An Ode to Rain

Wasatch Magazine

I had this idea to write about rain one gloomy morning when I stepped out my door to go to the train. As I felt the moisture surround my face, and a chill absorb my fingers, I began the walk. The sound of the tip-tap of rain drops on the hood of my coat was broken only by the splash as my feet stepped between puddles. Every inhale of the cold damp air tingled my nostrils, and the subsequent exhale fogged up my glasses. As I looked past the bustling of State St, the usual mountains that painted the backdrop of my commute were hidden by clouds walking close to the Earth. I felt lazy, or maybe I felt calm. It often is hard to tell the difference.

I knew that day I wouldn’t be climbing in Little Cottonwood, or going for a run, I’d be bundled up inside, watching the rain drops burst on impact with the window. This thought would normally upset me, because like a squirrel – or more accurately an odd desert lizard; I can’t, nor want to, stop moving. From the time the sun comes up I like to spend it scampering around my day. But for some reason I wasn’t irritated; I’ve come to realize that I enjoy rain a lot, and the temporary pause it brings.

Unlike the heat of summer or the snow of winter, the rains of spring bring very little utility to us itching to get outside. There isn’t a sport that gets particularly better with rain like there is snow or sun. However, there are plenty of sports that get worse: eroding sandstone, and trails, or turning the once great powder to slush. Because of that, we are forced to stop, and with that stop can come thought. When I am forced to not climb outside, I am then allowed to think of why I love to climb outside so much. Only in the absence of the good things we love to do, can we fully appreciate them.

Rain in the Southwest carries with it a melancholy yet somehow bright vibe. It is a rarity. Not only does it bring with it every old person in your neighborhood saying, “oh but we need the moisture” every chance they get, but it also comes seldom enough that our senses never get used to it. In the same way that my throat may not realize how dry the air it inhales is, my nose and head vividly feel whenever a cloud is about to let go of its rain. I will never (for as long as I live here) get used to the smell of dew on grass, or the sound of rain hitting my windshield. The fact that rain can bring about such a powerful tyrant to my senses blows my mind.

As the Salt Lake valley heads into the shoulder season, and we prepare for the balmy sun and 90-degree days, I can’t help but feel excited. To climb, hike, run, and swim. But before we can enjoy it, we will likely be forced into a moment of introspection and rest, as our trails turn to mud and water trickles down our boulders. The spring comes, and with it a reminder to rest.