Thunderstorm in the Mountains

from an October a few years ago

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As I come out of Tenaya Canyon in Yosemite after a hike, the skies darken and it begins to sprinkle.  Then thunder crackles and bangs through the sky. The wind increases and blows branches and camp chairs across the Upper Pine campground. I love rolling thunder, especially the type that I can feel rumbling deep in my chest. Hurrying back to camp, I grab my rain gear and head for the meadows so that I can see what the storm is doing to the surrounding mountains. 

A white cloud is forming just below the lip of Upper Yosemite Fall. It's the only cloud this low. The color of the water in the fall matches the white of the cloud so it looks like the fall is pouring into the cloud like a basin, and it seems that more water is pouring into the cloud than is coming out.

I wonder if the atmospheric conditions are such that the fall is creating the cloud? Maybe the cool air flowing down the Yosemite Creek canyon behind the fall is mixing with the humid, warmer air rising from the valley floor and forming a cloud at the junction. Lightning flashes and unhitches the cloud from the fall to float up the valley.

Why does a storm make even mountains seem vulnerable?

I walk through the meadows in the middle of the valley in the pouring rain, going from Leidig to Sentinel and down to Stoneman and Ahwahnee. When the rain slows to a drizzle, I return to camp and meet Tim and Dave who arrived today. We discover that as I was watching that cloud develop below Yosemite Falls, they were at the top of the Falls photographing it from above as lightning started zipping around their heads. Later I learn from a ranger that the storm dropped so much snow at Tioga Pass they had to close the road.

I turn in early at 8:30 p.m. to get sleep in case the storm intensifies overnight and I have to battle it to keep my tent upright. I sleep fitfully for ten hours as the rain resumes, waking repeatedly to listen to the sounds of rain on the tent and thunder echoing off the valley walls.

The storm makes it clear that I’m not in control here. The weather, the wild animals, and the exposure to the elemental forces of the earth tell me that I am visiting a world where matters of life and death go on, and nothing is assured except this moment.

Overnight the air gets colder as the freeze in the highlands moves down into the valley. Temperatures have fallen into the 20s. The carrots in my cooler are frozen. It's supposed to warm up a few degrees today and a few more tomorrow, but the sun won't rise over the south rim of the valley and reach Camp 4 until 10 a.m. keeping camp cold.

Today being a rest day between long hikes, I don’t have anything scheduled, so I walk around the valley floor trying to get warm. I may have to break out my insulated winter coat that makes me look like a blue Michelin man.

Last night, to my great delight, I found out that the hood to my new sleeping bag works handles cold weather well. It’s called a "mummy bag” and I can pull the drawstring so that it surrounds my head and keeps it warm. I can draw it so tight that only my nose sticks out. This allows me to breathe fresh air and expel moist breath outside the bag, while I stay warm and dry inside.

If I have a warm place to sleep, I relish tromping around in the cold. If I'm cold and wet and know that this isn't going to change, I don't enjoy being outside. I confess, it's a growing edge, to enjoy nature’s beauty whether I am warm, cold, or wet. 

I am not St. Cuthbert who intentionally sat in the cold North Sea off Lindesfarne, England to commune with nature (or deaden his body so he could pray). I pray best with my senses open to the glorious, transcendent beauty of the wilderness.