Dry Camp - Alfred Cool - Bog

We, me and my navigator, Drake, drove forward relentlessly, lost on confusing, deserted back roads somewhere north and west of Campbell River. Forbidding, snow-burdened mountains hemmed us in on all sides. Our fuel gauge hovered near empty. The sun made a cameo appearance earlier that evening, briefly highlighting the orange peaks before another soggy layer of dense, dark clouds and late twilight smothered the sky above us. A coroner, if anyone ever found us, would likely declare our deaths accidental. But that would be misleading because we made our choice to get out-no matter what. We made that crucial decision standing on the wrong, crumbling bank of the rushing sluice of angry water smashing submerged rocks together like we were at a five-pin bowling alley. The raging torrent had no business still being there. Even after days of northern Vancouver Island monsoons, we expected the flash flooding to be over. However, this was not so, and this Rubicon was ours to cross.