Arrived at the park office at 4:30 to find that no backcountry permits are issued after 3 pm. I was fairly certain I could make it out to Tingles Island (perhaps even Pine Tree) before dark, but opted to obey The Man (who was in fact a rather fetching woman) and took a site in the Bayside Drive-in Campground. Besides the fact that I was literally the only one there, the distinct dearth of bugs stunned me. Assateague has some of the fiercest insects I've ever encountered and there wasn't a buzz or whir to be heard anywhere. Temps were in the fifties, slight breeze, spot of rain every now and again. I set up the Heptawing tarp on a nice level piece of grass with a sweeping view of the bay. Though winter, it was rather mild, chilly rather than cold. And still staggeringly beautiful, all the more so for the lack of insects.

Having busted my hump to get out there, it didn't seem right to drive right back into town, so I pulled out the stove and boiled up some ramen. Dinner was accompanied by local AM radio, in particular a call-in show with a local Police officer as guest. The thick, flat Eastern Shore accents fascinated me, and the subject matter ("Why can't they do something about that no parking zone by the ball park?") amused, as well.

Cleaned up the pots, checked over my supplies for the next morning's early start, fired the sunset gun, and managed to kill time until 9, when I turned in. Sleeping under the tarp is still fairly new for me. I started using it a year before when I tore my solo tent right at the start of the annual Delaware River paddling adventure. I'd been using the Heptawing as an "office" or cook tent but hadn't considered it as primary shelter. After sleeping under it those three nights I was hooked. It it so nice to be able to open one's eyes and look around 360° without having to unzip anything. Likewise for getting up and out when nature calls.

It's definitely more exposed than a traditional tent, but it does provide basic shelter. I had severely tested the tarp in a driving rainstorm in Northern California several weeks earlier. I'd gotten a little wet, but was way drier than my pal Subaru, who was in a vintage Moss that had been poorly taken care of. I had gotten a little wind driven spray on my bag; Sue was literally floating in a puddle of misery. And we shouldn't even talk about poor Hopi. Poor old thing is having enough trouble just hanging on to this mortal coil without the added indignity of sleeping in a rainstorm.

The storm in Molera State Park made me suspect that the tarp rules. Carrying it this weekend in Assateague convinced me unqeuivocally. It weighs less than 2 lbs, and I use my hiking poles as supports. Between that, my ~3 lb bag, and ~1.5 lb ground pad I have an entire sleeping system for under 7 lbs. I was able to do this entire trip with only a day pack. And even that was ten lbs lighter and much smaller on the way out (I carried five quarts of water in). I'd still like my Outland for a really killer storm I suppose, but traveling light yet living comfortably is great. And reminiscing on that trip to the Trinity Alps when I shlepped the 12 lb Little Dipper, oy, just thinking of it makes my back ache. I definitely wouldn't want to be relying on the tarp here when there were the usual killer bugs out, but for this offseason trip it was perfect.

I woke up with first light and after airing my bag while brewing up coffee (note to self:coffee bags suck!) packed up my minimalist camp. I had my permit and was hoofing it along the sand road by 8:15. The beach seemed awfully soft, so I chose to follow the old dune road, which is set back in the shelter of the dunes. I made a point of stopping along the way to check out the other campsites. Tingles Island turned out to be really nice. We should keep it in mind for the last night of any future paddling trips as it's only 2.5 miles from the put in and would make the last day cake. I also investigated Little Levels, which is right on the beach. At least on the day I was there, it was like Lawrence of Arabia, and you'd be hard pressed to find shelter. Staying there in anything short of a full tent would be inadvisable.

I pressed on and arrived at Pine Tree around eleven, a little less than three hours after departing. I set up camp, then went back to the beach. I had fantasies of hiking up to Green Run to check it out, but the foxy ranger lady had convinced me 'twas no great shakes. That and the inexorably approaching (and utterly inviolable) nap hour drove me off the beach and back to camp.

I unrolled my bag and drifted off to sleep watching some fifty to a hundred blackbirds doing some rather weird behavior: dropping to the ground, laying silent and quiet on the thatch and needles, then suddenly rising en masse with a tremendous whirring, then perching in the treetops producing the most cacophanous roar. Repeat the entire thing as needed...

After the nice refreshing nap I ate some snacks, boiled up a steamy cup of hot chocolate and enjoyed life. I'd bought an Ann Rice book at the supermarket, but somehow I just never manged to crack it (despite removing it from its ziplock on several occasions). Sometimes I don't know where the time goes when camping, you just hang out and suddenly it's getting dark. Wasn't quite that dramatic, but the afternoon went quickly, and I had time for one more invigorating little hike before settling into camp for the night.

