Outrunning Thunderstorms in Nevada
Nevada teaches us a thing or two.
We ventured into our second U.S. state of the trip this week, and to be honest, we were not looking forward to it.
Don’t get me wrong. We very much looked forward to our end destination—Great Basin National Park and its famous Lehman Caves—but we weren’t excited about the drive. We were leaving from Mammoth Lakes, which meant we had to cross the entirety of northern Nevada to reach Great Basin. In other words, it would be a long drive.
Not that we mind long drives—we wouldn’t be out here at all if we did, would we?—but the only redeeming quality of any long drive is the scenery you pass through. And Nevada offers some of the most boring scenery you can come across. In our opinions.
But, oh man. Nevada had some surprises up her sleeve.
First, the scenery wasn’t as dull as we remembered. All along our drive, Nevada’s vast desert floor swept up into spiny mountains in the distance, which poked their heads at an endless sky packed with massive, intricate clouds. I couldn’t look away from those clouds. Good thing Jason was driving.
In better moods than expected, we pulled up to our campsite at Sacramento Pass BLM Campground, about 20 minutes outside Great Basin, around 4 p.m. Within an hour, we’d parked the trailer, leveled it, unhitched, and gotten Catsby settled. That left me plenty of time to get in a workout before dinner. I headed outside with my dumbbells and yoga mat.
About halfway through my workout, I noticed those clouds rolling in again. Or really, I heard them.
The thunder sounded distant at first. Then it grew steadily louder over the next few minutes. Lightning shot down into the surrounding hills. Jason called to me from the trailer, a little anxiously, “Are you coming inside?”
I said no. A significant gap of silence followed every lightning strike. I knew the rule: For every second it takes you to hear thunder, the lightning is farther away. I couldn't remember exactly how far, but I guessed that a good distance stretched between me and the angriest part of the storm.1 I could finish my workout before it drew closer, if it would.
No more than five minutes later, another bolt of lightning cut through the sky overhead—and thunder immediately slapped my eardrums.
I snatched up my gear and got my ass inside.
We spent the rest of the evening huddled inside Holt, gawking at the streaks of lightning that cut down from the sky every few minutes. Rain pounded the roof, and thunder rumbled through Holt’s walls. It was our first time riding out a storm inside the trailer. And more than once, we found ourselves laughing.
It was as if Nevada had arched her brow at us and said, “Boring? Oh, I’ll show you boring.”
The sky cleared again by the next morning, when we headed into Great Basin for our tour of Lehman Caves. But that afternoon, the previous evening’s experience came barreling back into our minds when moody clouds rolled in again. We were on Wheeler Peak, making our way toward the Bristlecone Pine grove. And we didn’t feel good about the thunder rumbling closer and closer while we were at an elevation of 10,000 feet.
We turned our asses around and headed down the mountain.
Somewhere in the thunder, I’m sure I heard Nevada laughing at us as we went.
I looked it up afterwards. Thunder takes 5 seconds to travel a mile, according to the National Weather Service. I could hear thunder about 10–15 seconds after every lightning strike. I should have gotten my ass inside right away.