Hiking in the Rain

Today is a day of rest for my body. The physical exertions of yesterday's dawn-to-dusk hike wore me out. Generally the day after any hike longer than 10 hours is a rest day, or a day of a few short hikes, time to let the body recoup and stretch its muscles. 

So far I detect no serious tightness in my legs or hot spots on my feet. Although my mind wants to go on another long hike and see more mountain scenery, today’s sporadic rain dilutes my drive and encourages me to saunter around slowly and observe the details of nature more closely. 

This is also a good time to catch up on housekeeping chores in the tent, as I tend to dump things in when I return late from one hike, reset my backpack for the next day’s activity, and take off at daybreak.

The impact of weather on camping and hiking is brought home as I encounter changing weather conditions in mid October. When it's rainy, much of my attention is focused on staying relatively dry. My first concern is for the inside of the tent. If my tent and sleeping bag get wet, the trip is over. Once the tent is secure, then I resign myself to sloshing around all day, with parts of me perpetually wet. 

I can endure a day of wet feet and half-wet pants, wet hands and a wet face, as long as I have a dry place to sleep at night. After yesterday's late rain, I had to deal with a little seepage under the tent and moved my tent to a spot under a tree that stayed dry during the storm.

Cold, wet weather is a different creature.

Hiking in the mountains when it's raining isn't fun because the trails are always going up or down and are slippery and potentially dangerous in spots. The added weight and layers of rain gear slow me down, making long hikes cumbersome, and blisters are more likely to form on cold, soggy toes. Hiking over flat ground in the rain is fine because not much friction is put on the bottom of my feet. 

And yet, the mountains in the rain are endless scenes of wonder. The glistening tree leaves. The hovering of clouds over the peaks of the mountains, hiding them from view. Mist rising from the forests and drifting low over the meadows.

The sounds of the natural world also come alive, from the soft plick of raindrops dropping off the branches of a ponderosa pine onto the layer of needles, to the sharp schiss of rivulets of water racing down the valley wall, to the growing roar of the river as it fills and surges with water.

It’s tempting to scamper up to scenic vistas in the mountains to see the panoramas, knowing that I’ll have to slide most of the way back down.

Why does walking through autumn rain in a wilderness place move deeper emotions? What is it about fog that erases the boundaries of time?