High Uintas' lightning possesses an eerie, hollow, echoing quality, like a rock skipped into a corrugated steel culvert. On a bowhunting trip late last August, I jammed my fingers in my ears in a tent because I was sure my eardrums would burst from flashes so hot and close the thunder vibrated in my stomach and on the ground. Squinting with my eyes shut, the flashes were still vivid white bursts that left my incandescent watch hot-charged and glowing white, even under the blankets. My father scurried to the safety of his truck, a wise decision. The storms came in wave after wave.
Lightning is beautiful and horrifying, like a well-crafted sword wielded by a madman.
The tent was in a small meadow rimmed by trees at 9,000-plus feet, and it felt as if the mountains were holding us up toward the heavenly fire like a sacrifice. There is good news. A grove of trees is relatively safe, if it is not too small or standing alone on high ground, as long as taller trees are carefully avoided. Rubber tires interfere with that connection. The critical ground connection provides the path so that the ions can flow both ways.