Distinctly Montana Magazine

25 w w w. d i s t i n c t l y m o n t a n a . c o m Unnoticed high above, I sat enjoying their playful behavior until a change redirected my attention. Rushing from the Wind River Range's 12,000-foot peaks to the west, a fierce bank of clouds was swallowing the afternoon sun. Rumbling in the dis- tance was punctuated by a thunderclap much closer. Before tucking the binoculars inside my parka, I glassed the unper- turbed elk a final time. Then I made tracks. As I topped the ridge, the first wind-driven raindrops stung my face. The nearest cover was a huddle of whitebark pines a quarter mile away. I headed for their scant protection. Lightning streaked and the trailing thunder rapidly closed the gap following each flash. Minutes later my arms were tingling. Pulling up my shirt sleeves, I was alarmed to see the hair twist- ing into punk spike hairdos. Static electricity engulfed me. A bolt blasted the ridge off to my left and belched an acrid electric smell that seared the mucous membranes of my nose. Enough! Upright, I was the tallest object on the ridge, though seldom had I felt punier. I sprinted for shelter beside the only boulder within 100 yards. As quickly as it advanced, the storm bore east. Within fifteen minutes, I was standing in brilliant sunlight, transfixed by a daz- zling double rainbow awash in drizzle from a cloudless sky. It was a scene from a fairy tale. * * * During my years among mountain goats, studying their lives and capturing their images on film beginning in the 1970s in Montana, lightning seemed to follow me like a faithful compan- ion. Several times I shed my camera and lenses, spotting scope and tripod, and sprinted for cover. Such moments made me wonder how many of the mountains' wild residents do electrical discharges occasionally clobber? My time exposed to nature's ferocity pales compared to the life of a nanny or billy that spends 24/365 on cliffs and soaring ridges. How many goats have suf- fered deadly blows that go unrecorded by two-legged mountain- eers? Such mysteries exemplify how much about life and death in wilderness remains unknown to us. As Diana and I hunker against this pint-sized boulder, one storm cell after another keeps us pinned for 45 minutes. The clat- ter of rain pelting our parkas fills each hiatus between clashes of thunder. Even if we dared to move, I see no better shelter across the alpine tundra. Now as much as ever, I'm awed and humbled by its power as the storm's fury enfolds us. Just moments before we scrambled to our provisional refuge, I was face down on the mountain as a thunderbolt crashed over- head. Perhaps it's because of vivid memories of past close calls, or because at the roof of the world lightning just seems nearer. But I know better. It happens still, from time to time, a trigger that's entrenched from my year in Vietnam. Incoming! Hit the deck! * * * There was a night in Vietnam when I witnessed a special ef- fects show, not an aerial salvo but a display solely of nature's doing. It was my turn on watch, three hours listening and watch- ing for Charlie starting at midnight. The other two members of my machine gun team were fast asleep ten feet behind me in our hooch (two drab green ponchos snapped together along one MINUTES LATER MY ARMS WERE TINGLING. PULLING UP MY SHIRT SLEEVES, I WAS ALARMED TO SEE THE HAIR TWISTING INTO PUNK SPIKE HAIRDOS. STATIC ELECTRICITY ENGULFED ME. A BOLT BLASTED THE RIDGE OFF TO MY LEFT.

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