I just came in from outside where I was sitting underneath the awning listening to the rain, watching the clouds roll in, and keeping an eye out for streaks of lightning and an ear tuned to the clap of thunder. It all amazes me. Nature. Weather. Sky. God, bowling a strike; The Duke of Thunder.

I remember one trip to Great Smokey Mountain National Park. The weather did not cooperate. A fog laid heavy on each summit we reached. As a tour leader, you need to make the best of things when Mother Nature doesn't open herself up. I guided my group along the trails, embraced the hidden landscape before us, and kept the group together in a tight formation as if they were a precious cloud making it's way through the haze and obscurity. I bellowed playful howls from my belly, and made the group chuckle at my attempts to summon the spirit of the forest. Spirit of the forest? Yes, because one must conjure up whatever might work to keep the group from sulking with the weather.

When we finally arrived back at our campground for the night, Mother of Rain decided to slap us in the face. We had all been good little minions in her army of outdoor enthusiasts, never grumbling as we hiked along damp trails and took pictures of foggy mountaintops.  No, we keep a optimistic groove in our step and waited for the weather to turn in our favor. No chance. Down came the rain. Pouring. Dumping. Water falling into every bowl and around every bend before us. Not the best weather for camping. No fires would be burned and no marshmallows roasted. The group sulked. They grimaced. They were on the verge of mutiny. 

I looked behind my drivers seat of the Ford Econoline, scanned the eyes of each member of the group, and decided what had to be done. I turned back around, opened my door, and stepped out of the van one foot after the other into the pouring rain. I went to the back of the van, climbed the ladder in my soaking flip-flops and got up onto the roof.

Then I danced.

I rain danced.

It was raining and I danced.

I slipped once in my flip-flops, but then went barefoot, and kept on dancing.

I danced until everyone came out of the van.

They thought I was crazy as they laughed at my dancing, 

but they were out of the van, and they were laughing...

It was a good night...

I remember one night while camping in the Colorado mountains. It was a calm starry night, with a cool mountain air settling all around. I did not want to sleep in a tent that night.  I had conjured up images of cowboys gathered around a prairie campfire, settling down after a long day on a dusty trail, rucksacks tugged underneath their heads, and sleeping under the stars. I wanted to sleep under the stars. I wanted to commune with the great outdoors' night, and all that it promised in my boyish imagination.

I grabbed my sleeping bag from the tent, and found myself a spot of smooth earth next to the campfire. I laid out my bed for the night, snuggled into its warmth and comfort, and gazed in wonder at the spectacular stars that filled the night sky. Darkness settled in ever so subtle, and camp noise and chatter fell by the wayside. My senses tuned into every crackle of the fire, each shuffling of the leaves, the twinkle of all the stars, and the smell of pine trees standing bold and true. My eyes adapted to the night, but just as they did, my eyelids slowly closed with a hush, and I fell into a deep sleep...

How much time had passed? Had I been asleep for a minute, an hour, several hours? My eyelids slowly raised. I was awake. Everything had changed, but somehow it felt like home. I didn't know what time it was. I could only assume that I was the only one around not sleeping. I sensed that I had drifted into a sacred place that was always in existence, but just beneath my awareness. I felt perfect.

I gazed back up towards the night sky, and I was enchanted by a barrage of falling stars. It was amazing. It was awesome. I was in love...