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The rain increases. The fire sputters and fumes. All the trees are dripping, dripping, and the ground is wet. We cannot step outdoors without getting a drenching. Like sheep, we are penned in the little hut, where no one can stand erect.

And the night wears on. The morning opens cheerless. The sky is still leaking, and so is the shanty.

There are reviving signs of breaking away, delusive signs that create momentary exhilaration. Even if the storm clears, the woods are soaked. There is no chance of stirring. The world is only ten feet square. ¹

In case you were wondering where the blog title came from, this is it: Charles Dudley Warner’s discourse on life in the Adirondacks in the late 19th century, titled In The Wilderness.  His stories range from a recounting of a Nippletop traverse, with a companion and Old Mountain Phelps himself, to a story of a young deer trying to find its way in the world after its mother is shot by a hunter.  The passage above is from a section describing an outing for (presumably) affluent people of his era, and it translates to modern camping astonishingly well. This is my place to tell stories.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

This was originally posted on my Wordpress blog.