After two nights of relentless cabin isolation, his garments clung to him, drenched as if he had never escaped the ocean’s icy embrace.
Those coastal woods, ancient and shrouded, were like sponges, hoarding the sea’s moisture. Fog threaded through gnarled trees, rain pattered on like a ceaseless ritual. Wetness seeped through everything, an ever-present touch.
The rain, an uninvited guest, shackled him to this haven. Yet, now, it spurred his departure.
Down the slippery path, bound for Seaside, a bus awaited, a lifeline to his friend up north. There, a new bivy awaited him. The makeshift poncho roll had served its purpose, but it was time for evolution.
New challenges refreshed his hiking spirit, even as he battled thoughts of work, his mind a minefield of digital endeavors. Days spent laboring over a laptop and nights curled up in an actual bed haunted his desires. Showers and stovetop meals beckoned.
From his urban stealth camp behind the bank parking lot in Warrenton, snug under a tree, hidden from view by tall grass, he contemplated his journey thus far. Six months crisscrossing the States had cast a net of weariness over him. Perhaps it was time for respite.
#stealthcamping #idratherbeworking