It’d been a long day. But by mid-afternoon, our group of teenagers was finally up on the spine of Wyoming’s Wind River Range and walking along the Continental Divide. The “Divide” is an imaginary line along the crest of the continent that, in North America, separates the Pacific and Atlantic watersheds. When a drop of rain or snow falls anywhere along it, the water inevitably ends up in one of the other oceans. On multiple occasions, I’d straddled the line while it was raining, watching raindrops roll down my raingear onto the ground and envisioning their long journey to the ocean.
But on this day, there was not even the thought of rain. The area was barren and windswept, surrounded by seldom-climbed peaks, interrupted by expansive stretches of alpine meadow. We were well above the tree line, and the area surrounding us was sand-covered and drab, punctuated by rocks of various sizes and a few small plants.
At first, the scene seemed composed almost entirely of browns and grays, contrasted against the blues of the afternoon sky and the dark purple of the distant peaks. But as my gaze wandered from the surrounding starkness to the alpine meadows in the distance, I began to register the vibrant colors of the wildflowers. There were reds, yellows, and blues everywhere.
Earlier that afternoon, we climbed an obscure and anonymous peak and named it B1. After descending its eastern slopes, we ended up on a massive alpine meadow that I’d spotted on a previous trip. The plan was to camp there and continue hiking down to a well-traveled lake system the following day. And once there, we anticipated finding actual campsites, developed trails, and other backpackers.
The two biggest unknowns of traveling with a group out in the backcountry are the physical abilities of the group members and the weather. The group consisted of physically fit teenagers who’d proven themselves to be persistent and hearty adventurers. So, I felt good about that.
And as for the weather, between the various forecasts and indicators, it appeared we were in store for a pleasant, calm stretch over the next few days. Since the weather looked promising and the group was physically strong, our prospects for success seemed promising.
In the late afternoon, after climbing the peak, we picked our way down past the Divide toward the alpine meadow. Once out in the middle of the expanse, we found a spot devoid of tundra to drop our packs and set up a bivouac. Free of the need to set up tents, people claimed their spots by merely throwing down their pads and sleeping bags (the definition of a bivouac). By not using tents, we’d have both a wide-open night sky to ponder as we drifted off to sleep and an expedited start for our further descent the following day.
I was confident in the plan, but we were setting up camp at “storm brewing time” and were in an exposed position, so I was on my toes. Besides the sounds of people sorting through their gear, the meadow was oddly quiet. Not so much silent as missing some of the mysterious sounds of the remote wildness surrounding us. The lack of noise only added to the unsettled feeling I was experiencing.
To reassure myself that all was well, I enlisted a couple of my trail mates to hike with me up onto a nearby ridge to reconnoiter the distant skies. The ridge we walked up rose several hundred feet above our campsite and offered an unobstructed view of the sky in every direction. We walked up a short distance and, from the elevated vantage point, looked out onto miles of the “Winds,” stretching out in every direction. The very backbone of the mountain range extended to our north and south, but foothills, valleys, and lesser peaks reached dramatically down to the Popo Agie River drainage to the east. Three massive mountains, including the newly named B1, blocked our view to the west. Above them, in the direction from which a rogue thunderstorm was most likely to come, clear skies and the yellow/blue/orange of the setting sun reassured me all was well. At that point, I concluded and silently affirmed to myself that storms were not a significant concern. So, I had the luxury of worrying about things such as supper plans and how cold it would be that night.
We sat on some rocks and took a few minutes to gaze at our surroundings. We had a wide-open view to the east, and one of my companions pointed out a storm developing in that direction.
“Probably way past the mountains and down in the flatlands,” I responded. “We don’t have to worry about anything coming in from that direction because the weather moves from west to east around here.”
That’s right, I thought to myself. I was sure of it. Still, I couldn’t entirely take my eyes off the distant storm. After watching it for a while, I began to wonder if it was perhaps actually moving toward us. But all the while, I maintained my confidence that storms didn’t behave like that. It must be an illusion, I kept reassuring myself.
We stood there for a few minutes before certainty replaced my doubts. I ultimately concluded that the massive cloud was, in fact, coming toward us. I looked down at the group and saw that none of them were paying attention to either us or the approaching storm. We immediately started down, but the terrain limited our speed. I kept hoping someone below would glance up and see us hurrying toward them, realizing something was amiss. Eventually, one of the group members looked our way. The group stopped, looked up at us, and I pointed toward the approaching thunderstorm in the east. And then the panic set in as everyone turned and began pointing.
Though I had to focus on the rough terrain as we made our way down, I caught glimpses of the flurry of activity taking place in the camp. People were stuffing sleeping bags and partially packed stuff sacks into their packs and moving out. Unsurprisingly, they were heading toward the storm because that was the predetermined fastest and most direct way to reach the relative safety of the nearest trees.
When the three of us got down to our backpacks and the bivy (bivouac) remnants, we could see rain beginning to fall on various nearby peaks. We also saw lightning and could hear thunder rumbling only a few hundred yards to the southeast. It was an awe-inspiring mix of sight and sound and would’ve been exciting to witness, except we were exposed and vulnerable, and it was coming our way.
We gobbled down what the others had left for us in the way of supper while simultaneously stuffing gear into our packs. Within minutes, we’d eaten, packed, and were moving as fast as we dared toward the rest of the group. By this time, thunder was reverberating from within several of the numerous glacial cirques in the area, and lightning continued getting closer.
