Many people in the Panhandle think of rain with a strange mix of awe, longing and even nostalgia. Rain just isn’t a common occurrence in this area, as the yellow fields and fires often remind natives. Rain is used as a sort of time-keeper. For instance, I remember very clearly the middle of last July’s downpour. The weekend of May 23 will always be characterized not as Grandma’s wedding reception but as several days of good, long soaking rain. Therefore, I will start my story with the rain that poured through the Panhandle the night before my cousin Breanna and my’s expedition.

We felt the urge to explore nature, to embark on an adventure in the wilderness… or at least a manmade trail through the Palo Duro Canyon via an admission fee and paved roads. Hoping the previous night’s rain would cut down on the heat, we set off in the morning, tennis shoes tied and water bottles dripping. We discussed which trail to take on the twenty-minute drive but ended up asking for a map at the park entrance. Despite both discussion and map, we decided to just drive until stumbling upon a promising, vacant trail.

I don’t remember the name of the trail or even any of the scenery (I have a tendency to watch my feet instead of the surroundings). Breanna and I just clambered to the first empty trail and set off. The ground, luckily, was dry with only a few mud traps. Carefully navigating around the dark red spots, we chatted about everyday things and even started the Harry Potter name game. For those who’ve never played, each person names a Harry Potter character until running out of names. The person who has the last word, or name, wins.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp sting on my leg. Ouch! I slapped the area without much thought. I must have hit my mark because the pain lessened. Looking back, I wish I had just brushed the bug away. The bug must have been a celebrity or queen because a whole horde of the same type of bugs attacked as one. With a buggy battle cry, they charged. Breanna looked at me, I looked at her, and, as one, we turned and started jogging toward the car, bugs in hot pursuit.

Despite our faster strides, the bugs still managed to fly in and bite us several times. We quickened our pace, sprinting toward the insect-proof car. My eyes searched desperately for safety even though we were still a half-mile away, and I briefly forgot the necessity of watching for mud traps. My right foot hit a mud patch and slid behind me. Down I went. I quickly got up, aided by adrenaline, and kept moving. Breanna met her fate next, briefly hitting her knees then up again.

“This is like the ‘Hunger Games,’”  she panted. Believe me, “The Hunger Games” is not the ideal book in which to play a part. Finally, finally, we reached the sanctuary of the car. It seemed to glow with a blue light. We jumped in, closed our doors and sat panting. My knees, legs and hands were reddish-brown, caked with canyon dirt. I had several bug bites scattered on my arms and legs. Breanna looked a little better, but neither of us looked like we’d just experienced an enjoyable little hike in the canyon.

We started up the side of the canyon. I was ready to drive home and soak in a warm bath, but Breanna doesn’t give up as easily. Right as we turned a corner and the CCC trail appeared, she turned to me. “We should try another trail,” she said brightly. I looked at her like she had suddenly grown spots and an extra head.

“Pllleeeeaaassee.”

I sighed and pulled into the trail parking lot. I’m sure we looked quite the sight, stained knees, muddy shoes and bedraggled hair. I kept my eyes out for bugs and flinched at every sound for the first few minutes before gradually relaxing. I left that day with an amusing story to tell and no lasting resentment about the canyon.