I wake up to the white noise of the river humming nearby. The time is four in the morning. Not my usual waking hour, but the rainfall is heavy and finds it way through a ventilation hole in the tent. Each drop hits my face with increasing intensity and volume until I have no choice but to do something about it. As I sit upright, I notice that the entire floor of the tent is submerged in a puddle. Thankfully, the water level is low enough that it doesn’t seep over the outside of the tarp and into the tent—but it’s quite a comedic feeling to be sloshing around on a floor that feels like a water bed. I wasn’t expecting the rain to arrive so early. Such is the unpredictability of high mountain weather.
I went on a canoe trip once where it didn't stop pouring the entire time. Our tents and sleeping bags were totally soaked through on night one and never dried, and we spent the whole time warming by a campfire under a tarp we hung (which looking back, is a serious fire hazard). It's funny, we were so miserable at the time but I look back on it so fondly. In uncomfortable situations like that now, I try to remind myself that it might make for a funny memory later, and at least half the time, it works out that way.
I went on a canoe trip once where it didn't stop pouring the entire time. Our tents and sleeping bags were totally soaked through on night one and never dried, and we spent the whole time warming by a campfire under a tarp we hung (which looking back, is a serious fire hazard). It's funny, we were so miserable at the time but I look back on it so fondly. In uncomfortable situations like that now, I try to remind myself that it might make for a funny memory later, and at least half the time, it works out that way.