I try to sleep under the shade of my tarp during the day, but here in the Great Smoky Mountains, I’m dripping hot.My new camp is on a little finger of land protruding out onto Lake Santeetlah. With a dense canopy of hard woods and pines providing even more shade, my sleep is fitful. The wound in my side has healed. The doctor did a good job of sewing my gut and closing the hole, but the muscles he had to cut through still hurt, like a bad bruise, and I can’t find a comfortable position.Deciding sleep isn’t happening, I reach for the metal case holding my Enfield .303, and open the clasps. I’ll be using it tomorrow, and even though it’s clean and ready, it won’t hurt to give it another go over.There is a narrow sand and gravel beach and a wide body of water not twenty feet from my campsite. A warm, humid breeze occasionally puffs my way doing nothing to mitigate my discomfort. Still, I’ll take the heat over the horror of the past.Back in ‘12, a stinking bad brand of the Mers-CoV virus came to light over in the Middle East.
