Sarah Jane attempts a route on Castle Rock.
Photo by Alvaro Madrigal
The Devil kept me awake.
Until that night, nothing had ever prevented me from falling asleep.
But I call him The Devil for a reason.
No mere mortal could have created the horrible razor-blade rasping, louder and more dangerous sounding than a chainsaw grinding granite. These superhumanly loud honks gestated in mucus lungs and were birthed in nostrils of rusty steel.
The worst part was, Alvaro and I had been divinely relaxed. We were on a coastal vacation and decided to treat our fatigued muscles to a soak in a mineral spring hot tub after three straight days of climbing. We returned from our soak revived, relaxed and primed for a refreshingly hard sleep.
When I stepped out of my car, the vaccuumous snorts emanating from the tent behind ours ripped my eardrums. I thought, “This guy has got to be faking, that noise is so ridiculous.”
But the sound continued. At irregular intervals. That was what made him The Devil.
Sleepy, I nestled in my virginal tent. For a few blissful moments: beautiful silence. Several times I almost fell asleep. Then “whoooaaaaaaoooonnnnnkkkkkk!” erupted from the gates of Hell.
The terrifying noise scared me awake. I thought some bloodthirsty demon was attacking. Adrenaline snapped me conscious – over and over. The ensuing pauses allowed me to drift away until: “whoooaaaaaaoooonnnnnkkkkkk!”
Filled with drowsy rage, I wiggled out of my warm sleeping bag, rushed out of my tent and stood next to his, pondering yelling, “Roll over! You’re snoring!”
But I had a hunch that the tent from Hell might also contain a brawny She-Devil with no qualms about knocking me out. From the sound of his honks, he was a meaty monster, and I had no doubt his woman would be the same – and enraged I would dare to call out her man.
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