Weather the storm

Batten down the hatches

Today’s accompanying tune: “Glory Box” by Portishead

A storm blew in early Friday morning. The forecast had been accurate; we knew to expect the first advances of winter this weekend as snow levels dropped to somewhere between 4,000’ and 5,000’. We knew the wind would come, could penetrate our less-than-hardy bones that had not yet had a chance to adjust to the turn of the seasons. We knew the wind would rattle the windows, knock around the chimney, scare the dogs. Winter was on its way, whether we were ready or not.

And when it finally arrived, it took our breath away.

The thermometer readings sunk overnight as the wind howled and by morning, rain dropped from the sky. The sensation of cold precipitation on my skin as Oliver and I meandered through our morning walk was both startling and comforting — so soon winter had arrived, but so long had it been since I’d watched rain fall that I was grateful for its presence in any form. It grew steadier as we ducked inside, our timing impeccable as always. As soon as I’d scooped Oliver a carrot out of the fridge, the windows reported the fury of a sideways rain, blown well beyond the scope of gravity. As soon as it had arrived, the rain departed, leaving only the scent of creosote and damp earth in its wake.

The sun ducked behind clouds throughout the day, its movements across the sky interrupted by the storm’s unknowable agenda. The clouds gathered, building in their ominousness and shadow, as they climbed up and over the Little San Bernardino Mountains, the San Bernardino Mountains, San Gorgonio Mountain, before settling into the Basin. They spread to the north, hunkered low over the broad expanse of the dry lake bed, Goat Mountain, the Sheephole Valley Wilderness. From my perch near 4,000’, I watched the clouds engulf as far as I could see, beyond three mountain ranges and into the abyss. The sun shone from the south, painting the landscape with that peculiar early winter shine that glows golden so briefly, so brightly, before turning away yet again. It was as if someone had jacked up the contrast on the plants in the yard to 11, so happily watered they were from the shortest of showers, now free to bask in the waning golden light. They couldn’t see the cloud growing to the north, the building of moisture, the darkening of light.

The wind made sure they knew. Made sure the plants didn’t rest too easy too soon. It stripped the leaves from the handful of deciduous trees on the block, tossing leaves the size of dinner plates down the asphalt before they had had the chance to lose their greenery. The wisps of the willows, barely dried, collected in the corner of the yard, contained by the fence for only a short while. The piñon, even, fell victim to the wind’s wrath as healthy, green needles showered the hard-packed ground. So soon we forget, the wind. So soon we forget its merciless nature, its unending urgency and unpredictability. Its disregard for anything in its way, natural or not, so carelessly left out in the harshest of elements. The wind blew the clouds to the east, blanketing the Basin in a turbulent coat of moisture, as much a promise as a threat. The clouds repay their prize as soon as a storm matures, sending air and mass out as its top collapses and the rain falls. It carries dust, it carries precipitation. It spatters the windows and oil-slick asphalt, tests the capability of the area’s wiper blades long out of season. It becomes an undeniable yet ephemeral force of nature.

The best we can do is hold tight, wait for it to pass, and marvel in its raw beauty. The type of beauty that scares you, the type of beauty that brings tears to your eyes without your having the faintest idea why. The beauty of power, of force, of fury. That which has the ability to reshape a landscape, nurture those rooted in place while stripping them of their color, darken a landscape that is nearly always bathed in relentless light. It is the beauty nature so willingly gifts us, though rarely is it the kind of beauty we imagine when we think of natural wonders. It is the kind of beauty that reminds us how small our place is on this planet, how insignificant our daily comings and goings are to the largest systems of nature. How we occupy a slice of a cycle playing out on a timeline we can hardly fathom. How, when all is said and done, we will talk of the storm, the tempest, the tumultuousness with awe, with reverie, with fear. But also with the knowledge that we survived. We witnessed the beauty of destruction, of creation, of power. It touched us in its own way, remade us as it remade the land on which we stand.

We knew it was coming. Now, all that’s left to do is hold tight, to fight like hell to keep our bearings, to make sure those around us are safe. Because once the sky clears, the wind settles, and the rain dries, we will talk of this time. We will talk of the storms we survived, the people with whom we weathered them, the collective fight we mounted to keep our communities afloat as they threatened to wash away. We may be worse for wear on the other side, but the smell of creosote will linger just long enough for us to marvel in its magic.

Here’s to making it through.

- Megan