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Gandalf_theGrey · 05-15-2003, 08:41 PM

This would have been most appropriate yesterday, for it happened a year ago then. Of course, yesterday I was out walking yet another nature trail and so was not around to tell the tale!

Microburst Lightning Survival

5/14/02
5:00 p.m. by the Shire clocks

The violet-ash cloud thundered a warning growl, lowering like a loping warg. I picked my way through muddy clumps of grass and close strands of horsetail weeds to see the tree again, determined not to give up this close to my goal after coming so far. For the Old Forest hid within itself a tree so wonderous as to rival Telperion and Laurelin! (So said Old Tom.) [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

The tree was unrecognizeable at first. In April, it was covered all over with multi-tiered flowers of white, pink, and fuchsia. Now, all the bloom was gone. Only tattered green remained. Leaves weaved distress signals in the wind.

Glancing upwards from the curving river Withywindle towards churning, curling clouds, I turned around and slipped into a runner's stance. The first drops of rain fell like practice drumbeats. The wind drew in its breath before its forceful song of storm. I broke into a full run when I saw the violet-ash cloud sprout tiny funnels. In among scattered trees, I tried persuading myself that if only I made it to the field, the trees I left behind would make a much more attractive target than I would.

Entering the field, I slowed down to save my strength for the roughly two-mile trek separating me from shelter. Recognized the wind's song as it deepened and strengthened into an eerie voice I'd heard before at the fringes of tornados. Wondered if I'd know enough to lie down in time as a survival move, or whether I'd stoically keep going, overlong.

The rain thickened, slanted horizontally, coated me into its watercolor world, blended me into its greyness.

There was no hiding from the cracking electrical SNAP !!! I jumped. Looked directly overhead as lightning exploded, close. Lightning and thunder together all rolled into one. There was no counting after the thunder "one one hundred, two one hundred, three one hundred" to determine how far away the lightning was ... the lightning, simply, immediately, WAS !!!

I ran again, until I reached what I told myself was the safety of the main gravel trail for Ira Road. It was raining back in the field, but not on the trail. The trail, in fact, was bone dry. This four-way crossroads was a boundary. In one direction, the official trail perpendicularly met the little dirt trail I had taken. Another direction offered an official trail leading to Hale Farm. There was also an actual road with houses.

An intriguing house sat at the crossroads, with several birdfeeders and a sign with big letters: "PRIVATE PROPERTY -- PLEASE RESPECT." For a moment, I envisioned myself pounding on the door asking permission to be let in for a while in case the storm chased me in from the field. Embarrassed that I might not be believed, I decided instead to take the trail back and hope for the best.

A couple of men passed by, their clothes dry. I was sopping wet. I blurted out brief words about the storm. They listened, humored me with polite smiles, moved on. But how could they not believe this old Stormcrow? What ... did they think that I'd doused myself with a bucket of water?

Alone again, the storm caught up with me, as if it had waited until the skeptical people I'd warned had gone, as if it were in its own way laughing. I continued my struggling journey at a scrabbling run on and off, thoroughly enmeshed in a fowler's snare of wind and rain.

Having outpaced the lightning in the field, another eerie scene of danger awaited my arrival upon its stage. The boardwalk over
the beaver marsh. It was a wooden bridge completely exposed out in the middle of a pond. A pond that lightning would no doubt find especially attractive. The bridge was beaten slippery by slapping sideways rain
propelled by tornadic wind. Tree branches seethed lashing on the high horizon, like
sea-green serpents trying to escape being strangled by grey water. Stillness was drowning in motion. "Even if I cling to one of the wooden posts, if a funnel cloud comes down, I'll be blown into the pond." So I just crossed the bridge, step by step. Step, my heart is still beating. Step, my lungs have taken another breath.

Once more on the firmer footing of gravel, tall pine trees to the side of me offered what wall they could muster against the downpour. Finally I made it to a beckoning door. Just as I'd gotten inside, lumps of hail began pelting the world outside. And adventure contentedly buffered itself into the memory of adventure.

