Last Friday night, the remnants of Hurricane Gustav blew through New England; a few hours of modest rain and wind.
Saturday night, tropical Storm Hannah blew through with more effect, including 3" (8cm) of rain in 90 minutes. There was some flooding in the lower spots here and there.
I live on the shoulder of a small mountain ("Saddleback") at an elevation high enough so that flooding is a non-issue. The soil up here is mostly a thin glacial till which drains well and whose underlying granitic bones prevent major mudslides and canyons. I wasn't worried about washing away in the tropical downpours: The local forests here are studded with huge glacial "erratics;" room-sized boulders dropped and left behind by melting glaciers some 10,000 years ago. For the most part, the erratics still sit where they first fell, essentially unmoved for 100 centuries. If the local landscape was stable for all that time, it probably wasn't going to change from Hannah.
The peak of the storm here was right around midnight. The wind wasn't bad, with gusts at 30-40 mph (50-65kph). That's not enough to do serious damage, although the power flickered several times through the evening. Two times, the power blinked enough to wake up my UPS devices: The lights would flicker and the house would fill with the high-pitched mating calls of the North American Uninterruptable Power Supply. The external power would recover and the house would fall silent. Then all I'd hear would be the wind in the trees and the rain pecking at the skylights.
I decided to go outside. I wanted to experience the storm in the dark woods.
Part of it is just being a weather geek. Part of it is a personal campaign to feel reconnected to the natural world. Part of it was probably boredom. (Hey, Saturday night in Northwood New Hampshire is
happenin', if you know what I mean.) And part of it is that I'm prepping for some more trips and wanted to test some rain gear.
I donned my newly waterproofed gear and headed out.
I'd brought a small flashlight, but I wanted my eyes to dark-adapt, so I left it off, feeling my way slowly at first. I wondered what my neighbors might think to see a guy walking by, hunched against in the wind-driven rain at midnight. But then I realized my neighbors may have more sense than I: They were all in bed, asleep, with not a light to be seen.
As I rounded the building, I came into the full force of the tropical storm, a moist and warm exhalation blowing warm and wet as a dog's breath. It blew hard enough to knock me sideways a half step when I walked; I could lean into it just a bit, especially during the gusts.
I tested my gear's waterproofing by standing in place and turning in slow circles so the wind and rain could test the seams and zippers from every angle. Everything seemed to be working.
I made my way back to the woods at the rear of the property. The wind was making the whole forest sway; the sound filling the damp dark with a massive white noise rush.
Oddly, I remembered experiencing rain in the desert for the first time. There, with no trees, all the sound came up from the ground's surface: The raindrops hitting the sand, the rocks the bushes on the desert floor; the wind scrubbing through the knee-high plants; the ticking of small pebbles rolling against one another near my feet. All the action was down low.
Here in heavily-treed New England, weather sounds usually come from above.
And in the forest, in that tropical storm, there was no exception. The wind and the rain raked the forest treetops above and generated a wondrous, all-encompassing white noise sound that rose and fell in strength but never died away. At its peak, it was exhilarating to hear.
In the quieter moments, I could hear the rain striking the fabric of my clothing and the irregular patter of rain falling on the leaf-strewn forest floor.
I stood there for a while, just listening.
Natural sounds can be deeply soothing, and although it may be weird to go for a forest walk at midnight during the height of a large storm, I found the whole experience very pleasant and meditative.
Back home, I hung my wet outer clothes and checked my regular clothes for any dampness. None. The waterproofing worked great.
I went to bed (about 1:30AM) and opened my bedroom windows on the lee side of the house in the rain-shadow of the building. That way I could hear the storm without having water come in. The noise of the wind in the trees dominated the night, a deeply relaxing sound.
At some level, we're all still arboreal primates, and I think some elemental brain circuitry still gets triggered by forest noises. Hearing a strong storm in the trees when you're warm, dry and safe generates--- at least in me--- an almost primal sense of peace. It's the fulfillment of basic needs being met; the sense of the lowest foundation levels of Maslow's Hierarchy being attended to.
In short, it's a very, very good feeling.
I slept well that night.
Hope you did, too.