I made my way back out to the beach around dusk, but the brutal wind drove me back into the shelter of the pines. I'd hoped to check out the luminescense described to me by the ranger as I got my permit. The wind was just too intense, and I gave up and strolled back to Pine Tree, enjoying the sunset on the way. I saw my first ponies, but they quickly bolted upon spying me.

Back in camp dinner awaited. Luckily I'd done enough activity that I was famished, else the cardboard taste of the dehydrated meal would have dominated. I tried cooking one of those at home once and couldn't stomach it. Out in the woods though, the freeze dried meals are some of the tastiest victuals ever.

I was using the cute little MSR Superfly stove I'd scored in Berkeley for the Molera trip. I intend to keep using the old reliable (or old UNreliable, as Tony likes to call it) MSR which had so spectacularly failed several months before, and got the Superfly mainly as a backup. For this sort of ultralight thing though, it was swell. No priming, just light and whoosh, tons of heat. An el cheapo tin pot, bought at the 99¢ store, completed the ensemble.

After cleaning up and squaring away my kitchen supplies and food, I savored my last cup of hot choc and let the night wrap around me. A previous tenant had left a nice pile of wood in my fire ring, but I eschewed it in favor of night vision and starlight.

Though gentle and calm when I hit the hay, the weather soon changed. It reminded me of that time in Maine with Tony, you know, right before the big disaster (well, the most recent big disaster anyway!). That trip, as this, the weather changed completely every five minutes. Just after I got situated in my bag, huge heavy raindrops thudded down on my Heptawing. I thought briefly of how happy I was to be battened down before the storm began. No sooner had the thought passed my mind than the rain stopped and a howling wind replaced it.

After spending all that time telling you, dear reader, about how fabulous my tarp is, I have to say, that when the wind really kicked up I was kind of wishing I was in a tent. I think I even felt a bit cold at one point, a first when sleeping in my beloved Puffin. I pulled on a hat, and tightened up the hood down to a little blowhole, warmed right back up, and promptly fell back asleep. I wakened briefly as the gloaming began, and rolled over and watched the light gradually reveal the shapes around me.

I rolled out of my rack at six o'clock sharp, mindful of Liz' request that I return fairly early Sunday. The weather was still up to her tricks, and the ink black storm clouds threatening rain rolled right through without spilling a drop. Firing up the stove one last time (again I say, coffee bags suck, cone and Starbucks from here on out) I choked down a couple cups of joe whilst enjoying the ever changing views of the Assateague Bay. The last quart of water went straight into my belly: it's easier to carry it inside than outside. My pack felt positively feather light (22 lbs, weighed when I returned home) without the food and water I'd carried on the way in.

Hitting the trail at seven am sharp, I revelled in the freedom of going solo. I love being up and out early, and often find myself waiting for camping partners. If I wanted to be up early, I was up early. Whoa. Maybe a little more sleep would have enabled deeper thoughts.

A full shower of sunlight embraced me as I emerged from the shelter of the pines. Topping the last dune ridge, I was nearly blown over by the force of the wind. Air and light etched the scene in bas relief. This same wind out of the Northwest had plagued Tony and me when paddling out last time. It was interesting doing basically the same trip without a boat. It was a lot easier fighting it on foot than afloat though, for sure.

I zipped up the trusty gore-tex shell, tightened my hood, and set off down the beach. It turned out to be firm as a dirt road down by the waterline, and walking was easy. The sand was totally clean and smooth, scoured clean by the omnipresent gale. It's a nearly perfect surface for hiking, and I quickly found a rhythym and started eating up the miles.

Being the out-of-shape city boy that I am, I felt blisters on both of my feet within an hour. I know the thing with blisters is to stop the second you feel one and deal with it, but they were right on the balls of my feet and I wan't sure exactly what one would do about that anyway. So I ploughed on, trying to "suck it up" (as my pal Josh is wont to say). It was seriously gorgeous, and the changeable weather patterns of the entire weekend continued. Just as I got too warm under full sun, a huge black rain cloud would roll in and I'd cool off. It even spat rain for about five seconds but then that too passed.

I ended up making it back in two hours flat. I guess the beach is the way to go. I enjoyed being able to check out the variety of sights presented by the inner road, but hammering on the beach made serious mileage possible. Next time I'll hike all the way out to Green Run, or maybe even Pope Bay.

I checked in with the nice ranger ladies (hate to sound like a pig, but there were like four or five women working there and no more than one guy; shades of Sarah Lawrence), changed into civilian clothes, and fired up the Expedition. Drove onto the ferry and nearly had the gate hit me in the ass. Wild wind and waves made the crossing intense even on the huge ferry. I sat in the truck and tried not to get sick. Then up the GSP to the Turnpike then, bam, an hour and a half delay at the Holland Tunnel. Damn, an anticlimactic end to a swell trip.