by Richard Iekel
Night has arrived. A starless sky above the forest canopy has replaced the busy day’s summer sunshine. One by one, cabin lights extinguish and peace overtakes the mountain camp.
With quiet satisfaction I look out at the lake one final time before retiring. It is finally at rest, offering up ever so small waves that lap at the shore in a tired chorus of gurgles.
I sleep. Has it been only a few minutes—or have hours passed? From the middle of the darkness, a low indistinguishable distant rumble interrupts my rest.
Motionless but aware, I open my eyes, tune in my ears and wait. A stillness is present in the night air, the kind of stillness that suggests a pending mountain storm.
Unconcerned, I roll onto my back, silent and ready to catch the next climatic clue. I love mountain storms!
There it is again—the low rumble of distant thunder. Only, this time, it’s a bit closer, a bit longer, a bit louder. It resounds and echoes as it bounces off the hills and valleys. I wait with anticipation for the next groaning, grumbling sound to reach my ears.
A wisp of night air pushes its way through the open window and flows across the room caressing my face and arms. The curtains begin to dance in the gentle breeze and coolness surrounds me. It feels like a long cool drink on a hot summer afternoon.
Welcome rain arrives. First, it disturbs only the upper leaves in the tall trees that surround our cabin. Then, it seems, I can almost count the drops as they find their way through the mantle of leaves and begin to thud on the metal roof—heavy drops “plunking” over my head.
Suddenly, in an unsuspecting burst of energy, the drops become too numerous to count. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat – landing on the metal surface.
As the storm intensifies, the sky lights up from a crack of lightning at some distant location. Safe in my bed I wait, counting the seconds—waiting for the inevitable sound of thunder.
Again lightning—again the rolling, rumbling thunder bouncing off mountains, repeating over the water, reverberating through the valleys. The storm upon us, the wind blows stronger, the lightning more frequent.
A loud crash of thunder offers an immediate response to a nearby lightning strike and the rain begins to pound. It surges through the trees, beating hard on the earth’s surface. Then it seems to tire; then drives hard again.
As quickly as the storm has come, it moves on. The rain eases and the lightning becomes less frequent. The thunder, moving east, rumbles and grumbles its way through other mountains and valleys.
In awe of this spectacular event of nature, I close my eyes while the irregular pattern of drips and drops lulls me back to sleep. Rain-laden trees give up their “mountain dew” that splashes here and there on the roof and nearby undergrowth.
A mountain storm is an awesome event. It can be a musical experience unmatched by even the greatest musicians. It is Mother Nature’s “Nighttime Symphony”.
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Rick Iekel—husband, father of four, grandfather of ten, is retired and writing. During a 35-year career in aviation, writing was a pastime for quiet Sunday afternoons and peaceful summer vacations in the Adirondack Mountains.
Now, with a folder full of literary starts, he ponders the possibility of finishing undone stories or, maybe, of committing some previously unknown thoughts to print.
Raised on a farm in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains, he now resides with his wife in Rochester, NY.