Rain

John Morton

I learned a long time ago not to complain about the weather. For starters, there is nothing we can do about it. Secondly, the meteorological offering some of us might find objectionable might be exactly what someone else may need. As a Nordic skier, I’m especially sensitive to this phenomenon as I listen to neighbors curse a predicted snowstorm while I gleefully hope we get buried. And of course, living in the northeast, we all recognized long ago the truth in the old adage, “If you don’t like New England weather, wait a minute.”

In spite of all that, the past two summers have started off pretty wet. I know, I know, the fields are verdant, ponds are full, and the brooks are babbling. Less apparent to the casual observer however, the ground is so saturated that farmers can’t cut their hay without creating deep ruts in the fields, while loggers struggle to get timber out of the woods on skid roads that have become quagmires. In the Berkshires, for the past month folks who have bought lawn tickets for the concerts at Tanglewood have gone home soaked, while in Camden, ME, the famous schooners have rarely ventured out of the picturesque harbor.

One approach that usually works for me in situations like this is the old, “Well, it could be worse” attitude. With today’s instant news coverage from around the globe, it doesn’t take long to find a natural disaster that makes our rainy weather seem inconsequential. I imagine we’ll all have images of Hurricane Katrina’s wind, rain, and flooding etched into our memories for a long time to come. Another technique that works for me is to remember previous situations, which helps keep current conditions in perspective.

In August, 1970, I arrived in South Vietnam toward the end of the annual monsoon season. I vividly remember during the intense heat of the day, towering thunderheads building ominously, then in the late afternoon, releasing an unbelievable amount of water in torrential downpours. The driving rain on the metal roof of our hooch made conversation impossible, while footpaths and roads became brown rivers.

Several years later, I had the opportunity to help finish a house on Douglas Island, a residential neighborhood of Juneau, AK. Annual rainfall in Juneau ranges from 55 inches to as much as 90 inches. I was part of a construction crew that worked for almost a month in a steady drizzle. Once, when the persistent rain let up, the clouds parted and the sun broke through, everyone dropped their tools and bolted for the harbor. The unwritten rule in Juneau is that whenever the sun comes out, folks take the day off and go fishing.

Along with fishing, the other cultural imperative in Alaska is hunting. Many Alaskan families fill their freezers every autumn with moose or caribou meat, supplemented, perhaps, with duck, goose, and grouse. One of my most memorable hunts began in the pouring rain, with two buddies, hiking into the Chugiak Mountains. Several hours into a five-day hunt, we encountered a swollen stream, which under normal conditions would have required simply taking off our boots and wading across. After fruitlessly trudging up and downstream in search of a manageable crossing, we cinched our heavy packs, held our rifles over head and waded into the torrent. My buddies made it, but my foot slipped on a greasy rock, and I was swept downstream. I managed to scramble out, still clutching my rifle, but everything in my backpack was soaked. The rain continued for the remaining days of our hunt, so nothing I had, including my sleeping bag, ever dried out.

More recently, I was invited to join Will Lange and some of his “Geriatric Adventurers” on a two-week canoe trip down the George River in Northern Quebec to Ungava Bay. It was a terrific expedition on an impressive river through wild country, but it rained a lot. I remember days when we paddled for hours into the wind, with a cold rain pelting our faces. Our lunch consisted of huddling around a Colman stove in the driving rain eagerly anticipating a cup of hot soup. Evening brought valiant attempts to erect tents in the storm, gathering firewood to cook supper, then crawling, exhausted, into damp sleeping bags. Of course, all that rain kept the black flies and mosquitoes at bay.

Which reminds me of that old expression attributed to the Vikings: “Anything that doesn’t actually kill you will make you stronger.” I suppose a variation of that philosophy might be that all this rain we’ve been experiencing will make us really appreciate the sunshine.

John Morton is a former Olympic biathlete and Nordic ski coach. He lives in Thetford Center, VT, where he designs Nordic ski trails. You can reach him through his website, www.mortontrails.com.