Gandalf the Grey

[ May 15, 2003: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]

05-15-2003, 08:41 PM	#86
Gandalf_theGrey Visionary Spirit Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 633	This would have been most appropriate yesterday, for it happened a year ago then. Of course, yesterday I was out walking yet another nature trail and so was not around to tell the tale! Microburst Lightning Survival 5/14/02 5:00 p.m. by the Shire clocks The violet-ash cloud thundered a warning growl, lowering like a loping warg. I picked my way through muddy clumps of grass and close strands of horsetail weeds to see the tree again, determined not to give up this close to my goal after coming so far. For the Old Forest hid within itself a tree so wonderous as to rival Telperion and Laurelin! (So said Old Tom.) [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img] The tree was unrecognizeable at first. In April, it was covered all over with multi-tiered flowers of white, pink, and fuchsia. Now, all the bloom was gone. Only tattered green remained. Leaves weaved distress signals in the wind. Glancing upwards from the curving river Withywindle towards churning, curling clouds, I turned around and slipped into a runner's stance. The first drops of rain fell like practice drumbeats. The wind drew in its breath before its forceful song of storm. I broke into a full run when I saw the violet-ash cloud sprout tiny funnels. In among scattered trees, I tried persuading myself that if only I made it to the field, the trees I left behind would make a much more attractive target than I would. Entering the field, I slowed down to save my strength for the roughly two-mile trek separating me from shelter. Recognized the wind's song as it deepened and strengthened into an eerie voice I'd heard before at the fringes of tornados. Wondered if I'd know enough to lie down in time as a survival move, or whether I'd stoically keep going, overlong. The rain thickened, slanted horizontally, coated me into its watercolor world, blended me into its greyness. There was no hiding from the cracking electrical SNAP !!! I jumped. Looked directly overhead as lightning exploded, close. Lightning and thunder together all rolled into one. There was no counting after the thunder "one one hundred, two one hundred, three one hundred" to determine how far away the lightning was ... the lightning, simply, immediately, WAS !!! I ran again, until I reached what I told myself was the safety of the main gravel trail for Ira Road. It was raining back in the field, but not on the trail. The trail, in fact, was bone dry. This four-way crossroads was a boundary. In one direction, the official trail perpendicularly met the little dirt trail I had taken. Another direction offered an official trail leading to Hale Farm. There was also an actual road with houses. An intriguing house sat at the crossroads, with several birdfeeders and a sign with big letters: "PRIVATE PROPERTY -- PLEASE RESPECT." For a moment, I envisioned myself pounding on the door asking permission to be let in for a while in case the storm chased me in from the field. Embarrassed that I might not be believed, I decided instead to take the trail back and hope for the best. A couple of men passed by, their clothes dry. I was sopping wet. I blurted out brief words about the storm. They listened, humored me with polite smiles, moved on. But how could they not believe this old Stormcrow? What ... did they think that I'd doused myself with a bucket of water? Alone again, the storm caught up with me, as if it had waited until the skeptical people I'd warned had gone, as if it were in its own way laughing. I continued my struggling journey at a scrabbling run on and off, thoroughly enmeshed in a fowler's snare of wind and rain. Having outpaced the lightning in the field, another eerie scene of danger awaited my arrival upon its stage. The boardwalk over the beaver marsh. It was a wooden bridge completely exposed out in the middle of a pond. A pond that lightning would no doubt find especially attractive. The bridge was beaten slippery by slapping sideways rain propelled by tornadic wind. Tree branches seethed lashing on the high horizon, like sea-green serpents trying to escape being strangled by grey water. Stillness was drowning in motion. "Even if I cling to one of the wooden posts, if a funnel cloud comes down, I'll be blown into the pond." So I just crossed the bridge, step by step. Step, my heart is still beating. Step, my lungs have taken another breath. Once more on the firmer footing of gravel, tall pine trees to the side of me offered what wall they could muster against the downpour. Finally I made it to a beckoning door. Just as I'd gotten inside, lumps of hail began pelting the world outside. And adventure contentedly buffered itself into the memory of adventure. Gandalf the Grey [ May 15, 2003: Message edited by: Gandalf_theGrey ]