Alpine Storm

Let me set the scene.

We’re sitting on a wooden deck, a little sliver of porch on the side of a mountain in the Alps. We just finished dinner, even though it’s about 8:00, and my lovely mother whisks away the mismatched dishes with remnants of stew puddling at the bottom. That contented feeling settles in your stomach, the kind that weighs you down and fills you up.

We spend a few minutes like that, just sitting in the brisk air, watching the sun sink in a blazing hot pink globe through the hills on our right. The distant valley homes fade comfortably into gray, as golden sunlight streaks the lush mountainsides. Cowbells from a nearby slope sound in the still, fresh air. I chuckle absently.

“What is it?” you ask, amused.

“Your head,” I respond, still smiling. “You keep bashing it on the ceilings like Gandalf in the Hobbit hole. Do you have a bruise yet?”

You frown ruefully, rubbing the offending spot. “This place was built for midgets,” you mutter. I guffaw at your indignant expression.

A gray cloud builds beyond the mountain opposite us. It coalesces into a wall of rain. The sun sinks lower until its only presence is a thin sliver of blinding gold, and the gray slithers over the top of the mountain. It disappears.

I blink at the advancing wall with lazy complacency. You shiver in the increased chill. You sneak a side glance at the pink striped hat snuggled over my recently cropped hair and the giant sweater I stole (borrowed) from Dad that swallows up my hands.

“I think I’ll go in for my mittens,” you announce, ducking into the midget house. When you return, sporting those bright yellow fingerless gloves you use for painting, the rain has enveloped the first few rows of houses far below us. You settle back into the rough wood bench and examine the storm, enthralled.

Lightning splits the sky, followed closely by thunder that jolts us both out of our seats. We turn to each other, eyes wide, throw back our heads and laugh. My nose feels cold, like Jack Frost is pricking it with tiny needles. Do they have a Jack Frost in Europe?

“Look!” my exclamation is accompanied with a thrust out hand. “Headlights!”

Two tiny golden dots wind their way through the storm that vibrates the mountains. You chuckle. “I would hate to be them.” Sometimes you feel like that. Lost and alone in the howling wind. You shake your head, dispelling the thought in favor of watching the scenery.

But the scenery is fast being enveloped by the oncoming thunderstorm. We scurry around, securing stray laundry and wood (that you chopped this afternoon when it was actually warm) in the cabin. Then we just stand under the overhang. The roar of pounding water is now too loud to hear your own words. The wall of water is just down the slope, ripping the trees in a wild frenzy.

The storm hits.

Hail. Hailstones the size of your thumbnail rocket down the chimney, stirring the fireplace into smoke that fills the whole kitchen. I dart indoors and close the door between the kitchen and living room, crouching on the floor to avoid the smoke. I laugh in exultation.

You stand on the porch, not wet but cold to the marrow. You hold out those yellow-clad hands and laugh, like me, at the wildness of it all. There’s something straightforwardly, gloriously beautiful about this storm. You know that you should be scared. You are awed, overjoyed, content, but not scared.

Location: Swiss Alps