2am Sunday September 4th.
I rolled over in my sleeping bag, groggy and not in the mood for what I was about to discover. One of the main poles on our tent was snapped in two. The tent was now a main sail, catching every gust with vengeance and slapping us in the head with what remained of the aluminum and fabric. The winds that night were abnormally high, and were only magnified by the confines of our tiny little temporary cloth home. After about 8 hours of trauma, it met its breaking point.
"I think we need to get out of here" I said.
So we started packing gear, with headlamps on, and the deafening sound of air rushing through the mountains egging us on to move faster. It only took 15 minutes to get things packed, and we headed back down to tree line. Only about 1/4 of a mile. Pitch black, clear skies, and wind with enough force to constantly knock you off balance. I had eyed a campsite on the way up that looked promising and thats where we headed. Only to find it occupied by someone admittedly much smarter than I. We knew we were going to be sleeping without cover, so we found some space cushioned by a lush bed of pine nettles and confronted our new reality. I slept with one eye open that night as I was sure the wind would snap the top of a tree off and come crashing down on us. Hello plan b.