Lightning struck our house when we lived down in the city too. Our neighbor's HAM radio tower drew the most strikes, but our house was not completely protected. One night, after being woken by a close strike, I was just about to crawl out of my waterbed -- not really sure it was the safest place to be -- when the entire bedroom lit up with a blue-white light and a deafening crack froze me with one leg out of my bed. I literally froze in shock for a moment before I could crawl to my parents' room to find my sister already there.

Lightning is the most dangerous threat at altitude. Exposure above timberline means that lightning is more likely to kill mountain climbers than falls. I've been on a mountain -- leading a youth group, mind you -- and had lightning strike below me in the valley less than a mile away. That gets your attention!

People climb mountains in the morning here in Colorado, even if the hike only takes a few hours. There's plenty of good reasons to do this, but the chief reason is avoiding the monsoon thunderstorms that spring up after 2 PM. Fluffy, harmless clouds at noon become menacing and evil after 3 or even earlier, depending on the weather patterns. The last place you want to be is above treeline, out in the open with only a rock to crawl under.


That's exactly what happened to my dad and I when we climbed Mt. Princeton, one of the Collegiate Peaks in central Colorado. Our late start, combined with our ignorance of the weather forecast, put us in a position that no one would ever dare volunteer for. We had climbed all but 300 vertical feet to the summit when a large cloud crossed over the summit and headed right down our side. The rocks began to hum like high-tension power lines. You could literally hear the buzzing all around you. Rather than risk broken limbs with an emergency descent -- similar to "controlled" falling -- we opted to shelter under a rocky outcropping. This was not as wise as you might think, but it was the only thing we could think of to do.

The buzzing got louder, meaning more and more electrons were humming around us. We knew we were in real trouble. Then all of the sudden, the buzzing drained away as if someone had turned down the lights. And then -- Ba-BOOM! -- lightning struck somewhere near us, turning everything a purple pink hue. Then the buzzing returned, only to drain away again for another explosive lightning strike nearby. This kept up for what honestly felt like forever with all the adrenaline running through our bodies. My head was covered with a poncho (rain gear), but the hair that was uncovered stuck straight out from my head. That and my entire body was strangely resisting my brain's commands to move. It was terrifying. We were praying. We were reciting scripture. We were making promises, pleading with God to get us out of this storm alive.

God had mercy. The buzzing lessened, and the storm moved off and into the valley below us. My dad stood up and looked back at the peak. Now, any sane person would have simply counted his blessings, turned around and beat a quick retreat from the mountain. My father, however, is not a sane man, at least not when you get him in the mountains and put a goal like this so very close. He said, "Steve, I can see the summit cairn. I'm going for it."

No, my nickname isn't Starbuck, although I really felt like him. I had no choice but to follow my dad up the final 300 feet. Needless to say, we sprinted it, which is not fun when you're at 14,000 feet and over 8,000 feet above your normal altitude. Hypoxia is not your friend, but it wasn't really on our minds at the moment. We reach the summit, and I frantically search for the log -- a roll of papers, usually in a protective pipe, that climbers sign to prove that they climbed the mountain. I'm in a panic, because on reaching the summit, I see another storm cloud about 10 minutes off. I hastily scrawl a message in the log that we're seeking shelter in the rocks below. I slam the pipe closed and take off, only to have my dad yell for me to come back and take his picture! Oh man!  What is he thinking? I thought. Does he want it on his tombstone? I couldn't believe it, but I actually indulged him, snapping the photo and in the same motion turning to book it down the mountain. A few hundred feet down, my dad caught up with me to zip up my pack -- it wouldn't do to scatter debris all over the mountain when the lightning bolt hit, would it? -- and we sought shelter in rocks about 100 feet below our previous "prayer closet."

The buzzing returned, and the lightning too, but only for a few strikes. Then the buzzing eased. We got up and began to hike down the mountain, following the ridge line down. Then the snow hit. Yes, it was snow in July. What was worse was that the wind forced the snow up over the ridge and you could watch the flakes as the curled in a giant spiral and tumbled over the ridge. As we walked, we were pelted by snow from one side and then the other so that our jackets and pants were caked with a layer of snow front and back.

But eventually, this too would pass and the storm moved off in the direction of it's predecessor down over the valley. I was never more relieved or grateful to see a rainbow in all my life. It was all the more beautiful because I was alive to see it.

Because of this experience, and several others where I seem to "attract" lightning, my dad has nicknamed me "Sparky." I'm not especially proud of it, but it always reminds me of the time God delivered me from death on a mountain. I'm am so grateful for his mercy to someone who had no business being in such a place at such a time. He is truly merciful.