But, photography could, perhaps, come close. Jim trips the shutter on another photograph and then quickly glances up at the menacing sky. We have climbed out of the valley and onto the high plateau of Thousand Island Lake just as a thunderstorm prowls over the peaks from the west, clouds as gray as rock, the wind restless and indecisive. The air, even at this elevation, seems thick, heavy as a wet rag. The light has a tinge of green.
Lightning begins to flicker ahead, cracking the bowl of the sky.
A few low growls of thunder roll like rocks down the valley. The storm missed us. The sky clears. The sun breaks out as if in a crescendo. I sit on the bare rocks, dazed at our luck, while Jim frantically photographs the ever-changing light and the clouds disappearing as swiftly as flocks of birds.