Snaking through the desert where I live are a couple of dry riverbeds, which I have frequently mentioned. Normally they’re not of much concern. In mid-summer when Monsoon is on, they become constant timing issues. The problem with dry riverbeds is that sometimes they’re rivers. In Monsoon it’s easy to find yourself on the wrong side of one.
Every afternoon I load the boys in the Jeep and we take a ride to Landlady’s to tend to her chickens. Normally I do this sometime between 4:30 and 5, just because that’s a convenient time. We’ve got it down to a routine. Jeep ride, tend Landlady’s chickens, come home, feed dogs, go out and tend my chickens while the dogs are eating. The boys are in favor of this routine. But during Monsoon the storms can interfere with the routine. This afternoon at 3:30 I happened to notice that I didn’t have an hour before something very wet was going to happen, so I’d better move the schedule up a bit.
Turned out I was a little late with that. As soon as the Jeep climbed to the top of the ridge I saw the leading edge of a squall line that was clearly bent on disrupting everybody’s routine, and it was already practically on top of us. I considered just going home, but if I did that I wouldn’t likely be able to go back later because I have to cross the wash to get there and dry riverbed no longer dry. And the chickens really do need to be fed, water checked, make sure they’re not killing one another, etc. So we jackrabbited.
By the time I got to Landlady’s chickenhouse it was raining pretty good. By the time we left it was pouring. We got back to the Lair, ran inside, and in less than two minutes the gullies on either side of the cabin started flowing. In another couple they were gushing.
I’ll bet you don’t have a waterfall in your front yard. 🙂
Then came the thunder, and my two big brave dogs wanted into my lap. And then the real rain started. And in the midst of that, I heard that rumbling/rushing sound that meant I’d done the right thing, because nobody would be driving to Landlady’s any time soon.
I live down in a little hollow where the wind usually isn’t much of a problem. Often – even usually – the desert outside my window is silent. And I’ve grown very unused to the sound of rushing water. So every now and then, when I’ve suddenly got a fast river fifty yards from my front door, it sounds very weird. It’s one thing when the gully ditches are flowing, that’s strange enough. But a big river is something else completely.
And now it’s three hours later, the sky is clear, and except for the mud you’d never know anything had happened.
“I’ll bet you don’t have a waterfall in your front yard. “
Technically, you’d win that bet.