I keep moving, taking cover beneath a tree.
I keep moving, taking cover beneath a tree. Across from me, the entrance to the barracks is full to the gills, attendees peering out nervously, looking like prisoners on a POW train. Back at my camp, I’m drenched . This is no longer a game—things have gotten real. I open the back of my camper shell and notice water is dripping in over the windows, which, after all, are just plexiglass rectangles slotted into two plywood sheets. Digging through my tool box, I find some yellow electrical tape. Draped in my poncho, I pop open the umbrella, towel down the edges of the windows, and lay the tape down. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. Sitting in my driver’s seat, I watch people fleeing: four cars exiting for every car entering. The scene is suddenly hilarious: Dudes in safari hats easing their Four-Runners and Wranglers outta the site, their custom headlights flashing in the rain. When the worst of the storm has passed, I venture over to the tent of The Overland Journal, a magazin...