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Happy winehikers, cavorting along a woodsy path on a late-September morning. These folks joined me last year; would you like to join me this year? If so, you’ll find all the details on my Romp through the Redwoods page.

~winehiker

Posted via web from winehiker’s posterous

The late-Summer post-Labor Day season has always been my favorite time of year for traveling. Kids are back in school, the highways are less trafficked and the pace of Time seems to shift dramatically from the hectic to the serene.

Though the nights can be chillier, there are often three to four good weeks remaining of warm days good for hiking the deserts. The aspens of the high mountains begin to morph into their many shades of gold and red, too – always a signal to me that Winter will soon voice its might. When camping at altitude in September, one must always stay vigilant knowing that sooner or later, volatile weather will be approaching.

While in camp one late morning high up on the Grand Canyon’s North Rim, I witnessed the air around me suddenly take on a furious energy, whipping up a volatile frenzy of leaves and dust. Clouds had begun to loom and grow large above the rim, and the threat of an imminent thundershower was palpable. Lightning was flickering across the skies above this darkening part of the canyon, which itself portrayed a roiling juxtaposition of heat rising from its depths and cool winds aloft. The advancing smell of high-altitude ozone suggested that I had better prepare for an onslaught. Suddenly shivering, I rounded up what little gear I had set out in camp and had no sooner packed it away in the truck when those thunderbumpers opened up and began to spatter down.

I latched the tailgate, dove in over it and pulled the camper shell door shut behind me just as the full fury of the deluge struck. Within mere seconds my life was reduced to a penetrating, deadening roar of rain on the camper shell roof; I was suddenly witnessing the heaviest downpour I had ever experienced. I could do nothing but simply wait out the storm, marveling at its suddenness and ferocity, huddled there in my truck, as the water level upon the ground grew alarmingly fast around me.

The raven, according to Native American legend, brings light to the world.

In fifteen minutes it was all over. In thirty minutes the skies were completely clear. The abrupt temperature drop that preceded the storm had now reversed and steam had begun to rise everywhere – a spectacle of evaporation that soon became so profound, as if to suggest I was suddenly living in a time-lapsed eternity. The silence in those moments was almost as eerie as the steamy, rising vapor. Having reopened the camper door upon Nature’s tableau, I breathed deeply of the rain-washed earth, drinking the spectacle in and allowing my eyes to gaze, my mind to wander.

Within moments, as the mists cleared and the ground around me drained of water, I seemed to feel rather than hear a distant, steady whock whock whock, growing louder, drawing nearer. And then a large shadow, moving quickly, passed low overhead. I smiled as a raven appeared, larger than life, ten feet above the truck. I watched it fly away down the clearing below me, heavy wings flapping, clearing the silence before it.

And Life came back to the Rim.

~winehiker

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