Storm in the Desert, Part II: The Same, Only Different

Short Version:
A light shower, and a cool breeze.

Long Version:
Once again, we were glad we'd moved into the comparative safety of the Reaper before falling asleep. This time, though, it wasn't cacophonous thunder or blinding and noisy bolts of lightning thrashing the ground nearby; this time the deafening noise was provided by the torrential downpour smashing onto the roof of the Reaper as though it were trying to break through the metal to get to us, and this time it didn't stop after a short barrage but carried on for much of the night. The volume of water that was dumped on us must have been huge. It wasw the wind, though, that was our real nemesis that night; the van was rocking (and not because of activity inside it) and we actually heard the tent leaving in the dark.

It wasn't terrifying the way the oh-so-close electrical death of the previous night's weather attack had been, but we were both well and truly concerned about the likely state of the road, which already had some wheel-, if not van-eating mud pits along the several miles of dirt separating us from the highway. And we had no idea how long it was going to take us to find the tent. And it was still raining, albeit with far less outright brutality than it had exhibited throughout most of the night.

Turns out we didn't have to go far to retrieve the tent: the bulk of it had stayed put, with only the fly making a concerted break for freedom, and it had been thwarted by one of the few small scraggly trees in the vicinity, which had snarled the fleeing material on its gnarled and twisted branches. We had more difficulty trying to reduce the amount of water we were going to be dragging around with us: the tent had a good four inches trapped inside, and there was more in every crevice and fold in each of the tarpaulins we'd used to cover the bikes in a futile attempt to keep them relatively dry. And it was still raining.

So we shed as much water as we could, bundled the wet gear up and stowed it in quarantinable plastic bins, and made a run for it, on the grounds that the road out wasn't going to get any better unless we were prepared to sit tight for a day or two. Which we weren't, despite both of us being incredibly patient people.

We passed the worst mud pit without realising it, and were rolling effortlessly through the puddle on the far side of the second one before either of us dared voice our growing suspicions:
- Um... shouldn't we have hit the mud by now?
- I think that was the it, back there
- But there wasn't any mud
- Maybe the rain washed it all away
- I think you're right
- I think you look like a monkey
- I think you smell like a monkey
- I think we both do
- I think you're right
- Shall we go explore the nearby Arches National Park, with its many incredible wind- and water-sculpted sandstone features?
- Yes, let's