The Director and The Sex Educator and I took off for parts unknown (parts unknown to me, at any rate) on Saturday afternoon. In Asheville, it was about 91. When we got up to the parkway, the temperature had dropped to 86. By the time we had climbed 1500 feet to the Graveyard Fields area, 
my trusty Matrix thermometer told me that it was 67. The fog rolled in so thickly that it obscured any sign of valleys or peaks off to one side of us. We no longer really needed to go swimming. But we did anyway. And it was numbingly cold.
The Director declared it to be the best hangover cure ever, but it was far from a scientific experiment, since she’d been chugging some sort of weird, orange, cayenne pepper laced beverage all morning. When she proposed the venture on Friday night, she called this place Skinny Dip Falls. That was all I needed to hear, and thus, I showed up to pick them up wearing no bathing suit. I should not have been so literal. Bathing type attire was found, however, so I didn’t flash any small children.
Did I mention that it was so cold that my legs went numb, making it possible for me to forget that I was in the water at all, and therefore I put my head in, which was incredibly stupid?
