A Nice Little Rain — And Some Snow

Rattlesnake Butte

Rain here in the mountains adds drama to the day. Far from city crowds, the weather is a major happening—entertainment. The weather changes the face of the day. Clouds move lower, boxing in the landscape, and the horizons contract: Local hills disappear. Distant mountains vanish. Rattlesnake Butte, right across the road, is swirled in dews and damps. Soon the landscape is wrapped in a gray blanket. A security blanket. Cozy. Perfect time for brewing a cup of tea.

In wet season, our Warm Springs Valley gets a nice drenching every three weeks or so, steady for a few hours. In the late summer, say September, when the rain finally arrives after the dry season, the storm is short, fast, makes you scramble to cover up things that shouldn’t get wet, and falls on a grateful landscape. As the rain disperses, the sun slowly reappears, warming the countryside. The sagebrush steams fresh, pungent and peppery, energizing the air and the body. Makes you shout: “It’s great to be alive!”

The rain works hard, too. It clears the air, melts any lingering snow, uncovers arrowheads, fills the pond, settles the dust, and washes bird-droppings off the roof. Yes, too much rain, and the county gravel road dissolves into the mud, deep ruts form, and I have to fire up the 4-wheel-drive pickup until things dry out. I don’t like getting the Subbie muddy. But even this is a blessing, for in my truck, with dog Bodie riding shotgun, I’m transported back in time: I’m a kid, getting a ride from Dad. He’s a gardener, and when it rains, he’s done for the day, so even though the elementary school is just around the corner from home, he’s waiting for me. I see his green 1964 Ford 250, idling in the parking lot, its white cab poking above all the other cars. I climb in, the wipers slapping, the heat curling around me, my dad glad to see me, the air smelling faintly of gasoline, grass clippings and grease—signatures of his trade. In that era when happiness became famous for being a warm puppy, to me, happiness was my dad’s warm pickup truck.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch: It rains continuously this day, varying from drizzle to showers and back, wind and no wind. The rain splatters the windows and makes me want to step outside with a squeegee. On the back pond, the rain plops down, ripples in circles outward growing larger, round patterning all over the place, so concentric— it’s simple beauty. It strikes me: Mathematics at work. The rain patters the roof, too. A comforting sound. My dog and I are inside, warm, dry and able to enjoy the show with impunity. For an extra treat, I bake brownies. The delightful smell warms up the cabin.

The rain here is rarely a gully- washer, not like over in Surprise Valley, where the clouds bunch up again the Warners and the water whoshes down the lava canyons and spills out into the playa. Woe be unto anything or anyone in the way. Homes have been destroyed. Yes, people have died from the drenchers. Even after an average rainfall, when I drive over the mountain and along the Surprise Valley Road, there are places where rocks and logs and debris have washed across the road, fanning out, making temporary deltas of mud.

The rain continues in waves. Light rain, then wind, heavy rain, and more wind. Well, I’m always happy when it rains. I don’t like the snow, though it’s fun to walk under veils of white lace after the sun comes out. Rain is always welcome— snow, take a hike! Usually, with rain clouds forming, the temperature will go up, in the winter, to 40 degrees, chilly still. When it gets to 50, it’s fairly tropical in feel, and I can walk outside without a coat for a bit, if the wind isn’t blowing.

But not this day. At 4 o’clock on this afternoon, the temperature drops to 34 degrees. The rain transforms to snow. Flakes slant in, coming from the west quickly. Even the butte—400 hundred feet high across the road—fades away into the white. In 15 minutes, the snow begins to stick to bushes. It frosts the driveway. I scratch plans of venturing to town for a movie. Yes, country living means being extra in-touch with the environment, listening when it talks: Stay indoors. Stay off roads. Stay dry. Stay safe. So I do. I have lentil soup for dinner. I have tea. I have brownies for dessert. I have a dog for companionship. I have no want.

A native Californian, H.A. Silliman grew up in the Gold County and currently lives in the northern outback. He is author of Where Two Rivers Meet anthology, which also appears in this newspaper. © 2023 H.A. Silliman.