Of Land and Rain

When in the time of summer, it is sometimes nice to go off to the cooler zones--that is, to Flagstaff. I've always had mixed feelings about Flagstaff: while the blue and green, the mountains and the trees are beautiful in summer, I wouldn't want to live there because they get snow in winter. Snow is nice--but not having to deal with it every day.

In summer, though, Flagstaff feels so nice and cool compared with the more central regions of the state. I think the high temperature was about 80 or 81 this past weekend when I was there. And if you'd like even cooler weather, head up to the Snowbowl: in summer, the ski-lift operates as a scenic chair-lift up the San Francisco Peaks. 

I think the temperature was around 70 at the base and another ten degrees less at the top. One of the only times you have to use a sweater (or jacket) during summer. It's about half hour up and then another half hour to go back down; you can go on some trails when you get to the top, or just look around and make your way back right away. 

When you're at the top looking down, it's amazing how high you are: the Peaks are visible from quite far away, after all. So when you're on top of them, you can also see things far, far away: mountains and hills that are barely recognizable because of the distance. So much blue and green. 

We made our way over in the morning to try and avoid afternoon rain--but what happened when we got to the top? We were watching the clouds, guessing about how long we had until the rain started while we waited in the (short) line to go back down. And it started raining on us. And then it hailed. And then suddenly the line behind us was much longer, most of the people deciding they would rather go straight back down than linger on top of the mountain so near to the clouds. The rain continued until we were, oh, about two-thirds of the way down. So perhaps I didn't continue looking out at the view as much--but the rain did make the ride much sillier. 

The Coming of the Rains

The rains have come. We call it monsoon season. It means that even if there are hours in a day with broad sunlight, there are also hours with clouds upon clouds. And in the afternoon or evening, there is rain. Sometimes there is a patch of sky with the brightest summer sunlight, and deep dark clouds right beside it. Sometimes it's sunny while it's raining. Sometimes the sky pours out like an overturned bucket, so hard, so briefly, and then the sun comes back out and pretends like nothing happened.

It's raining now. The morning was half cloudy, around a hundred degrees, kinda nice out. At lunch, I saw the clouds gathering more solidly on the horizon. Now they are covering the sky in white-grey, the thunder is pounding, the trees are swaying in the wind, and the rain is falling at a thick and steady pace. I'm hoping the power doesn't go out. The power tends to go out almost daily during monsoon season. It's just a question of when and for how long.

I'm thinking of rain in fiction. In the badly animated version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that I grew up with, it's raining when the Pevensies are at the professor's house (well, it is in the book, too, but it's more visual in the movie). Rain there represents boredom--but also what drives them to try something new: playing indoors is what drives them all to the wardrobe and to Narnia.

In The Lion King, rain is the soothing cleansing that ushers in healing and a new day. Rain washes away the hurts of Scar's reign and feeds the plants so that everything can grow and blossom again. Because of rain, the land can turn lush once more and its people (or animals, as the case may be) can feel alive again.

But what if we combined both of these examples? Let's go to The Fellowship of the Ring. It is raining while the hobbits are staying at Tom Bombadil's house, and I think that rain always helped to enhance the dreamlike state of their time there. It's like the rain creates its own world that it encloses you into. (Goodness. There was just a very loud crack of thunder and this lightning is flashing like the lights at a pop rock concert. And that bolt looked like it was just a small walk from my window. It probably was.) The hobbits do find healing from this rain: it represents a period of rest from their journey. But it also has a quietness, like in the Narnia example--and it is also a kind of gateway. After passing Tom Bombadil's house, they reach Bree and the lands outside of the Shire, which might as well be a different world to them.

Maybe rain represents passage into somewhere new because rain itself is a traveler. It travels from the sky, down through the air, to the earth. From there it rises up again, lingers in the clouds, and comes back down. It's always on the move, always going to a new place, always seeing something new.

On the Coming of the Rain

I tend to say that, essentially, I don't like rain or clouds--I'm Arizonan, after all: I have to embrace the sun. But storms, storms are another matter.

They come with irony, in the heat of the summer. One day will be ten above a hundred; the next will pour down the water balloons of the sky.

The rain may be brief, and it may be light, or it may be ridiculously heavy--sometimes there will even be bucket-sized drops of rain for all of one minute. It's quite hilarious; it's temperamental and charactered.

And then there is the thunder, of course. Big booms in the distance or loud banging from right beneath your toes. Lightning, either in flashes or bolts. I have seen, much to my delight, practically the entire southern sky decked out with veins of lightning, handfuls of bolts skirting around the horizon. I have my affection for the sun, but thunderstorms are awesome.