Raindrops began spattering the east-facing porthole window at around 06:30. Gray and black clouds scudded low over the bentonite hills. Our planned pressurized rover EVA to Factory Bench would have to be postponed yet again until after the rain abated. But the rain didn't stop. I left the Hab early before the rest of the crew had eaten breakfast. I couldn't spend another day sitting in front of my laptop or drawing out menial, if necessary, tasks far beyond the time it actually takes to finish them in order to feel as if I were accomplishing something. To put it lightly, I was beginning to climb the walls. I hauled my camera gear to my car before the rest of the crew had eaten breakfast and drove to the main highway toward Factory Bench a few miles down the road. I wanted to scout locations (we didn't have enough time to do much scouting yesterday evening) where an EVA crew could both explore interesting terrain features, and I could photograph them exploring.

Factory Butte was shrouded in mist when I arrived. I drove the entire length of road and made progress down a few jeep trails. It seemed the best place for exploration was not the wide-open plain surrounding Factory Butte, but rather the crevassed and rocky bench land to the east and north. The sun poked through the thick clouds for a minute or two, but as it rose higher in the sky, the light turned dim and gray. Factory Butte's monumental profile darkened. I drove back to the Hab, but the rain had turned the first slope off the main highway into a treacherous slide of clay and rock. I chose instead to interview Ernie Shirley, the aging owner of the Rock Shop in Hanksville. For all future crews, it's worth a visit to Ernie's shop if only to see the magnificent dinosaur bones in the back shed.

Around 12:00 I drove back to the Hab and once again hesitated at the top of the first slope. Rain continued to soak the earth, which had the consistency of potter's clay. I knew that if I managed to negotiate my way down the slope without the car sliding sideways into a rock, or worse, into Muddy Creek canyon, I would not be able to climb back up until the slope had dried out. That could be days. The thought made me want to turn around and drive straight back to New York. But I didn't. Using my emergency brake, I made it to the bottom. I splashed and swayed through half a dozen washes running red across the road. The drive from the main road to the Hab takes ten minutes at most. I had already spent an hour slipping and sliding around the rocks and hills, and I was only halfway to the Hab. That's when I came to a wash too big to risk crossing. I stood at its edge watching rocks tumble in its current. I parked my car on a high spot, zipped up my coat, and began walking the remaining two miles back to the Hab, camera gear slung over my shoulder. When I climbed up the Hab's stairs, wet and cold and caked with mud, the crew was arrayed at the plywood desk, tapping away on their keyboards, a familiar scene that could have been taken from any other day this week. And given the rain and mud, a scene that would repeat itself tomorrow. April is indeed the cruelest month, even in the desert.