Cibbet's Flat to Mt. Laguna, 9.4 Miles
I lost my battle with the wind last night. She began to stir around midnight, stretching her limbs and testing the reach of her long fingers, finding the limits of her reach. Then she began to blow. To howl, to rage, though none of those is fierce enough words to describe her strength.
She came roaring out of the desert and through the campground. Wailing, swirling, leaves and copper dust lifting into the cold night. Outside, away from cities and dulling walls, the wind is a different element. She sounds like the sea, stirred into a fury by deep and ancient currents, coming in waves. Rolling and crashing into you before ebbing out into silence, gathering strength and returning to pummel the shores of my camp.
My tent collapsed almost immediately, blew over onto me, a tangle of cuban fiber and hiking poles. I crawled out into the night and put it back up. For awhile it held, standing valiantly against the increasing strength of the winds, swaying and flapping. Fierce cracks as it tried to remain upright.
It fell a second time. Then a third. it's not a free standing tent, relying instead on stakes and tension to define it's shape. No tension and it's nothing more than a pool of waterproof fabric on the ground. Loose sandy soil, a lack of rocks and an unrelenting Santa Ana will topple that tent any day.
After the third fall, I gave up, emerged from my cocoon of fabric and spread my sleeping bag on top of the useless shelter. I burrowed deep into my bed, comfortable and warm.
The wind needs an opponent to battle against, needs something to topple, to overcome. I could not beat it. But when I ceased to fight, when I lay down on the ground with the sea of stars glowing unbelievable brightly above me, letting the winds' waves wash over me, we were at peace. Once I abandoned making the effort to stand against forces stronger than myself, the wind embraced me and I fell asleep cradled in the arms of this new friend.















