Disintegrating. Like each piece of me is turning into sand and despite my best effort to keep piling up the sand back into me, my efforts just scatter more, and the hands I'm using to try are themselves falling apart as well. Inevitably the whole will be nothing more than a loose collection of particles which will then be blown away by the wind over time. Is there some crystalized core which could be called 'me' in that pile? Even if there is, would that matter? . Wanted to scream. To somehow work out these frustrations at the sheer helplessness of the situation. It was supposed to be just a day trip. It was supposed to be one day, within a series of weeks working at the camp. The camp itself was supposed to be just a summer away from 'the real world'. But now? It was all falling apart. To come to the camp there were decisions about what to bring and what to leave behind. Pretty natural. The camp was isolated from society, in the high desert surrounded by mountains. Quite arid, but not without its grasses and brush, and even the occasional tree. It was a large great basin some 1000 meters above sea level. There was a completely different ecology in the mountains that surrounded it, a great many tree in an alpine forest. But there was a huge wall between them. In the basin, very little water, as it all ran off elsewhere, and the mountains blocked much rain from making its way to the interior. The camp had been situated near the basin in the more wooded area, and a casual observer could be forgiven for missing the precarity of the situation, feeling secure in the abundant water access and cover of forest. When going to such a place, and living in a limited lifestyle one had to cut off from certain things, technology first to go. Not much to do with a computer, where there was almost no access to electricity, and certainly no internet connection. Hell there wasn't even cellular service this far out. The cut off nature was part of its appeal to the campers after all. And there'd be too much work to do anyway, none of which involved the kind of mental labor which computers made so much easier. No, there would be clearing trails, clearing brush, leading hikes through various spots. Teaching skills such as wildlife spotting, starting a fire in a survival situation, how to tie knots and their uses, making bridges using local materials and cord using lashing methods. Cutting down to some barer essentials - sleeping gear, some few blankets for the cold of the night, clothes, some wilderness gear such as rope, folding shovel, a knife, etc. and a few reminders of self outside, A small stuffed panda, some Magic cards, a tape recorder powered by AA batteries, a book about programming in C++. The days were filled with socializing and it seemed to fly by quickly, since there was always something to do. During the down time playing Magic with some of the others with whom I worked, or talking with them about various movies I'd never seen. Someone came up with the idea, we should take a trip into the basin. A day hike down the mountain into the basin. Leading a group of some of the older kids who were more skilled who knew enough about the dangers. Bring plenty of water, some portable food, knife (always), rope, some emergency tape, heat blanket (those metalized foil kind), first aid kit. Be Prepared. Trimmed down, once, now twice, and into the basin we went. Leaving in early morning dew, it was quick work down the rugged cliff face and into the basin. The quickness of the down trip, belying how far we had actually come, and how long it would take to make it back. A nagging feeling that we should probably turn back already, but suppressed, it's only been a couple hours, and surely even if we took more than twice as long to return we had plenty of time before we needed to be back. There was a spot we had intended to go after all. There was cheerful talking about various things, immature kids talking about inappropriate things, little discussions about wildlife and ecology interspersed when we'd cross paths with an interesting plant, or the tell tale of passing deer. We broke for lunch under the shade of a tall juniper tree, planning to make our way back. Only noticing the storm tens of minutes before it struck. First a dusty smudge on the horizon, a blurring of the previously clean line, then more pronounced. It hit harder and faster than rationality told us to expect. We had little protection from the storm and its cutting wind mixed with sand and broken brush. The daylight muted by the volumes of dust overhead. Someone suggested we use the emergency blanket to try to block the wind, yelling hard to be heard over the roar. It proved impossible, the flimsy blanket tore and was blown apart scattered by the wind. tbc .