I pulled another genius move last night. As many of you know, I camp in the Berkeley Hills. And I literally camp on the side of a hill.
So last night I go staggering up to my campsite around midnight. And I got my sleeping bag in a bag. But I put it down in the wrong place. And it went rolling all the way down the hill. Much to my chagrin.
Its pitch dark. And I’m drunk. But I made a heroic effort to find my sleeping bag. I blindly staggered down the hill. Slipping and falling into the rain-soaked mud on several occasions. But, to my credit, I didn’t break my fool neck.
So, after much pointless thrashing in the bushes in the darkness — and cursing the gods for the cruel fates they inflict on mortal men — I concluded it was hopeless. There was no way I could find my sleeping bag. So i staggered back up the hill. Falling into the mud several more times (several more loud curses at the gods, the bastards) and made it back up to my campsite. On my hands and knees.
Fortunately I had some ratty blankets stashed in the bushes. But lets just say it wasn’t the most comfortable night I ever spent. And at least Mini Scaredy, the feral cat, had the decency to sleep on top of me all night long to add an extra layer of warmth. And the next morning I retrieved my sleeping bag at the bottom of the hill and lived happily — if muddily — ever after.