Storm in the Wind River Range

Adventurers weather a violent storm near the Continental Divide in the Wind River Range.

A glacier camp on the Ruth Glacier in Alaska.
The Ruth Glacier, Alaska

           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, which in the case of 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 or the other of the oceans. On multiple occasions, I straddled the line while it was raining and watched the drops roll down my raingear onto the ground, and tried to envision their long journey to the ocean.

           But on this day, there was no rain or even the thought of it. The area was barren and windswept, surrounded by seldom climbed peaks interrupted by expansive stretches of alpine meadow. It was big country. We were well above 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 to be 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 off in the distance, I began to register the vibrant colors of the wildflowers. Reds, yellows, and blues were everywhere. 

           We climbed an obscure and anonymous peak earlier that afternoon 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 then continue hiking the following day, down to a well-traveled lake system. 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, and they had proven themselves to be persistent and hearty adventurers. 

            And as for the weather, between the various weather forecasts and indicators, it seemed that we had a pleasant and calm stretch of weather awaiting us for the next several days. The hope was to summit the yet unnamed B1, spend that night out on the alpine tundra, and then bushwhack over to the main trail the following day. Since the weather looked promising and the group was physically strong, our prospects for success were 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 nearly devoid of tundra to drop our packs and began setting up a bivouac camp. 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 the fact that we were setting up camp at “storm-brewing-time” and were in an exposed position, had me on my toes. Other than 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 that surrounded 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 rose several hundred feet above our campsite and provided an unobstructed view of the sky in each direction. We walked up a short distance, and from the elevated vantage point, looked out on 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 the 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 that all was well. I reasoned that, at that point, storms would not be a significant concern. Instead, most of the group would be worried about supper plans and how cold it would be that night. 

           We had a wide-open view to the east. 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 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 eye off of the distant storm. After watching it for a while, I began wondering if it was actually moving toward us. But, all the while, I maintained my confidence that storms just 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 our way. I looked down at the group and saw that none were paying attention either to 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 and realize that something was going on. After a few minutes of panic on our part, one of the group members finally did look our way. And then, within moments, everyone in the group turned, looked to the east, and pointed at the thunderhead.

           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 to me, they were heading in the direction of the storm. And that, I’d already concluded with the other guides, would be the fastest and most direct way to get to the relative safety of the nearest trees.

           By the time the three of us got down to our backpacks and the bivy remnants, we could see rain starting to fall on various nearby peaks. We also saw lightning and could hear the rumble of thunder only a few hundred yards off to the southeast. It was an awe-inspiring mix of sight and sound and would’ve been an exciting thing to witness, except for the fact that 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 others just as two thick groves of small trees came into sight. We picked the one that seemed to be on a lesser incline and 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 moving deeper into the guts of the grove of trees, where we looked for any sort of comfortable sitting spots. And that was a struggle. I was taken by the degree to which our “comfortable spots” standards eroded as we picked our way deeper into the slanted grove.

           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. Even though we were somewhat protected, we kept looking around in the growing darkness with the help of our headlamps for evermore desirable “comfortable waiting out” places. And there simply weren’t any, at least none that 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 to it. 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 that this had forced us to follow a basic safety protocol for such a situation. Which is that in a lightning storm, you’re supposed to disperse the group so that a single bolt can’t take out everyone at once.

           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 that we’d at least 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 that elapsed between nearby lightning strikes and the thunder which inevitably followed. It’s a fact that each 5-count is equal to one mile. And so, I counted to estimate where we were relative to 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 that 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 talking and chatter as people got themselves situated. And for a short time, when I was sure that I was getting a 2-count between lightning and thunder, I was starting to believe that the storm would shortly 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 group mood sunk.

           By that point, verbal conversation had ceased except for the expletives that inevitably followed the brilliant lightning pops and tooth-rattling thunder. The few minutes that 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 pouring 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 just a story we tell ourselves. It became clear 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 began to move away. Finally, there was a five-second gap between lightning bolts and thunder. I began to feel relief that we hadn’t been electrocuted in the middle of the Wyoming backcountry. However, although the lightning had diminished, the rain had not. If anything, it just continued to increase. It was, in a word, persistent.

           After sitting out the storm for another hour, the wet and wind began taking a toll, and we started getting 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 past, 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 of 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 came out of their partially dry stuff sacks and somehow popped up among the scraggly evergreens.

           Soon, I could hear people in their tents, working in unison to find some sort of nook or cranny to settle into. Among the hustle, bustle, grunts, and groans, I heard genuine concern voiced about how each person’s various actions might be affecting others. Expectations of stretching out in a warm sleeping bag, under the stars, and in a personal space had suddenly changed to a sort of thankfulness for just having a cramped, uneven, and somewhat dry tent to share with two or more others.

           Sometime during the night, the rain stopped, and the skies cleared. Somehow, we’d all slept- perched and sprawled out in awkward disarray. I awoke the following day as the sun began to warm and dry out the tent. Before getting up, I thought for a moment 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 up 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 that we were ready if it came our way.

 

Mountain storm clouds move off int the late afternoon.
Alpine sunset

 

Author: David Appleton

I was born and raised in Texas and currently live in the Texas Hill Country, spent some 30 years living in the smack dab middle of Colorado, and have spent a lifetime adventuring and leading others on adventures in many parts of the wild world.

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