When did our camping trip at Toroweap all start to go wrong? I don't know - maybe we misinterpreted the earlier harbingers of doom (the buzzards, Stephen feeling sick, fire ants biting me with their fiery biting bites).
It was late by the time we made our supper over the campfire (thanks, Mountain House freeze-dried foods!). Stephen stumbled over a tree trunk in the dark, falling on his face and sending chunks of his yummy-smelling chicken dinner flying everywhere. Great. Now we can expect the coyote to come back.
We'd been alternating between watching the stars start to come out, and watching the light from faraway thunderstorms on the south side of the Grand Canyon. Looks like several different storms, actually. Impressive lightshow, very far away - which was how we were hoping it would stay. Then we noticed that the stars were disappearing - clouds were moving in. Uh oh.
We climbed into our tent, apprehensively noting the increasing amount of lightning. Hmm. The tree that had once seemed a friendly source of shade for our tent now seemed to be a rather dangerous lightning rod. When the wind picked up significantly and the storm was obviously moving in fast, Stephen and I bailed from the tent and ran for the vehicle. Wind and lightning.
There was so much lightning, so much closer than I usually see it. So much closer than I want to see it. And, during one of the lightning strikes, Stephen noticed the tent was moving, so he turned on the car lights to get a better look. Our tent was starting to fly away on us. The campsites are rock and sand, and you can't use the tent pegs consistently (too many rocky surfaces below). We jumped out of the vehicle, grabbed four large stones and threw one in each corner of the tent to hold it in place, then ran back to the car. That worked for a while, but the tent was leaning over like the Tower of Pisa, and Stephen decided we'd be better off collapsing the tent completely rather than let it get blown to pieces.
So, out again loosen the poles, throw another rock on top of the deflated tent, then run back to the vehicle again (because there's lightning everywhere, and we're on the high ground next to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Really not the best place to be during a thunderstorm). We back the vehicle up a little bit, just to put some distance between us and thelightning rod tree.
And then it starts to rain. I don't want rain. I really don't want rain. That 62 mile road we drove in on? It can wash out in the rain, which would mean no way out.
But it was most definitely raining, and now we had a flattened tent, which meant we were going to be sleeping in the car (if you can really sleep while waiting to die by a lightning strike). I spent my time counting the distance between lightning and thunder to determine the distance, although it wasn't a comforting pastime. Way too close.
It was stifling hot in the car. Sometimes, we'd open the window a bit, if it wasn't raining too much, or if the lightning wasn't too near. Other times, Stephen would just start the vehicle, run the A/C for a while and turn on the headlights to peek at our sad little deflated tent.
Every now and again, Stephen would say, "I think the storm is passing." I'd tell him to shut up, because he was jinxing us, and sure enough, two minutes later, there'd be another crack of thunder and another onslaught of rain.
I don't want to be hit by lightning. I have lots of potato chips to live on, but I don't want to be stranded at Tuweep. Right now, I'd happily take that dingy little hotel room in Fredonia, complete with partying Mexicans.
Have you ever tried sleeping in a car? Sure you have. One stuffed to the gills with camping gear, so that you can't recline the seat very far? How about a car sitting high on the cliffs while three (or four) thunderstorms roll through? It's profoundly uncomfortable. It's worse than an airplane. (Although maybe not worse than an airplane in a storm - I'm not sure about that one.)
I am cursing the thunderstorms for being here, cursing them for not moving on, cursing Arizona for it's fantastically bad forecast of "30% chance of thunderstorms." 30%, my ass! There's a whole row of them lined up! How could you not see that coming?
It rained for at least two hours. I can't sleep, so I just alternate uncomfortable positions. Even so, I think when you're that tired, you get little microsleeps - no deep restful sleep, but I keep imagining that I was escaping Toroweap. A helpful ranger tells me to pull into the visitor centre or something like that. And then there's another bolt of lightning, and the more awake part of my brain reminds me that no, there's no visitor centre. There's no paved road. There's no building (unless you want to hide in the outhouse).
It was around 11 p.m. when we first retreated to the car. By 3 a.m., there's a break in between storms, and Stephen and I get out to pack up what we can of our ruined camp. The tent is soaked, as is one of the sleeping bags. There's still lightning flashing around, so Stephen hangs the tent pieces and the sleeping bag in a tree to hopefully dry out, and we go back into the car.
By 4 a.m., it seems there's only one faraway storm left floating around out there.
By 5 a.m., I'm thinking the sun can't rise quickly enough for me. I want to get out of here. I hope the roads will LET me get out of here.
By 6 a.m., the sun has finally risen. We're both up, and gathering our things together. Neither of us has slept, and we feel like crap. Across the campsite, I can see the other people's tent has also disappeared - either it took off on them, or they also dismantled it and hid in their car.
Our original plan was to do a few hikes before leaving Toroweap, but since we've slept a combined total of about two hours, that's not going to happen. We stagger around like zombies, pack everything up and decide to try to get out. I'm all stressed out and tired, and it's a million times slower driving out. Once we're out of the rocky section, we still can't relax, since it's the 25 miles of flood plains we're worried about.
However, it's encouraging when we see a truck coming from the other direction. He pulls over, and it's an Arizona Game & Fish department truck - he tells us that the roads are a bit muddy but we won't have any trouble getting through. Whew! Now we can start breathing again. Fortunately, the storm must have followed the canyon, rather than moving inland to the flood plains.
Still, we're not happy until we're back on the main highway. It takes us about three hours to drive out, but finally we're back to paved roads.
You know what? I like National Parks, and I like well-maintained roads. I think I'm done with primitive roads and back country. It's too freaking stressful if I think I can't get out.
