three pockets, and supported by neither stays nor belt. Backpacking was never originally factored into the journey; the bag chosen was minimal to the anticipated needs and probably insufficient for more. Those who travel by foot know the importance of proper support and functionality in a bag.

In my case, a portion of gear would have to be strapped at all angles to the outside, because the inner volume was quickly gorged with the bear canister, sleeping bag, and cook gear. How this stuffed bird would lay on my back, I preferred not to imagine, but it was no feather-weight. In all the rig was probably about 35 lbs, fairly light by most backpacking standards, but not without some sort of hip harness. The waist-belt fashioned in Elwha was yet to be tested but still held promise of transferring weight to my hips. I would soon find out the worth of my stitching.

The following is an account of the beach trek list:

- pack
- maps
- 1 liter water bottles (3)
- large survival knife, SOG GOV-TAC, 6" blade
- Leatherman Charge multi-tool
- 2AA Fenix flashlight, 180 max lumens
- LED keychains, green and red
- sunglasses
- compass
- first aid kit
- bear canister, ten days provisions of
__> rice
__> dried soups
__> oatmeal
__> peanuts
__> raisins
__> chocolate chips
__> cocoa

- tent, etc.
- 50 yards nylon cord
- sleeping bag, liner
- air mattress, 2.5" x 25" x 78"
- cook gear
__> Trangia alcohol stove
__> fuel, 1 liter
__> .9 liter pot
__> .6 liter pot/lid
__> 16 oz. insulated mug
__> 9" spoon
__> pot scrubber, 2" x 3"
__> BIC lighter, matches

- toiletries
- ebook reader
- Metrical Psalter (1650)
- weather radio
- voice recorder
- iPod & ear buds
- camera
- pipe, tobacco
- small hand towel
- bandana

__
I am no fine singer, but during late and lonesome hours of the night one may find familiar amusement in humming his own songs and the steady words of the Psalms.

"I saw the Son" (By yours truly, with bonus mid-song yawn)

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I saw the Son

He was coming back in a cloud,
__with a voice like an angel
__and a sword preceding from His mouth.

He was coming back with a flame,
__to judge all the world
__who did not trust in His name.

He was catching up to the clouds,
__all the saints who were alive
__and remained to the trumpet sound.

Have you seen the Son?
You'll see Him come.
We'll all see the Son.

Psalm 16:8-9 (words: Scottish Metrical Psalter; tune: Michael Spotts)

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Before me still the Lord I set:
__sith it is so that he
__Doth ever stand at my right hand,
__I shall not moved be.

Because of this my heart is glad,
__and joy shall be exprest
__Ev’n by my glory; and my flesh
__in confidence shall rest.