Cloudbursts arrive without warning in the Virginia Appalachians, turning quiet sidewalks and mountain trails into rushing rivers within moments. For our family, these sudden storms have brought equal parts danger, laughter, and unforgettable adventure—along with a deeper appreciation for the firefly-lit beauty waiting after the rain.
The Sidewalk Surprise
We’re out on the sidewalk with our chalks in the sunshine, unsuspecting and innocent. My daughter adds a final petal to her flower, and I lean back on my palms, toes in the grass. I hear my neighbors on their front porch shout, “Look out! Here it comes!” My eyes flick upward, and I see it. A literal wall of water, racing up the sidewalk toward us.
We are new transplants from the west, and have never experienced eastern summer cloudbursts. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. There was no thunder, no preliminary sprinkle, not even a low, threatening cloud. It reminds me instead of a comical downpour in a cartoon: the sky unzips over some unsuspecting soul, dumping a pillar of floodwater. The only thing missing is the giant zipper.
“You better run!” Warn the neighbors. I come to my senses just as the rain hits. We cover the 20 feet to the front door in four seconds, and are drenched to the skin. We stand dripping on the porch, listening to the roar of the rain, which isn’t loud enough to cover the roar of laughter coming from the neighboring porch. We laugh along with them as we catch our breath, and watch the chalks dissolve into rainbow puddles. Welp, it cut the humidity quite a bit. I admit, I have a little trouble enjoying the drier air as I ring the water from my shirt.
Racing the River at Saint Mary’s
In the years since that first cloudburst, we’ve been caught in many more in the Virginia Appalachians. We have a particular proclivity for fighting the rain whilst taking in a day hike. You’d think we’d learn to check the weather forecast more closely, but in a neurospicy family, impulsivity trumps the plan.
I recall a few summers ago hiking Saint Mary’s Wilderness trail. We’d been enjoying the swimming hole at the peak of the trail for a few minutes when a thunderclap shook the smiles off our faces and sent us scrambling for shelter. It was apparent after a bit that we were in for a long storm and needed to head back down the trail before the river rose.
The five of us formed up single file, military-style: Mom in the front, three kids in the middle, Dad running the six. We double-timed it down the mountain, wiping water from our eyes, and were up to our shins in minutes as the flowing waters converged on the trail. Thunderclaps sounded more often, and more closely. I tried not to think about what might be swimming about our ankles as we plunged on.
Even with 10-year-old Bella along, we made the 2-hour hike back in 45 minutes, with the water up to our knees for the last half mile. It was an adventure we’ll not soon forget, and I made sure to ask God to thank our particular team of guardian angels for their overtime efforts that day. I have a feeling we’re in for a few whoopings on the other side. It can’t be fun taking the Jacobson shift.
A Hillbilly’s Garden of Eden
Summer in the Appalachians is extreme in many ways: rain, humidity, heat, wildlife, and beauty. Take in a sparkle of fireflies over an alfalfa field in late June. Did you know a swarm of fireflies is called a sparkle? It’s as if God is shaking a can of heavenly glitter over his grazing grounds, just to make me smile. And suddenly the wet is all worth it, here in a hillbilly’s Garden of Eden.
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