Mile 669 on the Lower Mississippi, near Helena, Arkansas – November 26, 2012
I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and bury myself under my sleeping bag, exhausted, drifting for a minute or two before being punched awake again by the wind snapping every bit of loose fabric in the air.
Corners lift and walls move. Edges pop and curl. Sand sprays cross the rainfly. Poles bend and twist. I can barely think through the roar.
Then it stops like it has to breathe, like the big bad wolf himself is out there sucking air before blowing again. I wish he were. I don’t care how big he is, how sharp his teeth are, I would club him with a spare paddle and feed him to the little pigs if they promised not to make a racket.
But what can you do against the wind? You can’t fight it. You can’t scream it still. You can only close your eyes and try not to go mad.