The sky was a bucket perched above us, just beyond our grasp. Inside sat many things, but we below could not see and could not know.
Having awoken to an expanse of cool blue skies, the air felt brisk like a typical fall morning. Hints of golden warmth glistened when I looked up to the sky, occasionally dripping from the bucket above us. As I stretched first thing that morning, my mouth wide like a lion and my fists to the sun, I let out a mighty yawn but did not see that I had bumped the bucket with my outstretched arm. To and fro the bucket swayed until gleams of sunlight shimmered as they rolled and pour over the edge, spilling onto the basin floor. Kayla and I were quickly enveloped in a wave of warm air while we ate our "leftovers" breakfast and recovered from the bears that found our food.
As morning grew late, we cut our losses and left the bears behind. With force we hit the trail. Somewhere up in the sky, the rocking of the bucket above us had ceased, cutting off the spill of golden warmth that poured from above. Cool air began to seep back in and replace the warm air.
Leaving the low-lying basin with plans to climb a peak later in the day, Kayla and I followed the trail as it meandered through the Teton Creek. The water shifted from a gentle flow to a flux of cascades coming down the incline we were going to ascend. It was the last day of our journey and we were slated for our highest elevation yet, before having to return all the way down to the car by nightfall. Today we hoped to make it to 11,000 feet.
Heading uphill, my load felt easier to carry. The actual weight of my pack was not much lighter, despite the food that had been eaten/stolen. We still had all of our gear and clothing. What made my load seem lighter and what I was no longer carrying was a pressure. Gone was the pressure of making it to the next campsite before dark. This brought ill seated relief for we would still have to make it up and over an entire mountain before the day's end.
As we climbed higher along the trail, we approached many ominous clouds varying in color from a metallic blue to a stone gray. Each cloud that came pushed aside the the amber waves of warmth that had fallen from the bucket earlier.
By the time we had hiked our way up to a pass dividing two mountains, a cold and hard wind was throwing gusts at us that nearly blew us over. Stopping at an elevation sign, we flipped out the map to check our progress but promptly realized we needed to keep moving. Being sheltered from the cold winds while hiking up the side of the mountain kept us from noticing how cold and cloudy the atmosphere had become. Now, we stood exposed in open air to an erosion of heat as we hiked the saddle between two mountains.
Checking the weather on a frequent basis, we noticed the clouds had grown thick over the past couple hours. As we walked from the saddle onto the edge of our mountain, we occasionally found a lone snowflake dropping from the bucket. The infrequency of these flakes even made us question whether it could even be snow or not. The infrequency begged another substance: dust, dirt, feathers, seeds...anything but snow. But as we continued, precipitation intermittently fell in a state that was mixed with rain. There was no escaping the truth, it was snowing in September. Now aware of the bucket above us, we could tell that we were close. With each step we took higher, we bumped the bucket into splashing cold water, stretching storm clouds across the sky.
Finally, the moment came when we reached the highest point of the trail. At 10,500 feet we rested and took our lunch behind the shelter of a boulder. The wind was still whipping at thrashing speeds and curled around the boulder, keeping us from enjoying any warmth at lunch. Looking up behind us, we noticed that the peak still stood above us. An additional 500 vertical feet would need to be ascended before we could claim to have made it to the top. So we stashed our packs behind the boulder and set out, leaving the trail behind in order to conquer the remaining zenith of our hike, the final ascent to Static Peak.
After a couple steps Kayla asked me, in a half-joking tone of voice, "Do you think it could thunderstorm?" I instantly and ignorantly answered, "I don't think so. I don't think its possible to have thunderstorms when it is snowing." And with that, I continued walking up the peak. Then, it hit me; I had read it before: Static Peak gets its name from its frequent lightning strikes. Kayla's question punched me in the face with a new found significance. Her question was no longer a joke; it was real. I told Kayla of my realization and she confirmed that this was the reason behind her asking it. "Oh," I thought, "I better hope that I'm right about lighting not being able to strike in these conditions..." In the best case scenario I wouldn't have to eat my words later that day. However, we had bigger things to worry about; if I was wrong and lighting did start to strike in these conditions, we would be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time to find out.
The wind continued to blow as we hiked closer to the top. We stepped over rocks and walked around boulders, continuing up an incline that need not be climbed. It would be a walk up to the top, but it was a steep walk. Rest was taken on multiple occasions in order to prevent sweating underneath the layers of clothing. A sweat right now would saturate our clothing and cause the winds to steal all of our warmth. It was imperative that we stay dry with gusts at thirty miles an hour.
Then it came time to finally reach the top, a moment of accomplishment I have never experienced before. There were unadulterated views to almost every direction. We could see for miles across the flatland and could even see pockets of precipitation falling out of the clouds in several different directions. But, it was not five minutes into our photographic commemoration of the experience at the top of peak that the situation took a turn for the worse. I stood on two rocks and was almost blown over by a heavy wind and poor footing. I quickly realized my life was fragile and precautions must be taken. I moved away from the edge and took Kayla's photo. Together, we saw clouds moving across the sky like cars on a freeway. We were close to that freeway now, closer than ever before, and a sense of speed could be easily noticed when looking up.
Silence was unattainable because of the wind, but there was no noise except for it. Our ears grew accustomed to this and it began to seem like silence. Down below was life carrying on like normal, but up here life was different; life was simple: just rocks and wind was all that existed. Simpleness and silence. A steady unchanging. Then, it hit. Something in the distance. My senses were immediately aware. The bucket! We had hit the bucket! A rumble from the clouds threatened in the distance and I told Kayla urgently we had to leave. Time to go. Time to get off this peak. The wind was coming from the direction of the rumble and I knew there was little time. I began the descent walking at a pace that risked unstable footing. I looked back. Kayla, having hurt her ankle twice already on the hike was not putting herself at the same risk again. I, however, reasoned I would rather risk re-tearing my ACL than risk an encounter with the lightning on this strange elctro-attractive peak.
Moments passed. I imagined and weighed outcomes as I stepped down the peak. My pace grew hurried and I took my chances with each step. Some steps I slid. Like a car exceeding the speed limit and drifting a corner, I tried to hold a controlled slide until I regained traction. Glancing back I could see Kayla was still moving on cruise control, safely under the speed limit.
A second crack of thunder ripped through the sky and my heart jumped. The storm was here and lighting had struck within a distance that left no room for comfort. The strike was so close it could have just as well been on the very peak we were fleeing from. But it wasn't. Kayla and I were still alive and continuing down the peak. The angle I was on was now closer to being level and my steps turned to a pace bordering on running. Scratch that, I was running. I was running down the last stretch of Static Peak and hoping my futile running would save me from lightning. I looked back and saw Kayla was moving at her same steady pace.
By the time I made it back to the trail, the snow had begun to fall again. I briskly jogged back to our backpack stash behind a boulder and caught my breath. Thankfully, Kayla and I did not get struck by lightning that day. We grabbed our bags and headed for the rest of the descent. Sadly, my cowardice of lightning upset Kayla quite profusely and we spent the rest of the hike in silence. Well, except for when we passed through an black forest with twisted trees. The trees wrapped and tangled with each other, creaking as they rubbed branches and bark. Ominous noises protruded the silence before the trail rejoined with the trail we had begun on two days prior. From there it was a hike free of exciting adventures. The sight of the gravel parking lot where we had parked looked distantly familiar, like something we had begun to forget. Refreshed and exhausted, we dumped our bags and headed for civilization.
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