"I dream of a hard and brutal mysticism in which the naked self merges with the nonhuman world and somehow survives...Paradox and bedrock."-Edward Abbey

29 July 2014

Murky Sky

The air felt heavy. Back when I helped my father put his mother in the ground I learned not to compare Colorado's humidity with that of North Carolina's, but this certainly qualified as a sticky day for these parts. Early on, the blue sky and sunlight were swallowed by the curling and coiling Chinese dragon clouds, which hung pendulously over the mountaintops. Meteorological prophecy foretold of rain, and, a great deal of it at times. Monsoon in the High Country.

I feel that this has been a wetter summer than the last few. The last time I remember it being so moist was five years back, the last summer my mother was alive. There are differences, of course. The uniqueness of any given moment not withstanding, this year I don't have someone I care deeply for being eaten alive by some viciousuglymuthafuckigdisease-not bitter-and it's been rather hot. That one summer was cool enough that Sabina would often say her summer had been stolen.

It was the kind of day that spoke of not wandering too far afield. I unintentionally turned down a walkabout around Pass Lake, on the other side of Loveland Pass, in favor of scrabbling the boulder field opposite the rock wall I scrabbled a month and a half before. As much fun as I had, part of me imagined an anthropomorphic group of bighorn watching me thinking; amateur. There was a flat area on which I sat, taking in a grand view of Mount Pendelton. I caught myself thinking it'd be a grand place for a picnic that was in walking-and a minor climb-distance from home.

The day spoke of a lazy walk through the dirt streets of town. Pleasantries exchanged with neighbors. Of hot tea on the porch whilst reading Edward Abbey-Hayduke Lives! muthafuckas. Watching the murky sky churn slowly by. There was a wicked smirk of joy upon my face. I am a sucker for a gray day, but I might just suck.

Late in the day, it finally began to drizzle. A soft gentle sound. There was that clean scent that only comes with rain. It rained like Africa. Like Borneo and Brazil. Like the mountains of Colorado on a late July afternoon. Sipping my tea, I sat back on the porch to take it all in. A mystical set of moments in a place I firmly believe is fucking magic.

Meteorological prophecy speaks of continued rain and a cool-down before warming up for the weekend. So it goes. In a few days Sabina and I will be volunteering at a bluegrass festival, and it'd be nice to not be drenched, but that's still a few days off to worry about. In the moment I'm in, I watch the dragon clouds, swirling and coiling about in the heavy murky sky.

8 comments:

  1. That scent you describe is one of the most amazing scents on earth isn't it? It's as if the rain is bringing the earth to life, and in many ways, it is. We've been unusually dry here in KY, save for the past weekend.

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    1. I always think of it as the rain giving the earth a bath, but I can see bringing it to life as well.

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  2. It has been a wonderfully wet season down here, too. So wet that I went to the store and paid money for this fancy new gadget called an "umbrella." They're all the rage this season.

    Enjoy your magic dragon-patrolled land.

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    1. I've heard of them-thar umbrella things. It's what you use if you don't have Gore-Tex ;p.

      Given the droughts ya'll have had, it's good you're getting some rain. Just hopefully no mudslides.

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  3. Rain. Cool, refreshing air. Dampness not equated with heat and sweat. What a wonder that must be...

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    1. I wore jeans today. Granted, they had holes in them, but...jeans! Not yet. I require at least another two months of wearing shorts, then Yuki-Onna may come.

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  4. After a 600 mile drive yesterday in which I turned on the AC in the truck (first time in two years) I arrived in Butte to a thunderstorm with rain and temps in the 70's. Yeah, rain in summer is great.

    I noticed on the drive that most vehicles were from 'outta state', the tourist hatch is in full swing, probably there too. The best month for tourist watching though is June, watching them huddled like a bevy of confused quail when it snows.

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    1. May and September are our good months for that kind of not-from-'round-here confusion...

      "But it was eighty in Denver!"

      An air conditioner...? I seem to remember such demon contrivances of technology when I lived four-thousand feet lower. I tell my daughter I consider getting one any time it gets above seventy-five here and she glares in recompense.

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