And I still think I'm going to kill (or at least kick) a weatherman.
It was late by the time we made our supper over the campfire (thanks, Mountain House freeze-dried foods!). Stephen stumbled over a tree trunk in the dark, falling on his face and sending chunks of his yummy-smelling chicken dinner flying everywhere. Great. Now we can expect the coyote to come back.
We'd been alternating between watching the stars start to come out, and watching the light from faraway thunderstorms on the south side of the Grand Canyon. Looks like several different storms, actually. Impressive lightshow, very far away - which was how we were hoping it would stay. Then we noticed that the stars were disappearing - clouds were moving in. Uh oh.
We climbed into our tent, apprehensively noting the increasing amount of lightning. Hmm. The tree that had once seemed a friendly source of shade for our tent now seemed to be a rather dangerous lightning rod. When the wind picked up significantly and the storm was obviously moving in fast, Stephen and I bailed from the tent and ran for the vehicle. Wind and lightning.
There was so much lightning, so much closer than I usually see it. So much closer than I want to see it. And, during one of the lightning strikes, Stephen noticed the tent was moving, so he turned on the car lights to get a better look. Our tent was starting to fly away on us. The campsites are rock and sand, and you can't use the tent pegs consistently (too many rocky surfaces below). We jumped out of the vehicle, grabbed four large stones and threw one in each corner of the tent to hold it in place, then ran back to the car. That worked for a while, but the tent was leaning over like the Tower of Pisa, and Stephen decided we'd be better off collapsing the tent completely rather than let it get blown to pieces.
So, out again loosen the poles, throw another rock on top of the deflated tent, then run back to the vehicle again (because there's lightning everywhere, and we're on the high ground next to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Really not the best place to be during a thunderstorm). We back the vehicle up a little bit, just to put some distance between us and the
And then it starts to rain. I don't want rain. I really don't want rain. That 62 mile road we drove in on? It can wash out in the rain, which would mean no way out.
But it was most definitely raining, and now we had a flattened tent, which meant we were going to be sleeping in the car (if you can really sleep while waiting to die by a lightning strike). I spent my time counting the distance between lightning and thunder to determine the distance, although it wasn't a comforting pastime. Way too close.
It was stifling hot in the car. Sometimes, we'd open the window a bit, if it wasn't raining too much, or if the lightning wasn't too near. Other times, Stephen would just start the vehicle, run the A/C for a while and turn on the headlights to peek at our sad little deflated tent.
Every now and again, Stephen would say, "I think the storm is passing." I'd tell him to shut up, because he was jinxing us, and sure enough, two minutes later, there'd be another crack of thunder and another onslaught of rain.
I don't want to be hit by lightning. I have lots of potato chips to live on, but I don't want to be stranded at Tuweep. Right now, I'd happily take that dingy little hotel room in Fredonia, complete with partying Mexicans.
Have you ever tried sleeping in a car? Sure you have. One stuffed to the gills with camping gear, so that you can't recline the seat very far? How about a car sitting high on the cliffs while three (or four) thunderstorms roll through? It's profoundly uncomfortable. It's worse than an airplane. (Although maybe not worse than an airplane in a storm - I'm not sure about that one.)
I am cursing the thunderstorms for being here, cursing them for not moving on, cursing Arizona for it's fantastically bad forecast of "30% chance of thunderstorms." 30%, my ass! There's a whole row of them lined up! How could you not see that coming?
It rained for at least two hours. I can't sleep, so I just alternate uncomfortable positions. Even so, I think when you're that tired, you get little microsleeps - no deep restful sleep, but I keep imagining that I was escaping Toroweap. A helpful ranger tells me to pull into the visitor centre or something like that. And then there's another bolt of lightning, and the more awake part of my brain reminds me that no, there's no visitor centre. There's no paved road. There's no building (unless you want to hide in the outhouse).
It was around 11 p.m. when we first retreated to the car. By 3 a.m., there's a break in between storms, and Stephen and I get out to pack up what we can of our ruined camp. The tent is soaked, as is one of the sleeping bags. There's still lightning flashing around, so Stephen hangs the tent pieces and the sleeping bag in a tree to hopefully dry out, and we go back into the car.
By 4 a.m., it seems there's only one faraway storm left floating around out there.
By 5 a.m., I'm thinking the sun can't rise quickly enough for me. I want to get out of here. I hope the roads will LET me get out of here.
By 6 a.m., the sun has finally risen. We're both up, and gathering our things together. Neither of us has slept, and we feel like crap. Across the campsite, I can see the other people's tent has also disappeared - either it took off on them, or they also dismantled it and hid in their car.
Our original plan was to do a few hikes before leaving Toroweap, but since we've slept a combined total of about two hours, that's not going to happen. We stagger around like zombies, pack everything up and decide to try to get out. I'm all stressed out and tired, and it's a million times slower driving out. Once we're out of the rocky section, we still can't relax, since it's the 25 miles of flood plains we're worried about.
However, it's encouraging when we see a truck coming from the other direction. He pulls over, and it's an Arizona Game & Fish department truck - he tells us that the roads are a bit muddy but we won't have any trouble getting through. Whew! Now we can start breathing again. Fortunately, the storm must have followed the canyon, rather than moving inland to the flood plains.
Still, we're not happy until we're back on the main highway. It takes us about three hours to drive out, but finally we're back to paved roads.
You know what? I like National Parks, and I like well-maintained roads. I think I'm done with primitive roads and back country. It's too freaking stressful if I think I can't get out.
And I still think I'm going to kill (or at least kick) a weatherman.
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