Camping Rough

de Arlene Hill

I sat huddled on my bunched up sleeping bag, with knees up to my chin; arms wrapped around them. The rain, pelting down on the tent, was so loud that I couldn't really hear the wind and was only aware of its vicious nature because the tent was repeatedly flattened, smashing into me, and then springing back up, only to be flattened again a few moments later. Lacey groaned and pulled the sleeping bag more snuggly over her head. "Sharol, make it stop." Her moan was eclipsed by an extra strong burst of rain and wind and a deep, loud voice: "HEY!" followed by "OH MAN!" Straining our ears, we heard what could be described as a herd of buffalo trashing through our camp, except that one of the buffalo hollered, "Bridger!" just before the thrashing and crashing headed off through the undergrowth. I unzipped the flap door of our tent and peered out into the night; not surprised at the onslaught of water hitting my face. "Lacey, I can't see the guys' tent!" "Sharol, that's because it's just too dark to see anything." Just then a brilliant flash of lightning streaked across the sky. "Sharol, you're right. Their tent is supposed to be right there." Lacey pointed to the large empty space where a tent used to be.

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