Storm in the Rockies
My only companion on this trip is my dog, Dozer. Until a few minutes ago, he was mainly concerned with chasing varmints along the trail. Earlier this morning, as we broke camp, I was concerned with the looks of the sky, which was blanketed in thousands of cotton balls. This cloud pattern, sometimes called “fish-scale,” indicates the approach of a weather front. I figured we had several hours before the rain hit, and by that time, we would be at our next camp near Blue Lake just a short 3.5 miles away. I was dead wrong.
At just past nine o’clock in the morning, I am crouched between a cluster of spruce trees afraid for my life. A truly wicked and nearly stationary electrical storm is parked directly above us. We are at about 11,000 feet in elevation, just below a ridgeline, near an avalanche clearing, but under the cover of a healthy forest—a good spot.
I keep repeating this to myself: “It’s a good spot.” But, every half-minute or so another one strikes—an eerie yellow or orange flicker illuminates the forest followed quickly by the pop and roar of thunder.
Dozer has wedged himself under a tangle of dead branches a few feet in front of me. His ears are back and he’s staring at me for reassurance. With each crack of thunder, he flinches and lowers his head as if to prepare for the blow. He doesn’t understand.
I understand. I understand that I’ve now counted at least four strikes within a quarter of a mile from our spot within the last fifteen minutes alone. I understand that the rain is getting heavier, not lighter. I understand that the lighting is getting more frequent, not less. I try to stay positive. Getting struck by lighting is highly unusual. But, with each forced positive thought the negativity seeps back in. How unlikely would it really be in this situation? Not all that unlikely at all, is the answer that I dreadfully know.
The rain is falling straight down in widely spaced heavy, punishing, drops that pound the dirt around us with audible thumps. I look around, and as I do, I catch the direct sight of a lightning strike. Between the trees up the hill I see the big bolt cut a short, fierce line from the cloud base to the ridge just a few hundred yards up-slope. Two seconds and then the slam of thunder beats down. As close as it appeared I’m demoralized by the realization that there have been several strikes much closer than this one.
I look at my watch and my wedding ring. I consider removing them to prevent severe burns should I be struck. The thought does not seem ridiculous. Dread. I look away. An orange flicker lights the spruce tree to my right, my arms go up over my head in a reflex as the thunder bellows, reverberating through the canyon below. I look at my ring again, this time thinking of my wife back home. Sorrow.
Dozer is shaking now. A chipmunk scurries within striking distance—the chance of a lifetime! He glances at it, but lets it pass. He looks back at me. Eyes wide and ears back, he’s terrified. I wish I can put him at ease, but he senses my fear. We both wait: Me sitting on my sleeping bag sack, Dozer curled under the tree branches in front of me and a little downhill.
I glance over to my left. Ten feet away is the edge of the avalanche clearing. A bright flash and almost simultaneous thunder, this one is within a couple hundred feet. I say out loud several times, “if you see the flash, you haven’t been hit.”
The rain is picking up now. Big heavy drops are still falling perfectly straight down. Still, there is no wind, no breeze. Still, the storm is stationary, relentlessly unleashing its awesome fury. I realize that my pack and clothes are quickly getting wet. Although the rain is of lesser concern than the lighting, I need to do something, anything. Just to my right is a level area perfect for a tent, so I jump up and get to work.
With the rain falling harder now, my shaking hands assemble the poles quickly. Another orange flicker sends me to a crouch. The crash of thunder commences as I raise my arms over my head. I can feel the static in the air. As I resume setting up the tent, another flash and another crash. This time I don’t flinch. I keep working as fast as I can. Dozer is beside me now eagerly waiting for shelter. The rain is increasing, a pounding torrent now. The forest seems burdened by the punishing storm—branches are drooped and dripping. Flowers are being battered.
The tent is up in record time. Dozer knocks me out of the way in a mad scramble to get inside. I dash for my sleeping bag sack and backpack and throw them both in the tent and dive in. As I pull the, still somewhat dry, sleeping bag from the sack, Dozer, very wet, rolls on it. After a minute of claustrophobic maneuvering, I finally manage to get into the bag.
I realize at this point that I am actually at greater risk of electrocution now than before. Outdoor survival guides will tell you to avoid laying flat on the ground in an electrical storm. But, I have decided that my false sense of security from shelter trumps my better judgment. I know better, but I still feel safer inside the tent. Now, less than two minutes after erecting the tent, it begins to hail. “That was a good decision,” I say to Dozer.
Four hours later the rain finally stops, and the thunder is but a faint rumbling from the distant east. We timidly emerge from the tent. The forest is drenched. Wildflowers are shredded. The ground is a matrix of tiny streams of rainwater running down to the canyon floor. Across the canyon, I see waterfalls where there was only dry gullies before. The stream at the bottom is a raging torrent.
As I pack up the tent and prepare for the remaining mile and a half to Blue Lake, I feel beat down but exhilarated. I feel like a survivor and yet so vulnerable to the forces of nature. I stop for a moment to take in the renewed peacefulness of the forest and mountains. I look up to a patch of brilliant blue sky. I feel renewed now in this wilderness.
We proceed on up the ridge and Dozer spots a ground squirrel ahead. Off he goes on a rampage after it–he never does catch them. He’s back to normal. We made it.
