Alaska: July 5

The weatherman forecasted rain for the entire 4th of July weekend. He was wrong. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, the heavens deposited every drop of their hard-earned water in bloated sacks of gray clouds that hung heavy, ominous even, but never lost more than a little spare change here and there. Sunday night, however, someone got greedy.

The wind untied the clouds, turned them upside down, and shook them down and up and back and forth. Drops of rain crashed down like small meteors. And whipped sideways like gunfire. Meteors. And gunfire.

Our tent became our refuge. Through the night and late into the morning, we talked, and cuddled with the dogs, and listened to the whoosh and rat-a-tat-tat of wild Alaskan rain.

Eventually my stomach got the best of me, so we crawled out to the bear box, warmed ourselves with oatmeal, and made ready to hike back to civilization – but not before I tossed my fishing line into the rain-pocked surface of Crescent Lake just a few more times.

The view from our tent as the rain fell down.