The forecast always says the same thing out here:
“Light rain expected.”
And every time, we believe it—like idiots with hope in our hearts.
But the sky has other plans.
Instead of mist or drizzle, we get 8 to 10 hours of nonstop pounding rain.
And sometimes?
Hail.
One storm cracked the windshield of our SUV like the sky was throwing rocks just for fun. And that was only the beginning.
The Mountain Doesn’t Drain—It Attacks
See, we didn’t just park on dirt.
We parked on dirt beneath a mountain.
So when the rain starts falling, it doesn’t just soak the ground—it mobilizes.
We get tiny rivers running straight through camp.
Not cute little brooks. We’re talking mini whitewater streams carving their way around the trailer, through the fire pit, and right across the only spot flat enough to use a camp chair.
You can hear the water gurgling in the night like it’s plotting something.
Mud Isn’t Just Mud. It’s the Enemy.
We’ve learned that mud comes in grades.
At first, it’s just a nuisance.
Then it gets slick.
Then it turns into shoe-eating sludge that turns every step into a slapstick comedy sketch.
Try starting a generator while standing in 3 inches of cold, sticky mud.
You’re slipping, sliding, yelling, praying.
Now your hands are wet. The pull cord is wet. The buttons are caked in grime.
And when it finally roars to life—you’re soaking wet and look like you’ve been wrestling pigs in the dark.
The Road Disappears. So Do Your Options.
The road out of here?
Ha.
Once the storm hits, that road becomes either:
- A shallow river, which means you’re landlocked, or
- A sloppy, tire-swallowing mess that means you’re going mudding if you dare run out of propane, food, or sanity.
We’ve been stuck. We’ve spun tires. We’ve packed towels under wheels and screamed at the sky.
We’ve also made it out. Every. Single. Time.
But it’s never easy.
Why We Stay Anyway
Because here’s the truth:
The mud, the rain, the cracked windshield, the impromptu streams—
it all sucks.
But it’s ours.
Nobody’s coming to fix it.
No landlord. No street sweeper. No neighbor with a shovel.
Just us, the storm, and whatever stubborn magic keeps pushing us through.
And in the middle of it all, soaked, pissed off, slipping through the dark…
We find this weird sense of peace.
It’s not comfort.
It’s not safety.
It’s something better:
A kind of freedom you have to earn.