The next morning I woke up to hear Chris's voice outside the tent. I couldn't hear what he was saying but I imagined he was talking to the silence perpetrators. I strained to listen but couldn't make out any of the words. I heard Chris laugh and frowned. Why was he joking around with these guys?
I was a little embarassed of my actions the night before, but that didn't stop me from getting out of the tent to make my morning tea. The sky was blue and the air crisp. The campground glistened with moisture in the early sunlight. I held my hand up to the horizon and judged that it was about eight a.m. Curiously, the four guys were still in their circle, around their smoking fire, still laughing, though now with less enthusiasm. Chris and the dogs were nowhere to be found.
I pulled on my jacket, now damp and covered with dog hair. I wasn't rested, but I was glad it was daytime. I settled into my camp chair with my book and my tea and let the morning breeze lift my knotted hair. The river was a few yards away and I could hear it gurgle and choke as if waiting anxiously for the mountain snow to melt for a much-needed refill. I heard a bark, and looked up to see Maggie, Chris's yellow lab, plunge into the water after a stick.
The wet dogs bounded up to me, threatening to shake. Chris was not too far behind. He asked me how I slept, grinning. I rolled my eyes. As if I had even....Chris informed me that the guys were harmless and that I should let it go. I had let it go. I was busy enjoying my morning, albeit a sleepless and wet night.
In the ten or so precious minutes I had to myself that morning, I had made several important decisions. One, I was leaving Chris, but that's a whole different saga in and of itself. Two, I was going to think really hard the next time I decided to go camping. I would only travel by foot, far removed from any sort of mechanized vehicle access. I would have a clear idea of where I was going. And three, I would bring more wine. One bottle just didn't cut the stress.
Chris brought out his sleeping pad and we shared a silent hour reading. After awhile Chris stood up and abruptly ripped three pages out of his book. Toilet paper, he said.
As I watched Chris wack his way through the brush on his own private mission, I couldn't help but laugh. Salmon Rushdie's Satanic Verses lay open on the ground, four hoodlums drank liquor twenty yards away, and all of our gear was soggy and fur-lined.
Silence. It's a beautiful thing.
