Flying Dog

Eight am Monday morning, weathers calls 80 degrees. The sweat sticks, I zip back the mesh of my bivy, the air is already body temps.

I feel drowsy like bad allergy meds. Stumble to the dirt, slide into a pair of cords. they hardly resemble there original shade, dust beaten and unwashed. The rumble of a broken muffler trembles up behind my truck, e-brake thrown on. I quickly pull my pants up from half mass and zip up.

A familiar voice screams, "wad up buddy?" It's Ben, I stumble groggily past Vals van, bumping past with swollen eyes. I played with my tangled mat of hair while Ben explained his new project on the table lands.

Stumbling back through the cars, Ben bounces away down the gravel path in his 80's Toyota hatch back, over to my tripod set up for a snap shot of some spring flowers. Half assembled, I could no longer hold the movements in my bowels.

Hobbling down the path shovel and TP in hand up the rocks, nervously banging the shovel to deter potential snakes. Finding an appropriate bush, looks just like the rest, but this one is just right. Attempting to dig a hole only achieves two inches before hitting the impenetrable layer of rock that is the table lands. Unable to hold on any longer I noticed a small single engine flying directly towards my position. To late for that, my pants now at my ankles, my gut impatiently grumbling. I squat, leaning on my butt of my shovel and give out little flight enthusiast the show of a life time.

I hope he had a camera to capture my glaring paper white ass so he could show all his friends and family. I hope they all get a great laugh, because as drowsy as I've ever been, this was one hell of a highlight to my trip. So I hope they all believe his story.