The yell rang out just as the morning light rose on top of Lookout Mountain.
A woman, dressed in a grey sweatshirt, black running shorts and grey running shoes, stepped at the edge of an ankle-high creek. She stared at the stream, a body of water that two days before had probably been a trickle, but now ran like a faucet turned on high.
“Not again,” she said, almost sighing. Her yell had almost turned to a whimper.
I plowed through, not stopping, my trail shoes and socks soaking by the time I stomped through the icy-cold water.
It is what it is, I thought.