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Stardate 1.15 ICU Dartmouth Hitchcock University, Bed #3, intubated, catheterized, sedated Patient MR#2334095 reporting:
The rain continues...
At some point, a constellation of events that can only be understood of, by the rational mind, as random, to the deranged mind coalesces into a perceived plot of sadism and abuse. For instance, the discussions over pork at dinner the previous evening, seemed to indicate an early start was appropriate given the length of the following day's hike. And yet, at the ungodly time of 0645 I find myself slathering layers of processed meat (pork? probably) on cheese on spreadable cheese on a roll with frustration and increasing anger. Why are they making me get up and hike again? Did we not do that just yesterday? ( & the day before that and the day before that, etc) Why could we not get up later? Isn't rest needed for recovery ? Hasn't sleep been built into the MasterPlan for this expedition? Had I really agreed to such nonsense as an early start or had something been slipped into my beer?
I sense a plot afoot intended to thwart any feelings of well being I might be developing.
I grudgingly apply my hump, the backpack, and QuasiMotor out of the hut into the half light of dawn. Clouds loom overhead ominously, and I know they are in on the plot. Their laughter booms in the distance, and soon enough, rain starts to pour upon our heads. This requires a rapid response, for one must don all the purchased impervious nylon gear to protect pack and person from the insidious fluid. I have learned the hard way not to pack my rain gear at the bottom of my pack. Nevertheless, even moving at the speed of fear, one is inevitably sodden by the time one is protected from the rain, and underway. It's really somewhat a waste of time, as the impervious nature of the nylon means no sweat can escape from the bundled package of joy known as russell. This sweat accumulates, and a microclimate within my rain gear is created, akin to that of the monsoon. Warm wet sweat is wrung from my body, in ever increasing rivulets, to brooks, to streams, to rivers, until the moisture density
on both sides of the nylon is equal. Though impervious to water, somehow the result is that of no barrier at all, and one moves, having sadly devolved, in the medium of the amphibian.
Speaking of amphibians: there exists upon the soaking trails numerous examples of the creature known deceptively in German as the Molch; translation, Salamander.
These black prehistoric-appearing micro-dinosaurs abound, and there are too many seen for this to just be coincidence. Addlepated, I suspect there is some connection between my affectionate name for my girlfriend Sally ~ Salamander, and the appearance of these creatures. She has called them to her and this cannot bode well for me. We often shout "Molch" as we pass them by, I suspect to warn others to watch out and to not inadvertantly with vigourous steps squash them; but, as I linger behind the other hikers, I delight in spearing each minion (minny one), skewering them with the tip of my hiking sticks. They will not amass to cause me some sort of downfall, no way, not no how, uh uh.
My brother manages to eat two huge meals for second breakfast and lunch today. He appears thinner daily and hikes in the dowpour with apparent glee, often leaping from rock to rock. Though limiting myself to tiny portions of pork, as sadly no veal has been found on the menu for days, I must have gained weight as my joints complain at ever increasing decibel levels. Perhaps this can be attributed to the graduation from Radler to pure beer, which probably contains more calories than the watered down stuff. Sadly, without ehthanolic stupor, no sleep would be my lot at night, given the cacophony of coporeal complaints catastrophically chorused callously. The stronger liquid must mask the taste of the mind-altering, behaviour-conforming drug added by my captors .
Vespers is scheduled for 0300. I weep myelf to sleep, adding more fluid to the surroundings.
