Scary Storm—Part 2

My stormy bath reminded me of reading an account by John Muir, “Wind-Storm in the Forest,” when he found himself in a northern California conifer forest, as an 1874 storm blew his way. He waxed enthusiastically on about how the various species of trees were “singing and writing wind-music.” The woods were “enlivened with one of the most bracing wind-storms conceivable.” He had hiked to a friend's cabin, but when the storm's fury grew, he felt compelled to “go out into the woods to enjoy it.”

He wrote that nature “has always something more to show us, and the danger to life and limb is hardly greater than one would experience crouching deprecatingly beneath a roof.” Up to this point of the adventure, I'm kind of with you, John; although I'm out here, “crouching deprecatingly” in my tub.

And that's where Muir and I part company. While I hunched down fearfully, he headed for a stout tree to climb, to experience the glorious storm directly. Trees snapping and falling around him, he watched 200-foot high pines wave like “supple goldenrods, chanting and bowing low, as if in worship.” He could lean against the trunk of one of these giants and feel the sway of its mighty column.

Cresting a high ridge, Muir selected a 100-foot Douglas fir and climbed to its top. (That's like ten stories up there, John!) He was seeking sights and excitement that he knew awaited him, up in that towering cathedral. The top of the tree “flopped and swished in the passionate torrent... while I clung with muscles firm braced, like a bobolink on a reed.” Knowing that Douglas firs are incredibly strong and resilient, Muir felt completely “safe, and free to take the wind into my pulses and enjoy the excited forest from my superb outlook.” He held to his perch for several hours, glorying in the beautiful scene and thrilling to the music of the winds howling through the forest below him.

As I hunkered down in my tub, I thought of how my risk paled to that of John Muir's wild ride atop a California Douglas fir. It was little comfort, however, as I watched my sycamores and white pine bow to the gale, “as if in worship.” I didn't feel as safe as he said he was. But then again, I bet he felt a lot safer, as he later sat at his desk (as I do now), reporting his experience.

Both John and I lived through our storms. I don't think my fun anywhere near approached his, but that's OK... I get quite woozy from scaling a tree, after I've climbed only 15 feet up.

Scary Storm—Part 1

I have a deep psychic need to partake of my long, hot, outdoor soakings in the tub. I can go for as many as five days between bathings, before the craving becomes overpowering, but every three days is definitely preferable. This contemplative need often has me consulting the weather forecast the immediate day after a bath, to determine whether the coming third or fourth night will offer the more clement weather. If neither one promises to be pleasant, I'll bite the bullet and face nature's worse: and bathe on a rainy or a cold night. My impulsive need to soak can find me hunkered down in the hot water during some pretty harsh weather: a frigid 15^o, a heavy rain, during intimidating wind gusts, or with uncomfortably close thunderstorms passing by.

The forecast one recent evening was for sustained winds of over 30 mph, with gusts up to 55. It would have been prudent of me to remain in the protective confines of our underground home, but it'd been five whole days since my last soak and my desire for a bath trumped my better judgment. I fired up the tub's wood stove and danced naked into the storm. I followed on the heels of my wife—who, against her better judgment, had preceded me. She quickly returned to the relative safety of the house. She was sensibly scared off by branches being dislodged from their attachments to overhead trees. Teeth clenched, I headed out.

Once submerged in the hot water—as my body began to feel soothed—my mind began to be submerged in apprehension. Overhead are three huge sycamore trees and one towering white pine. The strong gusts of wind were tossing them around as if they were spring daffodils. They bent menacingly one way and then equally menacingly leaned in the opposite direction, as the powerful gusts whirled around. Branches bashed together, raining pieces of them down, and an occasional loud CRACK off in the woods startled me, destroying any chance of my slipping into my usual mental reverie. I felt very small and defenseless against the elements. I hoped they weren't planning to harm me.

Looking up, I watched a buzzard fly overhead, well above the treetops. I like to watch these large, graceful birds, as they glide effortlessly on wind currents—usually facing into the breeze. With these fierce winds, however, this buzzard had turned tail to the wind and was being pushed along at a high velocity. He appeared more like a black meteor, streaking across the darkening sky.

More stormy weather next time...