The Sounds of Hell
(c) Jean Ballard, 2013
Hell has no fury like a late night storm. Huddled in our tent, my dog Eddie and I
listen to the crash and clamor around us – the roar of the thunder amplified
immeasurably by the mountains that rim the canyon in which we are camped.
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| Mountains, the afternoon before the storm hit |
The nearby creeks and Fraser river, full to
capacity from rain and melting snow, race tumultuously between canyon walls,
vomiting logs onto giant boulders. The
roar of river and storm is exacerbated by the big rigs and trains that thunder
along their paths heading to the city. Rain drums incessantly on the heavy
polyethylene tarp that covers my tent.
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| Swollen creek floods into swollen river, prior to storm. |
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| Creek runs wild, post storm. |
The noise is overwhelming.
I yell at it to stop. It swallows
the sounds of every day life – was that a dog yipping on the path behind my
tent? Are those voices I hear shouting
for help? Is someone trying to break
into my car? I hear everything yet I
hear nothing. I am in the great outdoors
yet I am claustrophobic, held captive by nature’s maelstrom. Compressed, squeezed on all sides by darkness
and water and noise. Tortured.
And Eddie. He is
terrified. Every clap of thunder sends
him into more paroxysms of barking, more frantic attempts to escape that
unknown beast around us. The trains and
trucks, even as they slam their way across the metal bridges over the river,
metal on metal, screeching their pain, don’t frighten him – but Thor, God of
Thunder, terrifies.
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| Eddie: Trucks over that little bridge don't scare me! |
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| But I sure don't like THUNDER! |
I have never been the motherly sort. Whining and shouting, whether from dogs or
kids, only frustrates me. I alternate
between holding him tightly, rocking him, wrapping him in my shirt, singing
softly in his ear and angrily saying “Eddie stop it!” “Eddie quiet!” “
EDDIE!”. He responds to the loudly
screamed EDDIE better than the gentle, happy, crooning tones. I know I’m doing it all wrong. "Bad Dog Mom" is branded on my forehead. Even in the midst of hell, I feel guilty.
I sit up reading till long past midnight, afraid to rest in
case yet another clap of thunder sends the dog right through the tent
wall. The bedlam lasts two hours, the
rain pummels the tarp much longer.
Five AM. The rain
has finally stopped, save a few lingering showers. Birds are singing. I toss aside my blanket and pull on my warm
flannel shirt and old navy sweatpants.
We scramble out of the tent. I
take Eddie for a walk, but he is strangely subdued – he doesn’t mark, doesn’t
sniff, doesn’t budge from my side.
Finally he releases a small burst of urine and we head back to the
campsite. I build a fire, make my
coffee, feed the dog - his night terrors
have apparently not affected his morning appetite.
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| Morning campfire |
By 5:30, my dog is slowly relaxing, drifting back to sleep
on the mat beside my chair near the fire.
Drips from the trees punctuate my notes as I scribble the memory of last
night’s storm. A light breeze freshens
the damp air and a spot of blue appears between the white puffs of cloud. Mist rises from the mountains, and squirrels
seek crumbs from my granola bar. Spring flowers are in bloom everywhere, though the calendar says it is summer.
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| Trees tower above our campsite |
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| Flowers bloom around the campsite |
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| Excuse me? May I have some of your granola bar? |
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| A towhee provides a morning symphony |
The coffee is hot.
The fire is comforting. The dog
rests easy. The storm is over.
We are free once more, no longer held captive by the sounds of
hell.
