The Muddy Ride

Another day, another Tamarancho death march. After one trip to the emergency room and four out of the original gang of seven bailing out early, Kim and Paul and I emerged from the muddy reaches of the Boy Scout camp over four hours after we entered. It was the kind of day where five minutes into the ride one guy slipped on a root, fell over and slid/fell six feet down into a creek.
No broken bones...this time. By the end we were all worn out, not because we had been hammering the whole way ('cause we hadn't) but because we had been out too damn long.
Even the tasty burgers and the homemade ginger ale at the Iron Springs brewpub weren't enough to revive us. At least we got to see the end of the Steelers game.