Sully Fought the Sky
A tall tale based on truth…
The sky is turning grey on the mountain—terrifying.
So if some hiker gets lost in this midsummer storm, someone will have to go look for them.
As a former park ranger, that was my job.
Before I was struck by lightning seven times.
Seven.
But I never won the lottery.
I was nineteen the first time, in my fire lookout, holding binoculars and triangulating a new brush fire.
Lightning is something only a select few can describe, I know it better than everyone.
Lightning striking seven times—the odds are the same as the first.
Because lightning is not supposed to remember you.
I had severe burns on my legs and I lost a toenail… and never paid for a drink again
The second one shouldn’t have happened.
I was driving in my truck.
Somehow the lightning bounced off a tree and got me in the driver’s seat.
My bosses almost didn’t believe me, till they saw that my eyebrows and hair were burned off.
Humiliating.
The third one, I was mowing my lawn under clear blue skies. It microwaved my right shoulder.
The fourth one got me inside the ranger station. INSIDE.
I’d pissed someone off.
I tried to escape the fifth one— clouds started forming so I raced home. Terrified doesn’t begin to describe being picked on by the sky. My nerves couldn’t take another hit.
Popped in the driveway.
I spent two months in the hospital recovering from the burns.
Lightning crawled from one leg to another.
Then I crawled to the house and dumped the dog bowl over my head to put my hair out.
What was happening? Why?
A single cloud housed the power that attacked me the sixth time. It stalked before it struck.
Burned off my hair again.
I started shaving it all after that.
People looked at the wrinkles, but that didn’t bother me much.
It was hard to feel anything but tingling pain. When it would come up in conversation, I’d joke I was more electric than Las Vegas. That made people feel better.
The seventh time, I was fishing. I know, metal pole, aluminum boat, water, whatever. Maybe I was testing a theory.
I’d done well, had a whole stringer of trout.
I was on the shore, getting ready to throw everything in the truck.
Clear day.
Seventy-eight degrees outside.
This one rattled my bones—
like the mistake of angrily striking your dad at your fourteenth Thanksgiving.
The bear didn’t help. The opportunistic bastard tried to steal my fish. I had to hit him with a stick… while on fire.
At one time, I’d walk twenty miles through the wilderness. Now I manage pathways from room to room. Inside.
I’m afraid to take my trash outside.
Friends bring me food.
Today. There’s a cloud in the sky.
It calls to me quietly.
Like an old friend that burns your house down making your breakfast.
Maybe this time will be different.
The odds are roughly one in a million.
I belong outside.
- Sullivan