TALES WE TELL

When first I came to man’s estate, Hey, ho the wind and the rain, ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, And the rain it raineth every day. — William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

Someone once suggested that rain is the oldest sound to strike the porches of man’s ears. I like the image, especially the porches of the ears. I liked it the first time I read it, in Hamlet when I was a boy.

A nice image aside, I’m not sure rain qualifies as the oldest sound. If, as I understand, we evolved on the African plains, then I should think wind would be the older sound. Whatever the case, we and rain go back a very long way.

What’s certain is that little vegetation can grow without it, and we could not survive for long. I’ve read that the known record of a human surviving without water is 11 days. My dogs don’t seem able to go much more than eight hours without filling their tanks at the water bowl, but this could be the result of a pampered lifestyle. Some gamebirds – quail, for instance – can get along nicely on the moisture from dew, but only at certain times of year. Not much dew collects around here in winter.

So, rain is nature’s replenisher, helped along in certain parts of the world by snowmelt. Rain, fog, hail, sleet, snow and ice are all water in different forms, and without water we and everything we know would perish.

The moisture cycle is a wonderfully self-contained system. Like any other sort of matter, water can neither be created nor destroyed; it simply changes form. It cannot escape the atmospheric envelope, so Earth owns just as much water now as it ever did. Whether it’s usable is another question, but it’s still here nonetheless.

Which of course doesn’t stop the hothouse lilies who’ve spent virtually their whole lives under some sort of roof from bitching about rain or from scurrying around in it as if terrified of melting should a single drop actually touch their skins, much less their precious hair. I say, bad-hair days and nifty business suits be damned. Rain is too important to us – and besides, no amount of whining and complaining ever stopped it from falling.

Apart from fulfilling an absolute physical need, rain touches our spirits as well. It’s soothing to watch, even when you’re stuck right out in the middle of it, and even better to hear. I love to smell it and feel it on my face. And rain does have a distinctive smell, one I can only describe as “rainy.” It’s the smell of sweet fresh water, of wet grass and leaves. The first patter of rain on dry ground has its own distinctive smell, one my mother always described – rightly, I believe – as “wet dust.” It doesn’t last long, only until the dust turns to mud, but it’s one of nature’s sensuous gifts.

Truth to tell, I’d actually rather hunt in a light, still rain than on a dry day when a high wind clashes the treetops. On those days some birds change their habits. Ruffed grouse head for low ground, often at the margin of a swamp, and burrow into the grass. Bobwhites forsake their usual edge habitat to find overhead cover. I assume all the background noise interferes with their ability to hear approaching danger. And make no mistake: Gamebirds rely heavily upon their sense of hearing. Ever walk into a patch of cover and see pheasants boiling out the other end before you’ve gone 20 feet? They heard you coming from the moment you got out of the car.

Gentle rain absorbs sound and doesn’t appear to set the birds on edge. I once walked right up on a pair of ruffed grouse hunkered in a patch wood fern alongside a trail. And I got to see one of the most beautiful, haunting sights in all of grouse hunting – a true double flush. They came up in a shower of spray and started off at shallow angles to one another. Both startled and mystified, I did what we usually do under the circumstances; that is, failed to focus on one bird and shot right between them. I probably could’ve hit one with the second barrel, but didn’t fire it, only stood and watched them disappear.

Thinking back, I believe it all worked out in the best way. Certainly, the memory couldn’t be any more vivid now than it would if I’d killed them both. I’ve seen some double flushes since, but none that touches me quite as deeply as the image of those two Minnesota birds in the rain. It serves to remind me why I am a hunter.

I’ve found some good quail hunting in soft rain or drizzle, though the little guys can dig into brush and grass deeply enough that you need to nearly step on them to get them out. At those times, a good dog is doubly valuable. Hunting pheasants in rain is about the same. Hunting them in thick fog is an exercise that resides somewhere between the ridiculous and the sublime. The birds are usually where you’d expect them to be, but it’s a game of glimpses; you hear the wings and might or might not get a good visual lock before they simply vanish into a curtain impenetrable to sight. Sometimes, all you can do is grin and shake your head and feel thankful for being there in the first place.

Fishing in the rain can be just as enjoyable, if a bit more problematic. Fish don’t seem to mind a very light rainfall and sometimes feed on the surface in spite of it. I don’t know how they feel about snatching what they thought was an insect and getting a raindrop instead, but like puppies, they seem ever hopeful.

A heavier rain puts them down. About all you can do is tie on a weighted nymph and hope you’re offering what they want wherever they’re looking for it.

The real problem has more to do with the air than with the water. The first rumble of thunder, no matter how distant, puts me down. Then it’s time to pack up and get the hell out, as I have no wish to stand under a thunderstorm waving a nine-foot graphite lightning rod. I’ve been as close to lightning as I ever care to be – on golf courses and once even in my grandmother’s kitchen. Scary stuff.

If I had to choose a favorite among all the ways we can interact with rain, I believe I’d opt for using what’s left of my hearing. There’s nothing quite as calming as the sound of rain, especially if I can listen from someplace snug and dry. Drumming a rooftop or pelting against the windows, rain is the ultimate background for falling asleep.

I feel especially fortunate to live surrounded by cornfields, because rain on the leaves adds a dimension all its own. I suspect relatively few would envy this because of the solitude, but I love it for exactly that reason. I’ve heard enough man-made noise to last a lifetime.

If you really want to hear rain at its best, listen from inside a tent, preferably one with a good rain fly. There, a thunderstorm replete with lightning is a grand light show. Back when I spent days and days canoeing the beautiful rivers of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas I got to spend a lot of rainy nights in my tents – first a snug A-frame by Coleman and later a more spacious, dome-style abode from North Face. I never spent a wet night in either of them.

Some words to the wise about this: Don’t buy a tent that doesn’t have a rain fly, and don’t wait till the rain starts before putting it on. Either way, you won’t like the result.

Everyone who’s spent much time outdoors has his own rain stories to tell. Some will be evocative, some funny and others tales of woe. Regardless, they all weave together into a tapestry that represents common, shared experience. Rain can make for some odd bedfellows, as the saying goes. I once shared the shelter of a rocky overhang with two dogs, a snake, a couple of songbirds and possibly the largest spider I’ve ever seen this side of a tarantula. That place was his home, but he didn’t seem to mind. We all gave one another respectful space – except the dogs, who wanted to huddle against me.

Perhaps there’s more to appreciate about rain than the simple fact that we couldn’t live without it.