The wind and rain continued through the night, and the temperature continued to drop. By the early hours of the morning, I had snuggled deep into my mummy bag, with the hood drawn tight and only my face exposed. Still the damp reached me. I slept fitfully, waking frequently to the sounds of the storm; listening to the sound of my tent and my cooking shelter for anything breaking loose. About 4 AM the rain took on the sharper, rattling sound sleet and snow: not enough to accumulate; just enough to make me question my sanity.
Eventually a dull light penetrated the tent. I pulled on my damp clothes and climbed shivering into the morning. The wind drove a stinging drizzle before it. I hunkered under my cooking shelter, drank the last of my Starbucks instant coffee and cooked a freeze-dried Mexican omelette. As I ate breakfast I pondered my next move. My bus would not pass through Kaladar until 5 PM. Should I hang around camp, hoping for the sky to clear so that I could dry out my tent and equipment before packing it up? Should I pack it up now, wet?
The wind, rain and cold made up my mind. This was hypothermia weather. I had warm food in me, had stopped shivering, and felt some energy returning. I didn't want to spend the next hour in my damp clothes trying to force a wet, dirty tent into a bag. I didn't want to carry a pack full of wet equipment 6 km back to town, with the straps wicking water through my rain jacket. On the other hand, I didn't want to hide in my tent all day. Now was the time to leave. I packed up the essentials in my day pack, and headed for town, leaving the cooking shelter and tent in place, along with my sleeping bag, sleeping pad and non-essentials tucked inside. I would drive back the next day for them.
I walked to town in the rain. At the Subway, I ordered a breakfast sandwich and then retreated to the washroom to clean up. What a sight: six days of white beard, hair plastered from a week inside a hat, smudges of dirt. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I changed my socks and underwear. The odor... well, I couldn't do much about the odor except try not to impose it on others.
The rain ended about mid-morning, and the wind dropped. A few glimpses of sky peeked through the cloud. Rather than hang about town, I walked south about 50 m along Highway 41 to the Trans-Canada Trail and headed west. I hiked for about six kilometers, finding various points of interest: an old quarry just at the edge of town; lady's slippers blooming beside the trail; stretches of mature, northern hardwood forest; a chain of beaver ponds full of painted turtles, as well as one Blanding's turtle; songbirds; more moose tracks. About 2 PM, I turned back to town, arriving around 3:30 PM. Instead of eating again at Subway, I crossed the street to the food stand and bought a fabulous burger with fresh-cut fries. I ate it lounging at a picnic table in the weak sunlight, shoes and socks off, airing my tired, blistered, damp feet.
Sometime later the bus arrived on schedule. I climbed aboard, pleased to find it almost empty, so that no-one would have to suffer sitting beside me. Back at home that evening, I groaned in a hot bath, feeling the dirt, cold and weariness soak out of me. According to Sue, though, it was a couple of days before she could not longer detect the lingering odor of my trip.
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