Spending 40 consecutive nights in an old growth forest. That is the plan. Opening myself to whatever happens during those long dark hours as I lie awake, thinking, searching, absorbing, being. Hoping to experience the essential, and perhaps the transcendent. For a fuller explanation of the plan, as well as its logistical details, please see Seeking the Essential- Part 1.
There is nothing much better than experiencing thunderstorms out in the wild. Great crashing thunderstorms, sky electrified, as wind whips through forests, across savannahs, or over wide open desert. The natural violence of it all is beyond thrilling. That crashing thunder and crackling light, the driving hard rain, the mist rising from pounded ground—they aren’t merely external. They pervade the being. Driving deep down to the very core of the person, to his very most atavistic animal perception. Alerting, sensing, hunkering down while gazing around, one insignificant creature laid bare amidst so much overwhelming power. And then it penetrates even further than that, past the physical. Into the mind and soul and being, electrified like that crackling sky. Energized, ecstatic, for those moments transcended.
Thrilling, the violence, but also a touch scary. A thunderstorm, like so many things in nature, can kill a person easily. Like swatting a fly. Life extinguished in an instant.
On my fifth night in the forest, a thunderstorm approaches. Trees rise up all around me, obscuring the horizon, so I hear and feel more than see it coming. Cold wind blows past me, through my clothing, bending tree tops and swaying branches, as the scent of nearing rain fills my senses. The clouds above flash with internal light, glowing and crackling, while ground detritus skitters past my legs, rushing off somewhere. And the taste of it all, nearly impossible to describe. Somehow simultaneously metallic and fresh and electric, with edges of dark earth, dry leaves, sap, and pine needles.
These are parts, but they don’t really describe the whole. How an approaching storm overwhelms the senses. Dazzles perception, pervading every last part of me with charged intensity, until I am alight with anticipation. Nearly beyond rational, the storm quickening within me something wordlessly primordial.
The campsite I’ve already assessed, to confirm its integrity. Tent stakes are spiked tight in the ground, the rain fly is taught and secure, while the tent itself stands on a patch of ground that requires no trenching. The blanket lies inside, waiting to warm me, but for now I remain outside as wind blows against me.
The wind blows harder, whipping through the trees. Thunder crashes closer. Until finally the first fat raindrops splash down upon me. I lift my face to the sky, eyes closed, cold drops striking my skin. One after another, faster and more, splashing against me, against the entire dense forest.
The hardest part—making myself go inside the tent. At home I would have stayed outside amidst the deluge until thoroughly soaked, happy and laughing, until the rain finally diminished and ceased, the storm moving away. Then I could go inside the warm house and put on dry clothes. But not here. Here I have no source of heat, no change of dry clothing, only a tent and blanket, and another eight hours of cold damp night ahead of me. So not long after the rain begins, I duck into the tent, zipping it shut behind me, and take off my wet rain shell.
Inside the tent, the thunderstorm becomes a different experience. A different array of sensory input. Drops strike the rain fly, a torrential downpour, so many that they blend into one loud thrumming hum. The material of the tent snaps and flutters around me, as lightning illuminates the space in flashes. Now and again a particularly strong gust of wind drives up between the tent top and rain fly, sending mist filtering down upon me through the roof mesh. This tent is its own little space, its own touch of magic. The turbulent world outside roils around it, battering against it, shaking it to its tent stake foundations, as light strobes amidst darkness.
The storm crashes on and on. Clearing my mind of everything internal, I know nothing but the natural violence swirling around me, just outside, a mere millimeter of fabric between us. Until finally, finally, the rain lessens, the thrumming quiets, drops striking the rain fly now individually audible. And then it is quiet in the forest, the storm moving away into the distance, farther away until it fades into silence.
I unzip the tent and step outside, listening to that silence. It seems somehow alive and fecund even in its stillness, the forest drenched and fragrant, absorbing moisture to thrive, sprout, and blossom. Silent, but not completely, water dripping out of trees as mist rises.
I stand there for a while, breathing deeply, looking all around while listening. And then the strangest thing happens. Into my alertness a warm lethargy begins to spread, an almost dreamy vagueness, so I go back into the tent and lie down, falling asleep within a few heartbeats. Usually I would have stayed awake for hours longer, but this night I sleep straight through to dawn, undisturbed, warm beneath the blanket.
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Previous 40-Night Newsletters:
Part 5- Little Lords of the Flies
Part 4- Beneath the Stars, the Nearly Infinite Cosmos
There is nothing like camping in the rain. One of my most vivid memories is camping in a tent below Alta Lakes in the San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado. We could see the storm move toward us all afternoon and at sundown the distant rumble and burble of thunder made its way into camp. The sound of a high mountain thunderstorm moving toward a ten year old me is something I have never forgotten. Thanks for the trip down memory lane.