Well, I had fine plans for a weekend at Roundrock, but the great cosmic conspiracy that seems intent on mostly thwarting my dreams and only occasionally granting me moments in the sun was in play.
Trips to the woods have always been in competition with the rest of my scattered life. It used to be that we had a regular commitment in town every other weekend that overrode Roundrock visits (at least overnight visits). Then that ended but the maniacal running begin. So organized runs, or even the obsessive need to get in miles before the week ended, often swallowed weekends whole. Thus what was always a challenge — to find a free weekend to devote to a trip to the woods for the relaxation of ceaseless chores — remained a challenge, just with new players.
Yet my Roundrock drought had gotten so severe that I decided I had to wedge in a visit regardless of the other demands on my time. And this last weekend was to be it.
Not that it was a free weekend by any means. I had a run on Saturday morning that I’d been looking forward to for more than a year. It was a quick four-miler in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day in a funky part of town, and I had missed the chance to run it last year because of some out-of-town travel, so I was eager to run it this year. (Perhaps a race report tomorrow.) Four miles is not so much, even on my aged legs, and I thought I could pound that out and then jump in the Prolechariot and get down to Roundrock for a full afternoon of working in the pine plantation then relaxing before a warm campfire before retiring to the snug bed in the little cabin, then to rise to a cooler morning where I could absorb more of the medicine my woods offer before a return to that other part of my life I try so hard to ignore (but fail).
When I have these plans, I watch the weather forecast for Roundrock all week. And for this past weekend, the weather looked just about ideal. Nearly 70 degrees on Saturday, dipping to 40 overnight, then climbing back into the 50s on Sunday. Just about perfect for working and campfiring and sleeping and relaxing. But remember that cosmic conspiracy I mentioned?
The Saturday run didn’t even begin until 10:00 a.m. (I think that had something to do with getting the runners finished at about the time it would be just acceptable to begin “rehydrating” for the holiday weekend at the many watering holes literally just beyond the finish arch.) Regardless, I would finish the run, then stagger through the after party collecting as much swag and bagel and chocolate milk as I could. Then drive home to shower and change and pack and get on the road, not arriving at Roundrock until mid-afternoon.
Okay, that was still workable. My secret goal anyway was to sit around the first campfire of the year. But then I watched the weather forecast deteriorate. Saturday still promised to be warm, but a later arrival meant that those warm temps would be retreating even as we arrived. And the slight chance of rain reported earlier in the week increased to near certainty of rain, beginning at 5:00 p.m. — prime campfire cooking time — and then continuing the rest of the evening — prime campfire sitting-around drinking beer time — and through the night. The rain would stop on Sunday but only because it would change to snow, with a predicted high temp of only 35 degrees. The evil forces arrayed against me must have chuckled as they slowly revealed this to me through the week.
So to Roundrock we did not go last weekend.
But this coming weekend is looking good, and perhaps the great cosmic conspiracy will take a break and let me have my campfire.