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Shivering, I huddle beneath a scraggly pine
watch hailstones ricochet off gnarled and twisted
tree trunks, collecting in shallow pools on the ground
as rain weaves gray veils between dark canyon walls.
We had left camp at sunrise, my father
driving an old Jeep, his assistant Blair beside him,
my brother and I cramped in the back.
The dirt road switch-backed up,
past green mansions of aspen,
curtains fluttering in the morning breeze.
Leaving the Jeep we plunged through sagebrush,
scrambled up scree and talus,
ascended through dark hallways of pine,
then paused while the grown-ups
checked their altimeters, sampled rhyolite,
and drew fine lines on aerial photographs.
At lunch on the summit of Jarbidge Peak
we watched cloud shadows slide across
the Snake River Plain, and an eagle,
hunting the high cliffs, begin its stoop
at a doomed marmot basking
on the rocks below.
As we traversed a saddle toward the next summit
the darkening sky flickered,
empty thunder-barrels
came rolling down the canyon.
Spattering raindrops
announced the coming cloud-burst.
Our father sent us down with Blair,
went on alone.
Now pelted by hail, drenched and chilled,
I crouch here astounded as
each flash illuminates writhing
tree crowns, framed
against a blue-black sky.
With every flash I count the seconds,
reckoning the distance, wondering if that strike
has killed my father or flung him
stunned and burned from the high crest
to lie like a shattered tree-trunk
at the foot of a cliff.
The storm will abate.
Blair will drop us at camp,
head back up for my father.
I will sit by the trailer window
watching until the Jeep headlights shine
through falling rain, and I see my father emerge.
I learned that day:
a tree can explode in a puff of steam,
a shower of bark,
and the tangy-acrid smell of ozone
lingers with the scent of wet sagebrush
and pine litter after a storm.
And hailstones sting your ears
when you get caught in the open
without a wide-brimmed hat and
when you fear that your father
has been struck dead
a tight knot grows in your throat
a knot that even weeping silently
alone in your tent
cannot loosen.
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
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