But I’m not here for the whitewater, I’m not here for the Chaco tan or the beer break on the boat, or even the people (though I do love all those things). I’m here because this drainage, in this man made boundary seems to fulfill me. Getting to watch the seasons change year round, the sense of place I have developed, getting to explore more and more of it, being able to float by a creek and know not just its confluence, but its headwaters and everything in between, it does it for me. I’m sure that is true for so many people. I guess I’m trying to say is that it’s the place that made me a guide and the place that keeps me one.
So I shake the bag again but nothing emerges. I know it’s here somewhere, likely under the clothing I’ve piled on the pad. But it isn’t. No sleeping bag. My personal warmth crisis has taken an ominous turn. The only sleeping bag in the tent is Skip’s. For now I use it like a shawl and drape it over myself. The warmth gives me an opportunity to think through my options. Embarrassment is becoming less important, and is being overshadowed by this new dilemma.