Yes indeed...the story of the three little pigs keeps filling my half-dreams. The wind on the mountain seems to grow stronger and blow longer every evening. I lie in my bed, dozing, then awakening when the sides of the tent billow in and poke me. I think of that story of childhood, and wonder what the odds are that my house of canvas will hold up better than the ill-fated houses of straw and sticks. Last night was the worst (so far). I was convinced they'd find me this morning, hidden under my bed, with the roof trusses caved in on top of the tent, and me.
It's reminiscent of being in a boat on a rough sea. The canvas noises are of course just like those of full sails. The wood frames creak like ancient masts, the guywires whine and squawk as the gusts come through. The wind even found her way under the tent last night, and at one point I swear my bed was making little jumps. There weren't a whole lot of options to consider, either. I could have slept in the latrine I suppose, but trust me...no. Or I could have shared the kitchen building with Johana and the dogs and the various creepy crawlies that like to go in there at night, but again...no. Instead I went to the front porch, smoked cigarettes while staring at the most gorgeous starscape...amazing that while we were being battered and blown about, those stars didn't move the tiniest bit. It was a calming influence, and eventually, exhausted, I managed to brave the return to my jumpy bed and a few hours of sleep. They tell me it will get better....by February!!!
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