MaineCourse

The Storm

Chapter Two by Michael Miller

No Guardian Angel

Adam listened to the thunder for two hours before the rumble shook me out of my slumber. I didn’t tell him I was awake, I never do. Sleep on the ground is precious and sometimes rare, and all I wanted was to go back. I feared that Adam, a notorious non-sleeper in the wild, might be looking for company. But I was more concerned about Matt, Daryl and Robby. I thought I had anticipated every possible disaster, from pellet wounds to thin ice, but thunderstorms? We never have them in the fall and this one scared me. One thousand and one, one thousand and two, I began counting, not knowing that beside me, Adam was doing the same. We were both hoping the storm was blowing out, not in.

Inside our flimsy walls, the lightning flashes were brilliant and yellow, as though someone were flipping a bug light on and off. I worried about the boys in their tent on the treeless point overlooking Moosehead Lake. They were the highest thing around, heck, they were the only thing around. A blue tent with a metal frame.

Groggy, and disoriented, I couldn’t decide if they were in danger. Our tent would flash yellow and I’d think, of course they are! A month ago I read about Boy Scouts hit by lightning on a mountain. After the following thunder clap, I’d think, chill! In southern Indiana, my father and I would leave our house to be closer to those storms. Often lightning hit the metal rod on the roof, and once I saw ball lightning shoot from the family room fireplace. Another flash, and I’d think - but men are much more likely to die from lightning strikes than women, because they fish and play golf. It’s the metal in their hands. Jumbled, disparate thoughts prevented me from getting my rational mind around the problem. So I fell asleep.

I woke awake again to more thunder, but to a whiter, steadier light - Daryl’s flashlight

I unzipped the sleeping bag, and in my underwear I crawled out of the tent to see Daryl, his dark hair wet, fumbling with the door to my truck.

“Hey,” Daryl said.

“What happened?”

I was happy to see at least one boy back; I assumed the other two were still alive.

“The wind was awful. It flattened the tent on my side and I got soaked. I already changed my clothes. Matt wanted to me to stay, maybe to hold the tent up. I think he’s angry I left.”

Daryl opened the passenger door as thunder pealed overhead.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m sleeping in the truck.”

“Without a sleeping bag?”

“Mine is soaking wet; I’ll be all right.”

“I have another bag. I use it to sleep on. I’ll get it for you.” At two thirty in the morning, I was happy to construct any kind of sentences, even short ones.

I crawled back into my tent for the extra bag, expecting to see Adam sitting up, ready for a night’s dialogue on the physics of thunderstorms, but he hadn’t moved. Jazzed, I wouldn’t have minded the company. I crawled back out into the rain, handed the bag to Daryl who had reclined the seat as far back as it would go. As he snuggled into the bag, I looked out to the point, and sure enough with each lightning flash, I could see the outline of the tent.

I know, I should have walked down and brought Matt and Robby back, but instead, I convinced myself the storm was abating and sneaked back into my tent, and again fell asleep. This time, it wasn’t light or thunder that awakened me, but the sound of voices.

I looked at Adam, nothing, checked the time - 4 AM - and again crawled through the door of our tent. Matt was pulling the tailgate down , and Robby stood beside him.

“I’m glad to see you off the point.”

“You wouldn’t believe the wind.” Robby exclaimed.

“Dad, I woke up and looked for the door. It was over my head!”

Now, there is an image. The wind trying to roll the boys out onto the lake. Adam and I had pitched our tent next to a stand of trees, and we felt the rain, heard the thunder, but were mostly shielded from the wind. Exposed on the point, the blue tent fought the wind and lost.

“The tent is flat on the ground with our stuff in it. We put rocks on it to hold it there.” They dropped the tailgate of the truck and with dry bags, climbed inside. The truck bed is short and the floor is ribbed. With their knees pulled to their chests and no pads underneath, they couldn’t be comfortable, but I was relieved they were inside and safe. I closed the tailgate, snapped the window shut and for the last time slipped into my own bag.




The morning after.

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The remains of the day. Sorting through soggy bags, pads, etc.
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Tim Cahill couldn't have done better at describing a night time thunderstorm. Now I understand Matt's wariness about going camping again.

But how about back-packing into the Beartooths -- 10 miles away from the road at 10,000' vertical into thin air? Up there near timberline, the lightning strikes randomly around the lakes and the howling wind bends the dwarf spruce trees horizontal. Well, the fogies foursome are going back and this time (June 18) there'll be snow.

Could be like Maine almost.

Posted by rakkity.

Nothing like a real outdoorsman with real camping experiences to expose us car-campers for what we really are............

Posted by putz.

I’m happy you chimed in, rakkity. I was ambivalent about posting yet another story exhibiting my lack of adult skills, but I asked myself, how else to make it interesting? The reality, maybe, is that lightning is as random as you describe, and we could have been in a place like the Wolf Fangs (provided helicopters are available), without a truck to hide in. Or, we could have gone later in the spring, canoed to our usual remoter campsite, and then had to really deal with collapsing tents. Like three lads moving into the tent with us. Gulp.

I trust Captain Phil will be more careful this year regarding his training.

Thanks to an Easter Willow Books gift certificate from the Missus, I’m going to buy Connelly’s new book, and then send it on its Sudbury, Bowie way. I stole Dying to Please by Linda Howard from a friend - I needed a crime novel fix- and it is truly dreadful.

“She sidled into the hall, paused half a heartbeat, then took two swift steps that carried her to the side of the huge, hundred-year-old buffet that was now used to store table linens. She went to one knee on the thick carpet, concealed by the the bulk of the buffet, just as someone came out of the library.”

Posted by Michael.

There are serious generational gaps in the viewers.

Posted by voyeur.

Posted by Michael at May 5, 2004 06:21 AM