9
Baptism by FlareThe rain comes like a combine moving through a wheat field. At first it is bunched up above the mountains in a dark cloud the color of asphalt; then, as fast as a window shade rolls, it forms into a gray curtain that hangs high but too quickly comes at us like that combine. There is no time and probably no reason to do anything about it. It is cruel and cold and bangs down onto the jungle around us like a slamming door, like a million rubber bands hitting me in the face. And there is plenty of sound to it: a sound as loud as thunder as it pelts the trees around us and the dirt that soon turns into pizza sauce.
Only the tiny space afforded by the brim of my Boonie hat allows me to see when we get up. Peacock takes point and I take the Sixty and walk last. I feel distinct
