Skywatching

Its been an interesting summer for sky-watching: Lunar eclipice, meteor showers, finding the north star, seeking Uranus moons.
I had a perfect position to view the Perseids meteor shower. We camped on a peak with a 240 degree view of the sky high above tree line to watch the show. My portable chaise lounge supported me along with a minus 15 degree sleeping bag to see the spectacle in the wee hours before sunrise. I counted 53 falling stars. The streaks came from all directions and time intervals. After each falling star I'd make a wish: peace in the middle east, I'd lose five pounds effortlessly, our front road be paved, see more falling stars... Fifty-three was a good number to crawl back into the tent on.
I regret not taking a photo of the Lunar eclipse. The moon looked like an old picture of red Mars. Eerie. Being awake in the dead of night is spooky too. Coyote howls seemed to be only ten feet away. Bushes rattled as if creatures were convening on how to attack me. Paranoid thoughts ruled during the slow, shadow moon show.
Lately I've been using the binoculars to locate Uranus moons in the southeast sky in the early dark evening. Clouds or my forgetfulness has prevented my newest discovery in the heavens.
The persistent north star or Polaris, has been chased by the Big and Little Dipper for centuries. I've only recently noticed there are other worlds to unearth out in the dark skies.

Up or Down?

Lightening sparked our debate as to where to backpack last week. Canyons or the mountains? We could wear our shorts through the night in the desert canyons. Recent rains would have filled water-pockets for all our water needs. Cottonwood trees are in full-leaf and would shade us. Those pesky fears of flash-floods made us look upward toward the high mountains. Water is plentiful in the alpine lakes and streams. The nights are cold enough to zap the blood-sucking critters. It would be a relief to be chilled after the desert heat. Then I thought of the time my hair stood up during a close thunder and lightening storm in the high mountains. No place to hide except under a tall, scorched dead Ponderosa tree.
We compromised and backpacked on the head of a narrow canyon. We hiked across slickrock a couple of miles and erected our tent on a sand island under a pinion pine tree. We heard and watched thunderclouds burst all around us. South, Lake Powell was was having its own electric light parade. The city of Escalante was shrouded in gray sheets of rain, hidden in it's own drama. Big anvil clouds swallowed up the Henry Mountains. We toasted to our clear donut hole sky and watched a rainbow travel through time.

Little Big Rain

As I set off for a casual mountain bike ride, I didn't believe it would rain. How could rain come from such puny far-away clouds? Two miles down the dirt road big fat drops plopped on my bare arms. I welcomed any moisture and charged forward in the cooling wetness. Then I relented and put on my nylon "water-resistant" jacket. The sky above me was still blue. Thunder cracked above the side canyons. I found some shelter under the canopy of an old Juniper tree. The huge raindrops turned the dirt road into a bubbling mass of miniature suction- cups. I smelled the steamy mud. Twenty feet away a new channel of foamy water gushed over the road to force its way to Alvey Wash. This new water-channel was like a hunting dog on a scent. Nothing would deter its course. I waited for the rain to let up.
Ten years or so ago, a big monsoon rainstorm hit our desert home. Our boys played in the mud and tried to block the waterways that played havoc through our yard. The trenches still exist. During the storm we raced to Alvey Wash and was rewarded with red rapids of churning water. Debris of tree branches, pine needles, boulders, plowed through the once dry bed. It took out chunks of the banks as it curled around corners. Expert kayakers would have had a hard time navigating through this force of water. We were in awe.
Twenty wet minutes later I ventured from beneath the Juniper and pedaled my way back to the house. It was like parting the red sea as my fat bike tires split the water. A newborn river crossed my pathway that had taken out part of the road stopped my passage. Patience. I walked up and down this new watercourse to find a way to jump it. Ten minutes later I forged through this brooklet. I made it back home, albeit muddy and soaked, pleased the monsoons have arrived.