Last week I spent some time with a friend who had returned for a visit. We had gotten to know each other while mountain biking and had reunited for a reunion ride of sorts. She reminded me of something I had said that she used for encouragement while enduring her first winter in her new hometown of Taos, New Mexico: “You can’t experience the weather unless you are out in it.”
I don’t recall the statement, but I remember where we were when I had this notion – on a longish ride in an area called Holcomb Valley. Following a tangle of old doubletrack, we were bent on circumnavigating Delamar Peak. While out we encountered violent rain and hail and were caught on the edge of an intense thunder and lightening storm. As the wind picked up and the temperatures dropped, distant flashes of light cautioned us to find safe haven on the high side of a gully we were passing. I wasn’t particularly alarmed; I knew the storm was not overhead only that it was near. For 30 minutes the three of us huddled under the canopy of a low oak tree and dug out our warm clothes.
I knew my friend was worried and I made the statement as a way to comfort her, refocus her attention. In the hostility of pelting rain and hail there was such beauty in its power. The clouds had a roiling texture and artistic appeal. I told her I felt privileged to experience the weather from our protective cover.
I’ve always liked weather. And by weather I mean something other than a sunny, stable day like middle-of-the-night thunder storms or vicious afternoon winds. In fact, I once spent three days in a tent pinned down by weather: We were kayaking in Southeast Alaska when a typhoon from Japan brought gale force winds and six foot waves to our tiny Bay. In those 72 hours I quietly fell in love with my tent mate Scott as we fought to keep our shelter from collapsing on us. Another time, while climbing in Peru’s Southern Andes, our team became separated in a snow storm as we ascended a 15,000 foot pass. Snow covered the prints of our cavelleros and we fought to stay on course - up and over the pass, before descending into a dense fog. Moving quickly down the rocky trail, we came to a point where the fog disappeared and the sun streaked a surreal plateau as Alpaca grazed undisturbed by our presence. Later, reunited, we celebrated by soaking in a hot spring we discovered and indulging in pint after pint of cold Cusquenas.
Even working as a ski patroller I endeavor to enjoy whiteout conditions as I reestablish a length of bright orange boundary line. In the insulating silence of a fierce snow storm, my breath is the only sound I hear.
The Pine Knot Village Art Walk is happening once again on July 4th weekend - both Saturday and Sunday from 10 until 5 p.m. in the Big Bear Lake Village. Scott and I will both be there and our booth will be located near United Woodcraftsmen on Pine Knot Ave. For directions and information, visit the Art Walk website.
