A whip-poor-will started singing its annoying, repetitive tune just as I attempted to fall asleep last night. There is a legend that the whip-poor-will's song is a death omen, and somehow that felt fitting for a campsite surrounded by decaying garbage.
To shut out the incessant noise, I could have turned my thoughts to the morning, but I had already done that. It wasn't a pleasant mental picture. I had just finished reading several comments in FarOut that said mean dogs harassed and sometimes attacked hikers on the road we'd have to walk. We encountered loose, sometimes angry dogs in Alabama, but these were reportedly worse than that.