Weather or not

As a teenager I was active in the Boy Scouts and as such was no stranger to camping in some of the south's many fine state parks and other outward areas.

By the time I was nearing the end of high school; my parents had gained such confidence in my outdoor abilities that they would allow me to camp unsupervised with friends, convinced we would take up such ambitious routes and locations we'd have no time to try to buy a case of beer to take with us.

They were right. We prided ourselves on brutal days of hiking or paddling, determined to cover in one or two days what guidebooks or rangers said would take three or four.

And so one weekend my friend Scott and I headed for Big Hill Pond State Park, a few hours drive from my Tennessee home. Before we left we gave a quick glance at the weather forecast for the weekend. "Chance of precipitation: 0%," it read.

"How audacious," I thought as I pulled my rain gear out of my pack and placed it safely on the floor of my bedroom.

Needless to say, the rain the next night was biblical in both its intensity and amount. The temperature hovered around 40 - much lower than the advertised mid-60's - and my hands still haven't recovered. Breaking camp was arduous and hiking was worse.

It was eight miles back to the car, a few of which were through - and this name is not made up - Dismal Swamp.

The lesson I took from this trip was that predicting the weather is a bunch of hooey and that anyone who watched the Weather Channel with near-religious fervency (my parents) was a fool. I would look up, open my door or make an otherwise educated guess based on the time of year and the location, but beyond that I was no longer falling for the weatherman's ruse.

But oh, how things change. I moved to Montana and became a skier. Here, where people say "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes," I became a slave to the forecasters. A class that touched on meteorology only served to strengthen my rediscovered love and soon I was on the computer before I had cereal in my bowl most winter mornings, jonesing to find out whether the snow would fly.

Yet here I am, betrayed again by promises of weekend accumulation and dropping temperatures when all I have is the pitter-patter of rain on the patio.

I've learned my lesson, though. Tomorrow morning I'll at least pour the raisin bran before I check the snow report.

—Alex Strickland