Читать книгу Shaped by Snow. Defending the Future of Winter онлайн

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Then my grandfather called again, reporting that another brief storm had hit, this time with lightning.

“Where are these storms?” I asked as my father hung up.

But even as I spoke we heard the barest growl of thunder, without any hint at which direction it came from. We gathered our things. My dad thought he remembered a path that could get us back faster, but didn’t quite know where it started or the state it was in. My mother and I shared skeptical glances; my dad was notorious for convincing people to follow him on a “shortcut” and then winding up on a cliff band or stuck in a marsh, a scenario we lovingly call “Bounousabuse.” When he admitted there might be some bushwhacking involved to find the trail, my mother and I decided not to chance it.

Wishing us good luck a few minutes later, he took off down the left side of the lake while we headed right, starting our climb as the barest hints of the storm began peering over the ridgeline.

When my mother is determined, or frightened, she can set a pace that even men with much longer legs than her have trouble keeping up with. Panting, I kept my head down, focusing on the trail, wiping sweat from my brow every few minutes. The sun continued to press down on us, and each time I looked up the gray clouds seemed to be perched right on top of the ridgeline, not yet spilling into the basin. But the thunder was growing louder.