A summer camped out in a fire lookout on a peak gives me breezy company. On this plateau that means mostly the daily presence of winds named after the Greek gods of the south and west: Notus and Zephyr. These changeable companions amuse me when I step onto the catwalk to blow bubbles, startle me when a 40 mph burst charges past my door, and lure me in to musing about their absence when I lean out from the catwalk at dusk and listen to the delicate hum from steep slopes where aspen leaves gently flutter and pine needles vibrate.
Wind cuffs me on the head when fire season begins early in May with winter still lurking at 9,000 feet. For the first few weeks I am never without my coat with gloves in the pockets and a wind helmet, the best thing I ever bought at a yard sale: a handful of polypro shaped like a skull. I feel like the captain on the deck in high seas gripping the railing, but with proper layers, gloves and my wind helmet, I don’t go rigid getting up the steps.
By June the nights and days are no longer frigid, but now the wind increasingly ramps up tension about fires. The dry woods lose moisture with every moment of wind stroking. The trees begin to feel crispy like those pale empty shells cicadas leave behind on bark. Low RH and higher temperatures creates overtime—days and days of it—as everyone is on duty poised to discover and then leap on smokes, hoping to keep a tenth acre of flame, or an acre, five acres even, from blowing up and becoming the next headline in the news.
One recent morning the wind and I played a listening game in the gray predawn. In the calm hour before first light I stilled myself in my sleeping bag, barely breathing, not wanting the whistling of my nose hairs to interfere with the sounds arriving one by one: a bird cry in a canyon to the north, another following closer downstairs. Next two voices blend and a then a different note sounds in a treetop nearby. Oh, that’s the sharp burst of a Clark’s nutcracker. Then a chickadee. Then multiple voices pulsing. Pauses. Then, as if the throats of birds were responsible for waking up the skies, a low moan of wind curls around the glass windows of the lookout. More birds. Wind again. If the sun was singing, I wonder as I rise to peer at its arrival over the Hopi mesas, what voice would it use? Sharp notes of a jay? Or raven gurgle. Multi-syllabic ah of the wind perhaps, that “A” note that slides around this peak making me think of an orchestra tuning.
Winds less than 20 mph make pleasant company for kite flying. The $2 Space Shuttle-looking plastic kite from the drugstore flies easiest: toss one over the railing and let out string and it dances until it finds the current that tugs and sends it out over the treetops. The $20 dragon kite from World Market wants a steady sturdy lift of wind. I like to fly it when winds are from the north so its six feet of purple tail snaps and dances between the lookout and the profile of the San Francisco Peaks.
And yes wind can be annoying. A week of red-flag gusts to 50 and 60 mph makes me edgy. I feel my teeth clench into stoic rigor mortis. I resent navigating the three flights of stairs and 25 steps to the outhouse. I long for the cave of a movie theater in town or a living room couch with curtains drawn: any place without howling. I know the monsoons will bring a shift, but when?
In July I’ll feel hosed down by wind as towering cumulus collapse into downdrafts of thunderstorms that throw rain and hail against the windows. In August weather might sweep clouds up against the lookout, stir fog into the morning, and drench the dirt road with rain an inch at a time. By September I’m back to gloves again as I bring books, watercolors and toys down the steps to put into storage for the next season; then I’ll raise my inner sail as the air shifts and sends me elsewhere, away from peak top and wind voice, bird call and the still small brushing against my arms of the planet turning.
