July's Grand Finale

I have a story to tell you. The characters in this story are: My dad, my little brother, and my cousin, Karen.
 Karen and I woke up late Saturday morning knowing that option 1 was already out of the question. We’d slept past early, which meant that our yearly trek to the top of Leon peak would be postponed until after the motorcycle rally. We walked along main street waiting for the clean and sober bikers to cruise by on their Harley Davidsons, flashing their chrome, and sporting full body leather. Before we could see them, we heard the putt putt putt pop of the engines, and when they finally zoomed in they greeted our waves with waves in return and tossed tootsie rolls, calculators, and adhesive body jewels toward us. Before we knew it they were gone. Not to be seen again until next year. How many were there? Hundreds.
The drive home alerted us of the ominous weather situation at the top of the mesa. A gigantic thunderhead loomed over the highest part of the highest peak. Our hike it seemed was to be doomed, or put off even longer. When we arrived at home. We called the hike, it was far to dangerous to be at the top of a bare mountain during a storm. After an hour or so, and a diversion of community pie and ice cream. The clouds had cleared a little and an adventure was seeming much more possible. So we threw our worries to the same wind that had blown the storm away and embarked.
PART II
Leon Lake was glassy blue green and cold to touch. Grey clouds hovered unthreateningly. The forest was thick, the undergrowth lovely, the path steep. As we hiked, the occasional mushroom caught our attention until we had collected two lovely sacks full of chanterels and porcini. The higher we climbed, the thicker the clouds became. Until, as we neared the summit the sky was dark grey and teeming. Every moment it became darker. Thunder cackled threateningly around us. The moment we reached the fire lookout, at the highest point of the mountain rain started to fall in heavy drops splattering our clothes and soaking our hair. My dad struggled with the radio transmitter that was the reason for our climb. After 5 minutes the radio was securely hanging above us from heavy wooden logs placed decades ago atop this barren peak. Lightning flashed and we hastened down the vast and slippery boulder fields that make up the mountain. Painted with lichen, bubbling, and even red, it seemed that some of the rocks had only just cooled from the explosion that formed them millions of years ago. We kept slightly off the ridge to avoid being struck by lightning. The crashing thunder was deafening and scary. As we descended down into the saddle we found a small crevice in the rock where we could be safe from the lightning and possibly wait for the storm to pass so we could safely traverse the rest of the mountain. The minutes passed, even the crevice became wet and we decided to move on despite the storm. Every step required attention. The slick rocks rocked back and forth, but carefully we climbed down and found the small path that would lead us to dryness and warmth. When we reached the lake at which we had begun 30 minutes before nightfall. We cleaned our muddy hands and feet in the dark water of the lake and warmed our clammy hands in the depths. Though it had been cold before, the frozen lake called to us like a warm bath. When we reached the car, the lovely warm car, we turned the heat on high and wound our way down washboard roads toward home.
THE END