Dear Wind, Fuck You.

I really thought we had an understanding.

Scorching daytime heat, you are on full blast. Attempting to set up tent and/or sleeping – you had best be elsewhere.

I forgave you already for deafening me on my way to Cabazon and even for blowing that poodle dog bush into me (I am still itchy), but you have made it quite clear that you do not value our relationship and that you apparently have never heard of the word “compromise.”

All day, I walk, and all day, you avoid me. I see you turning turbines in the distance and rustling tree branches above me, yet somehow, my face lacks your presence. Now, how is that?

But you know what? You are right. I appreciate you blowing at 50+ miles per hour all night as I attempt to catch the elusive PCT sleep. And you are right; I should have set up my tent 200 yards away (or even off the side of that cliff). And yes, your scattering of my belongings all over my campsite really brings the place together. And that cliff? Maybe I should be blown off of it.

Why you insist on blowing through the treetops while I bake in the daytime sun, I do not know (yes, that is right, I see you up there).

I cannot wait for you to blow rain straight into my eyes, or for you to one day prevent me from cooking something with my alcohol stove. I know you are jealous that the advent of motors has taken away your utility at sea, and that the once entertaining pin wheel has been rendered boring by the advent of video games, but I thought you were capable of being a mature and understanding adult.

The fact that Earth, water, and fire are far superior to you as far as the elements go does not mean that you need to misbehave to solicit attention. If you are not willing to cooperate out here on the Pacific Crest Trail, then we are effectively through with one another.

Please do not call, text, email, or attempt to contact me in any other way. You are selfish and, above all, useless.

I hope that it was worth it. Bitch.