Tent Rafting

Ardmore, Ok

The rain that the sky has been holding back has opened its mouth turning the powdered earth into a soup that no tent stake could hold on to. My tent became a pole and a wet flag of fabric with a river running under my sleeping pad. Yes, I floated. At the mercy of The Camper's Friend (RV park)in the outskirts of Ardmore I was given friendly concern, help drying equipment, and a place at the table of Bob and Betty Rose. Even as the two days passed Betty Rose was still sneaking dried fruit and nuts into CrowDog, while looking at me like I planned to swim the ocean with one arm. I assured her that she had done more than her part. Promised prayers, Betty Rose looked on as I shouldered my pack while wearing a new red shirt that I knew I'd be sleeping in within a few days. (A new shirt--and red.) After five miles the smile still hasn't worn off my face.

Today I'll head north. It is no easy decision. My eyes move over the map with a knife in my intent. Promised that the eastern run north is heaven I still head north west. There is a larger plan I must follow. Winter is coming. My feet move toward snow, empty miles of nothing but sand and thought. Oddly, I am excited. There is a romance ahead that I have promised myself. My core ackes to move over miles of memory, flat sand fields as far as I can see, and a people rare like water. Some things can't be explained. Desire moves my compass. Heart moves my feet. Today a dog thought of joining me, but at the last minute it shied and found some scrub to follow out of sight.
My journal is fat with a million great words to help express to you what it is like to come home into the wild. I am in a library though. I have limited time to tell you that I am coming home in a good way. What was hard has become branches combing my hair, soft pine needles to sleep on, and a easy feeling that allows me to sing like I know all the words to every song. Coyotes walk to my tent as if I am afforded the luxury of touch even though I am lying down. A grouse walks THREE feet from my swinging walking poles as I cross a strip of packed earth. A broad-winged hawk swoops down and kills the bird at my feet faster than a pistol. On the third try the hawk lifts a bird of the same size, carring its meal into the trees. Part of my mind that fingers reason wonders if this is an omen of good. Am I the hawk? Am I the poor bird waiting on talon? Cedar burns its sweet smoke into my shirt when evening comes as I wait on a cup of tea while I brush the shed feather in my hand. The hawk, the grouse...we just are I begin to think. I am no longer a new chair at the table called a walk. I am just a being. The hawk comes to eat and that is all. The bear and boar still leave prints near my tent as I sleep. I am being allowed to walk with my eyes open. It is everything.