Finally, we caught up with the rest of the group just as two thick groves of small trees came into sight. I picked the one that seemed to be on a lesser incline, and we headed for it. We arrived at its upper edge just as the first raindrops began to fall. Almost immediately, we were welcomed to the perceived safety of the trees by a tremendous bolt of lightning. It lit up a sky that had almost magically changed from alpine dusk to pitch black. The flash was followed almost instantaneously by an explosion of thunder. The noise sent us deeper into the grove of trees, where we looked for any comfortable place to sit. And that was a struggle. I was taken by how our “comfortable place” standards eroded as we crept deeper into the slanted grove and the storm grew in intensity.
The trees around us were mostly around 8′ tall. Not ideal for lightning protection. But since we were only looking for a place that made us smaller relative to the surroundings, it sufficed. And besides, there were not a whole lot of options. Even though we were somewhat protected, we kept looking around in the growing darkness, with the help of our headlamps, for evermore desirable places to sit. And there weren’t any, at least none I could see. We were on a large ledge that appeared to end in significant drop-offs on two and perhaps three sides. The entire area had a pronounced slope. And even worse, the trees were so tightly packed together that there was hardly room for a single person to sit down, much less a group of two or three. In retrospect, I realize the topography and vegetation forced us to follow a basic safety protocol for such a situation. In a lightning storm, you’re supposed to disperse the group so that a single bolt can’t take out everyone at once, and that’s what we did, although not by choice.
As lightning strikes lit up the surrounding landscape, I could see that the “tree” option on the other side of the valley was steeper and appeared even more ominous than ours. I was relieved to note we’d made the right choice in that regard. At that moment, I was sitting on an uneven rock under the protection of two small, gnarled pines. And so, without much else to do besides get wet, chilled, and fret about our situation, I began counting the time between nearby lightning strikes and the thunder that inevitably followed. It’s a fact that each 5-count equals one mile. And so, I counted to estimate our distance from the storm. At that point, the flashes were almost immediately followed by horrific thunder. And since I couldn’t even count to 1, I knew the storm was very close, if not right on top of us.
Tucked into raingear and with hoods cinched tight, the group members crouched alone or in small bunches of 3 or 4. Everyone sat on small rocks, limbs, or whatever they could find to keep themselves up off the ground. At first, there was chatter as people got situated. And for a short time, when I was sure I was getting a 2-count between lightning and thunder, I started to believe the storm had almost run its course.
Just then, however, a bolt hammered the other side of the valley and was immediately followed by a deafening crack. An outlier, I said to myself. But before the words had formed entirely in my head, another bolt struck in almost the same spot. A nearly simultaneous explosion of sound then followed, and I was suddenly back to one-counts. Despite the chill and the rain, I found myself sweating profusely. Then, as we all realized the ordeal was far from over, the mood in the group sank even further.
By that point, the verbal conversation had mostly ceased except for the expletives that inevitably followed the brilliant lightning pops and tooth-rattling thunder. The few minutes we’d expected to spend hunkered down turned into more than an hour, and we just sat there and took it because there wasn’t any other choice. We were entirely at the mercy of the storm, and although I kept poring over our options, they all led back to something completely out of my control. It was a strange feeling for me as a leader who was supposed to have a handle on things. But then I thought about how “control” is merely a story we tell ourselves. It became clear to me how people worldwide experience things beyond their control every day. Then, as my pondering deepened, yet another lightning strike flashed nearby, and its subsequent thunder shook me back to the situation at hand.
Eventually, the lightning did begin moving away. Finally, there was a five-second gap between lightning bolts and thunder. I felt relieved that we hadn’t been electrocuted in the middle of the Wyoming backcountry. However, while the lightning had diminished, the rain had not. If anything, it kept increasing. It was, in a word, persistent.
After sitting out the storm for another hour, the wetness and wind began to take a toll, and everyone started to get cold. And on top of that, it was becoming late. And so, we were all cold, tired, and increasingly ready for sleep. With the imminent threat of lightning finally over, it became time to make a move, and that’s what we did.
“Let’s set up the tents, right around here,” I shouted. “Find a spot. It won’t be ideal, but at least we can get in our bags and be out of the rain.”
Even though everyone was scattered, the terrain convoluted, and the storm still rumbling, we somehow managed to pull a camp together quickly and efficiently. It was an awe-inspiring process, given all the recent chaos. Everyone went to work. There were no flat, open, mineral soil areas for pitching the tents—only uneven, angled, and strangely shaped openings scattered here and there. And the rain continued. Still, four tents emerged from their partially dry stuff sacks and popped up among the scraggly evergreens.
Soon, I could hear people in their tents, working in unison to find any sort of nook or cranny to settle into. Amid the hustle and bustle, grunts, and groans, I heard genuine concern from the teenagers about how their actions might be affecting others. Expectations of stretching out in a warm sleeping bag, under the stars, and in a personal space had suddenly shifted to a sense of gratitude for just having a cramped, uneven, and somewhat dry 3-person tent to share with three or more others.
Sometime during the night, the rain stopped, and the skies cleared. Somehow, everyone slept- perched and sprawled out in awkward disarray. I awoke the following morning as the sun began to warm and dry out the tent. Before getting up, I thought about all that had happened the night before. While I wasn’t happy about the storm, I was pleased with how it had all worked out. After a few minutes of staring at the tent roof, I finally sat up, maneuvered my way outside, and stood up into the new day.
I looked up at the sky, and it was clear, at least right above. Then, I looked to the west. There wasn’t even a remnant of the storm that had clobbered us the night before. I turned and felt calm as I looked out at the whole Wind River Range–first to the north and then back to the east, where only the sun got in the way of the blue skies. I turned full circle. While all was good to the south, a thunderhead towered above the distant peaks to the southwest. I flinched instinctively and then took a deep breath, confident we were ready if it came our way.
