Below the Wind
The eastern valley sun is hot, the west wind out of the Sierra is cold. I have settled into campsite #44, it has a cottonwood's shade over a weathered pine slab picnic table not yet slathered over in brick-red goo by the volunteer table painters. Here the common stones seem wonderfully shaped and colored, the surrounding brush hourly more revealed as greener, redder, more tawny, more sea-glass hued. Pebble sand, tan Tacoma, table top and hillside bring repose to my eyes.
I had often imagined spending time here at Horton Creek, perhaps I sensed how quiet it would be. Campsites are spaced out along one slow road; folks park RVs or pitch tents, then take off for daily destinations elsewhere. There's only the green secret creek in its cottonwood and willow tunnel, the wind, birds. No traffic, no maintenance, no fun things to do. I have seen neighbors reading, walking a dog. Folks will chat with you, or not, as you wish. I watch the cloud channel and nap. When the weather is too rough, I am learning to sit in my crate and write or draw on a clipboard on a pillow desk. It's a little like being at the beach, without the ocean; there is a road in Rovana named "Ocean View," so perhaps my feeling is shared.
Update on Clown tent
Texsport made good on its warranty and replaced the downed clown tent. Clown II stays in the box as winds continue to shred tents in Horton Creek Campground -- up to 75 mph blasts -- I counted four tents down this 21st May, and another storm on the way, with snow. I am grateful for the shelter of my aluminum alloy crate; the Fair Weather Tent must wait for fair weather.