The Annual Hail

I texted a warning to the crew. They are in wide-open country, and I had just read the Weather Service forecast. Hail was to hit the range crew hard today, and with hail comes thunder and lightning. And that can get really dangerous in the Big Open. 

I should have known better, given what date it was. When I recalled the memory that was nagging at me, I realized that hail was two days late. Today is June 11, and hail always hits on June 9. I say always, but I’ll put a limiter on that: for the past 4 years, hail has poured from the heavens on June 9. And it can get hairy.

I know, because I’ve been through it a few times. For a few moments, come with me as I put you on that saddle horse with an impending hailstorm at hand, and I think you’ll get the feel of exactly what I’m talking about. 

Picture this: you’re riding horseback alone on one end of a herd of black cattle strewn across the landscape like pepper on mashed potatoes. You’ve been watching the flash and rumble of a black cloud storm rolling its way toward you across the ranges, and you’ve done your part of pulling the herd down from the highest ridges. But you know you’re still simply a sitting duck in the wide open rolling expanse of treeless sagebrush and grass, and you know your number will soon come up.  

We’ve had crew members that had their hair stick up on end and their metal buckles and their horse gear start crackling and popping. It can get weird, that is for sure. Get down, and get low is the mantra with mountain t-storms.

Your bay mare that you’re on knows it too. She’s restless, and paws the ground as she whinnies nervously, calling to your nearest cowhand and horse that she sees over a half mile away. In the primed and pregnant silence, you can hear the mile-away roar of the freakish gale force wind before you feel it.

Mare gets even more nervous. Her ears prick, and she snorts. It occurs to you that she may buck. You grab a solid seat on her, and your legs clench her ribs and back, escalating her even more. 

You think about dismounting, but then you realize you’re probably never getting  back on her restless, high-stepping, nerve-racked form– and you know you’ll need her to keep up with the impending stampede of cattle, driven by wind.

The wind hits the far end of the herd first, sending them tail toward the storm…and towards you. Your inclination is just to simply get out of the way, but then you realize that you should probably turn them so that they don’t disappear off the breaks and ramparts of the canyon rims below you. Somebody could launch off those ledges and get badly hurt or killed.

Then, you too are slammed by wind. Your mare barely contains herself as you try to direct the herd, but a job is what she needs. You keep trying to check her back from a full gallop as everything in her tells her to run. 

Like the cattle. 

It’s then that you are aware of the chill of the wind. A few minutes ago, pre-wind, it was 90 degrees. This new air, propelled by a massive downdraft from a stratospheric 45,000 feet, temps at around 33. You’re now cold, and the last thing you would do is pull your wind-flapping slicker, or raincoat off your cantle on your already wind-crazed mare. You know that it would be the last straw. She would go ballistic–likely sending you into orbit in the process. 

So you freeze with cold. You’re shivering. Then the rain hits. It’s big drops of 33 degree water. The herd has reduced to a trot in the rain; you’re bending them away from the rocks. Your now-numb hands guide your mare along the herd; she’s not happy, but compliant. You reassure her; somehow she knows you got this. 

But then her ears screw back, and she pauses her gait. She hears something: a distant train perhaps–or jet. You let her stop– then you hear it too. You know there’s no trains for 200 miles. There’s no jet. The guttural and haunting roar ebbs and flows, delivered by a persistent wind. 

She shivers. At first you think it’s the cold. But it’s not. You know better. 

And she knows.

A gray curtain falls across the country, blocking the view, the vista that of nearby mountain ranges you’ve gotten used to. They give you your bearings–your sense of direction, a sort of de-facto global positioning system. And now, they are gone. The curtain moves over the hills, the cliffs, the arroyos like the black wave of a total eclipse. You are transfixed, and your mare stops, turns to face the spectacle, tail and mane streaked behind you in the stiff, incessant wind. Even your border collie watches as the opaque, knife-cut line of visibility races toward you over miles of rolling sage. 

To make matters worse, and even more unsettling is the sound. It’s a low roar; a sort of growl of wild emotion that the hail brings. It is the sound of millions of ice-rocks from the heavens, coming in at terminal velocity, pounding the ground. 

It is time to get off, and try to hold your horse from an absolute runaway. You swing your leg over, and pull saddle strings behind your cantle to free your oilskin duster. While throwing it over your shoulders, you grab a halter rope, and switch headstall and bit to rope around your mare’s head. 

And then it hits. Your mare rears up, and skitters around at the end of your rope. All you can do is try to calm her down, gently stroking her neck. Half to three quarter inch hailstones slam into you, your dog, the earth and your mare. They smack you in the face despite your hat brim, driven by incessant wind. You hear most but only see some cattle running, blindly, desperately trying to find shelter from hail.

You pray that the stones won’t get bigger. The horse finally goes to grin and bear, wincing at the nonstop drilling on her head. She hangs it low. You see the hail bouncing off the saddle, and know that the leather at least protects her back. As she holds, your border collie climbs under her belly, the only shelter from the storm. 

And right when you wonder how long you have to endure it, in just minutes, the curtain lifts. The hail passes. Invisible flies from you, uncovering a white range of hills, made winter for an hour. 

You pull your slicker, and mount up. You look down at your border pup, and his soaked, too-skinny tail slowly wags. In another few minutes, the sun hits. 

It’s time to find all the cattle and your crew. 

And you’ll always remember.

I know I did. I remember each time. These things get etched in the recesses of mind, and become easy to recall. We found all our cattle each time, even though it took hours. Nobody was worse for wear, except for an occasional black and blue mark when their hat blew off. 

Oh–and one more thing. I texted the crew after the storm cell slipped over to the other side of the wild ranges. I had been watching the black clouds from headquarters:

“Any hail?”

Cowhand Jed replied after an hour or so: “Nope. No hail today.”

I guess the cycle is broken. No more hail around the 9th of June. But maybe the hope is in vain. Maybe we’ll see payback this time next year.

Happy Trails.