electric sky

Today we hiked the Green Canyon trail along the Salmon River towards Hunchback Mountain (we turned back just shy of the peak owing to the fatigue of our companion, M's father). Temperatures in the city were predicted to hover in the middle 90s, so we decided to head for the Mt. Hood Wilderness, assuming the higher altitude might mean cooler temperatures and a little relief from the incredible heat wave.

And it was cooler by at least 10 degrees, but the humidity was intense as thunderstorms moved across the mountain range. Loud, rumbling claps of thunder sounded all around us as we climbed the trail and big soggy drops of rain fell from the sky from time to time. The scent of rotting cedar, piney forest floor and decaying moss hung thick in the muggy air. I took deep gulping breaths as we tramped along, enjoying the feeling of moisture in my lungs. It reminded me of summers in the Midwest.

Since we'd gone all that way, we decided to roll up to Timberline Lodge after our hike since M's dad had never been there. The air was electric and the clouds roiled above, heavy and looming. Mt. Jefferson stood bold and majestic in the distance, shrouded by a dense mist and lording over the hoards of rolling, blue hills that filled the space between. Flashes of lightening split the sky and thunder rolled right overhead without skipping a beat. The storm was on top of us. We watched a fire burning just over the horizon, its smoke rising up into the leaden sky and diffusing the air with the smell of burning wood. "I hope we don't burn, like other places around here," I overheard the front desk clerk at the lodge and a chill went up my spine as I imagined being caught out by either lightening or a raging forest fire. I am guessing that the lodge has seen its share of fires from it's great vantage point on the mountain. I can imagine blazes dotting the landscape on all sides. We noted that atop the roof were several tall lightening rods and I dearly hoped that they served their function on this day, if never again.

Amazingly, the snow still climbed up the side of the building and we recalled our visit there last February when our good friends were in town. Then, the lodge was nearly buried, the second story windows looking out into nothing but ice caverns. It felt like being in a strange, wintry cocoon. And here it was, nearly July, and the mucky, dirty snow still covered the ground.

The storm quickened in its intensity and great gusts of wind blew bits of sand and gravel into our eyes as we darted from under cover and made a long, mad dash across the parking lot to our car. I scurried with my shoulders hunched and my head tucked down, somehow believing that if I made myself smaller the lightening wouldn't find me.

We made it off the mountain and back to civilized country. The storm followed us and now I sit in near darkness under that same heavy sky. Thunderstorms are rare in the valley, and I am thrilled to hear the thunder bouncing off the clouds and watch the rains pelt my thirsty garden. As always with a great storm it has brought in its wake new weather, and this time for the better. The temperatures are reading in the mid-70s now and the heat wave has been broken.