WET

WET

I have gotten much better at being wet. Growing up in Tucson very little of the time I was wet and if you happened to get soaked, it never lasted long, evaporating in minutes usually giving you a necessary cooling off.

Claremont was not much different. When there was water around I often did everything in my power to stay dry, suffering teasing from my heartier north western friends, joking about my rain boots and 1^st rain jacket at age 20.

Here I spend almost all of my time soggy. If its not traipsing through the stream or using your butt to block the fast moving water so that you can see into the pool or riffle then it’s the rain. And since it’s the rainy season there is plenty of it. We have spent an hour or 2 just standing in the rain waiting for it to stop so we can go back to fishing. We watch as the water rises and we pray that it doesn’t get too murky, forcing us to return the next day to finish the job. We are on constant watch for flash floods when working that would threaten to wash all out bottled fish away. By the end of the day our finger tips are always pruney and our feet pasty white (as one girl said, like a cadaver!). Even beach day can be a rainy affair.

It took some getting used to. Some adjustments I made were bringing a rain jacket. Not to stay dry because it makes you sweat enough to soak your clothes anyway, but it creates a warm sauna feel inside. I also have what I call Post Fieldpants Pants, or dry shorts in the truck waiting for when I get back to the top. They help avoid crotch rot and make the ride home much more enjoyable.

Who would have thought it of the desert rat from Tucson but some of my favorite moments have been when I was hiking in the rain and stopped to hear the thousand drops hitting layers of leaves all the way down to the floor. You can feel it soaking your hair and beads rolling across your brow, ever growing and gathering speed as they traverse down your check. The bugs disappear and it smells fresh and clean and cool. The wet is growing on me.