Rumbling

A great zot of lightning just nailed something across the street. I can't say what, since my back was turned, but the wall lit up, and in just the time it took me to tense up and flinch, the cannon shot of thunder shook the windows. I have an insatiable fascination with lightning. I'll drop just about anything I'm doing to watch it in all its flavors. From distant javelins stabbing the ground, to forkidy fingers scrambling across clouds overhead, to those frightening moments when it splits open the sky a few hundred feet away. When you see it strike that close, it's like peering inside the Vorlon's armor. It becomes a slippery, flowing, oily thing that scampers out of existence before you can grasp that it's there. I've strode through stands of ponderosas on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, and looked up to see 4 foot long splinters of lumber scattered recklessly in the limbs overhead. I remember absorbing myself in imagining the frightful moment that created that dangling mobile of destruction.

I started taking pictures of lightning right after I got my first 35 mm camera when I was 14. There was a certain advantage to doing that in Phoenix, as you could watch the storms moving in from miles away, so you had a chance to get ready and set up a spot. In Flagstaff, the storms pop up so randomly and fluctuate in and out of activity so quickly, that it's hard to catch the show in the right time and place. I've gotten a few good pictures here, but I'm anxious to get out to the Grand Canyon and fish for some keepers one of these days. The vistas are so broad that it's hard not to frame a good shot when some good storms are brewing. The only problem is you don't have the nearby protection of your car when your hiking around the rim trails. The last time I was there during the monsoons was years ago, but I got some pictures I really liked--I also got the crap scared out of me. I'll scan them and put them up in the Fancies section as soon as I get a chance.