Sarah Jane puts on her shoes before a muscle-fatiguing climb in
Castle Rock State Park, California.
Photo by Alvaro Madrigal
For what remained of the night, I wiggled my curled legs this way and that, trying to get comfortable.
Impossible. But at least I could sleep.
Finally, the sun came up. I rolled down the window to see whether The Devil yet trumpeted his demonic nose horn.
Silence.
Ahhh, perhaps I could catch an hour or two of sleep fully sprawled out in my tent.
Then ...
The Devil and his mate enjoy breakfast on
a morning Sarah Jane was unrested because of
the unholy honks emanating from their tent.
Photo by Sarah Jane Alexander
Hell’s bells! Literally.
I passed back into a couple fitful hours of cramped car sleep.
When I awoke for good, the first thing I did was glance at The Devil’s camp. I had to see what this inconsiderate brute looked like.
An average chunky American. And his mate did look as if she could knock me down with a single lick, so I was glad I hadn’t approached their tent demanding silence.
I watched them go about their morning, enjoying breakfast, apparently well rested.
I felt cranky. The Devil was obliviously cheerful while I was tired because of his behemoth bellowing. But even that couldn’t keep me cranky. I was going climbing.
That night perched around a campfire in a different – quiet – park, I told Alvaro: “I don’t know what I would have rather had, a good night’s sleep, or the story of The Devil.”
“I think the story is better,” he said.
“Me too,” I said.
Besides, I was back to working those unrested muscles on the rock within hours. The hot tub’s relaxation would have faded quickly, while this story will always provoke a wry smile.
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