Soggy Skies

Two days of rain, almost unrelenting, and everything hunkers down, disappears into the gray muck. Only one or two hummingbirds, those normally frenzied eaters, brave the cold and rain, while the gray squirrels, chipmunks and ground squirrels are apparently bedded down in their dens, waiting for the sunlight to emerge again. The two young men next door, who have been out building contraptions around their property for the past few weeks are unseen, apparently camped inside watching TV.

When there’s a lull in the rain I hit one of the trails in the park, and encounter only one other hiker, looking as bedraggled as I feel. But how often do I get to experience fog in these dry mountains? Get to see veils of clouds wrapped around the granite formations in Twin Owls (below)?

When I escape to Estes Park, tourists are thronging the shops, looking for diversion, but there’s an air of gloom. Everyone asks everyone else if they’ve heard a weather report, and everyone has different opinions about when this uncharacteristic rainy spell will end. For those  of us who experienced the destruction of last September’s floods, there’s an almost unspoken fear. Behind the restaurant where we slurp down tacos and nachos, the Big Thompson River is  almost up to its banks as it plows through town. The woman who just opened the tea shop next door is worried. At my cabin, I’ve been nervously eyeing the leak in the ceiling above the front door, which last fall turned into a torrent that took over a quarter of the living room.

We’re used to sunshine here and lots of it. I love our summer rains— thunderstorms that swoop in every afternoon, announced by dark skies and huge claps of thunder. After maybe 15 minutes to a half hour of cooling rain, the sun comes back out, and we feel refreshed.

But two days of soggy skies taxes my patience, puts me in a gloomy mood, so I’m sleeping later, have less energy to do my chores. On the third day, I wake up to the sound of more rain, pull the blankets over my head and sleep another hour. But around 9, the sky starts looking lighter, and at 10 the sun comes through. When I fill the hummingbird feeder, the birds arrive instantly, one buzzing my head impatiently while I hang the feeder on the clothesline, almost a “Get out of my way. I’m starving.” On the feeder, five or six of them share the space, as if they haven’t eaten in two days.

I hear hammering and sawing next door. A young ground squirrel emerges from below the porch and eyes me curiously.

  Good morning, sunshine.

Comments

[Brent Zeinert]

I like the feel of mist, fog and rain. And I also hear you, last September's floods are still on everybody's mind.

[Sally Hanson]

I understand the anxiety. After the '89 earthquake we had after shocks for years and one would think it was happening all over again. PTSD if you will. Too much rain to me is very depressing and not for me that's why I don't live in Seattle. I love the Good Morning Sunshine! I need that in my life. Thanks.