We live in a temperate rain forest. Which, of course, means it rains a lot. I remember one year when it rained ninety straight days. Some hated it. Some felt they were mildewing. But I loved it.

I love a hard downpour that drenches everything, that soaks through your hair instantly so you can feel the tiny rivulets running down the back of your ears and neck. The sort of rain that means business and lets you know it.

I love soft rain that mists everything and takes a long time to soak in. I love its gentleness as it sifts over ferns and earth and sits on your shoulders like silvery spiderwebs.

I love how rain allows you to do nothing but sit by the fire with a book, with no guilt.

I love the sound of rain, on roof, under car tires, on leaves of trees, on my skin, my thirsty skin that soaks it up to feed my soul.

So this has been a hard summer. We’ve never had such heat or so many days without the rain we are famous for. I see the parched earth, the stressed trees, the bony river with its skeleton of rocks jutting up through the thin skin of water.

Fire danger is, of course, extreme right now. I think even people who hate the rain are watching the sky for mare’s tails of clouds, hoping to see the streamers drifting in over the mountains.

I know I am.

The wild animals are coming down from high places sooner than usual because there is no water up in the alpine rivers and lakes. We’re used to bears coming through as they get ready for hibernation but this is sooner than normal. Fledgling birds and baby squirrels are dying as they fall out of nests trying to escape the heat. It’s heartbreaking and I fear this is a sign of times to come.

For now I’m sitting in a room with the blackout curtains closed against the heat, looking at photos of water. Craving damp and cool and moss that is green and vibrant rather than brown and parched. Craving a roaring, whitewater river, full of returning salmon.

And a sky full of rain.