FanStory.com - A Summer Storm in the Blue Ridgeby JLR

Typical western North Carolina pale blue skies greeted the expanding tendrils of the sun's rays as the dawn sky gave over to a new day. Like every other day, I planned to get the chores done. Having a small farm provides one with various chores that will consume all the light of a long summer day.

The morning hours blasted past with the heat rising. This seemed untypically quick so early. I remember looking at the thermometer on the barn at just past seven, and it showed overnight; the temperature must have stayed warm as it was already 71 degrees and a quarter to seven.

Needing a break toward lunchtime and a long draw on a large mug of iced lemonade, I shuffled into the farmhouse and had a quick bite and a cool down. Half past 1 PM, I grabbed my hat and headed to the back section to repair a fence along Crabb creek. Just out of curiosity, as I passed the barn, I looked again at the thermometer showing 94 degrees. Looking twice, I shook my head. We seldom see over 90 degrees in these mountains, and that sight brought about a feeling of concern as our daytime temperatures rise until near 3 PM.

Nonetheless, I began working along the fence line, sweat was running down my back and over my arms and legs like the juices from a stuck pig being readied for bar-b-que. Suddenly, the clear blue sky darkened with angry, grey clouds, pushed by a wind that churned up out of nothing, rolling over the nearby Blue Ridge hilltops and heading straight for me

Now, anyone who lives in these parts has a gut sense about the speed at which storms can come in. When they come as fast as a racehorse running the last stretch to the finish line, they bring enough water to fill all the swimming pools over in Asheville faster than frogs can get a foothold on a lily pad.

So, I headed back to the barn, not wanting to be caught in a storm that would bring lighting strikes out of the heavens. Having grown up on this land and gone through more summer storms than I could count, I knew I needed to get across open land, having a sense that this one would be a gully washer that would not be fun.

I could not get one thing out of my mind about this storm coming so fast as I headed up over the knoll. It was sticky hot, and the humidity in the air was so high my old lungs were sucking in air for all their worth. At around twenty-two hundred feet elevation, we rarely have this oppressive humidity that the folks down in the sandhill country get.

Then the wind stopped just as I reached the top of the knoll. Not a lick of wind was tickling my sweat-soaked shirt. Dead stillness. Looking skyward, I felt like I could touch the black, thick, menacing clouds. As I looked back and scanned the horizon, there was not a bird or one whit of the sun to be seen. Then it hit! The first bolt of lightning striking was so near I could hear the sizzle from the strike on a treetop over my left shoulder. Then another and another danced with bolts highly charged, very nearby, and the after booms vibrated the hair on my arm.

Knowing I was caught between a rock and a hard place, I collected my thoughts. Do I run for all my worth over open ground or work my back down into the hollow near the creek? Realizing the open field was a wrong choice, I headed back toward the low treed setting and the creek.

Just as I made my turn downward, the skies opened. The rain came out of the sky so fast and hard that I lost sight of the landscape just traversed. The pace of the lightning had picked up, and the atmosphere was alit with flashes of light that were frightening! Still, there was not a bit of wind which meant that this storm was not moving. The downpour strength made going downslope a slow process as each step I made left muddy footprints filled with rushing water.

As I neared the bottom land, I could now hear Crabb creek. This narrow creek that runs year-round is a fun playground for the grandkids until a storm hits. Then Crabb creek gets nasty and extremely dangerous fast. Everyone from these parts knows she can go from being a knee-deep and gentle playground to life-threatening in just a few heartbeats. The stream was rushing and gushing as the rain had not let up one iota.

Gladly I made it to the tree cover without being struck by lightning. However, the runoff from the rain was making for difficult walking without slipping. The last thing I wanted to do was lose footing and fall into the creek. I shuddered about the ever-increasing rush of dirty water carrying logs and debris pushing and crashing into the creek's bend just beyond my view.

Suddenly, the rain came to a halt. Not a drizzle. It was as if someone had just turned off a firehose, and there was not a drop of water. Just as quickly as the rains ceased, the wind gathered slightly, and overhead near the western skyline, stretching across the peaks, the sun rays peeked through a less dark, less gray pillow above and beyond. It was, to my surprise, a quarter past five. Three hours had passed. The air was far less humid, not sticky hot. The gentle breeze made the temperature far cooler to the brow.

My tale, my friends, is what a summer storm can be like up here in the mountains. This one, however, was one I hope is not a frequent happening.

So, my warning! If visiting these parts, stay out of the creeks in a storm; if caught in a lightning storm, do not cross open ground and hunker down; the storm will pass.

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