I've been an outdoorsman all my life, but mostly in west Texas, where it's dry, and where cactus grows everywhere, and where scorpions and diamondback rattlesnakes are far from uncommon. However, I have close friends who have property in east Texas and where the talk about alligators and nutria is as equally far from uncommon.
I was visiting there one weekend when the sky darkened as deep gray clouds gathered above the towering (and violently swaying), hundred-foot plus pine trees, and the gusting breeze smelled of water. My nose does that, you know; loves the smell of rain. There’s not much rain in west Texas ... you know. When you’ve spent as much time in west Texas as I have, it's kind of like being thirsty all the time.
Anyway, I knew little about east Texas thunderstorms; and this one was a doozy.
Okay. Now imagine yourself taking a leisurely walk in the piney woods of east Texas. And try to imagine that you’re like me – you’re from west Texas. The humidity already has your nose stopped up and your clothes clinging to your skin.
Suddenly the sunny sky turns dark gray, almost angry. Then, the incredibly tall pine trees start to creak and groan as their tops are whipped by powerful, swirling winds that are, unbelievably, chilly.
Then it starts to rain. Big drops. The kind that sting when they hit your body. You dash for some kind of cover; find on outcrop under which you can crouch. And then the storm comes.