When the Hop-Toads Sing

Along in late June or in early July, down here in the Border Country, come days when cottony puffs of clouds appear out of nowhere to clutter up the bright blueness of the sky . . . and go drifting away to disappear into nothingness again. And when those clouds appear Mister and Mrs. Citizen squint at them and say, "Well, looks like the rains are goin' to arrive on time!" And los amigos, "friends," south of the "Line," grin and say "Si, poco tiempo mucha lluvia!" "Yes, in a little time much rain!"

But those drifting clouds are just a prelude. Some folks call them "empties" - though sometimes they bring a little "two-inch" shower: two inches between drops that leave only dimples in the dust. Others call them "political clouds" - just promises with nothing coming out of them.

Soon, though, there will come a still, humid day when great bulging, towering thunderheads will rise all silvery-white above and lead-grey below, high over mountain ranges far south in Sonora, Mexico. Then the growing clouds will move steadily northward, rising, spreading and merging with lesser clouds over lesser mountain peaks.

On that day the blue of the sky is lost behind slate-grey that is slashed and laced with lightning flashes... and the rumble and crash of thunder sounds almost continuously.

Then comes a grey curtain of rain in a slanting, sluicing downpour. Every little dip and gully becomes a stream and, for a short while, the wide boulder-strewn washes of the canyons become death traps of roaring, racing, muddy water. And then silence, as the storm moves on northward, flickering and grumbling and dragging remnants of rain curtains across valleys and ridges.

Now small barefoot kids romp in the water along the roadsides and sociable groups of birds bathe and splash in the rapidly shrinking puddles. Little fat toads burrow up out of soil that has been hard and dry for months, and go hopping away to wherever toads go on warm, wet afternoons.

Narrow rays of sunlight slant through holes in the clouds and spotlight pleasant rain-washed scenes. Then comes sunset, and though other places on this planet may have beautiful sunsets too, surely none can surpass the glowing colors of these.

It's the beginning of the “monsoon season” and the storms continue, with lapses and variations, for several months, while all of the high desert and mountains take on a new look. A fresh greenness appears on the mountainsides, even the highest craggy ridges are draped with ragged veils of brightest green. And wildflowers are everywhere.

Sometimes the storms arrive at night with a wonderful display of flickering blue-white lightning and a steady downpour that lasts for hours, with much crashing and rumbling of thunder. Nights are cool and the soft damp breeze brings the tangy fragrance of mesquite, rich grasses and succulent shrubs across miles of rangeland.

And sometimes the rain comes in the early morning, quietly and steadily as low clouds drift across the wide valley.

In town Mister Citizen is climbing over his house roof looking for the elusive leaks that were unimportant until the rains came. And along the highways the service stations are doing a lively business, replacing sun-baked windshield wipers with new ones.

The cattleman starts his day with mind free from thoughts of supplemental feed and water hauling and instead begins to figure weight-gain to shipping time. From habit he neglects to take along his slicker. He peers from under the floppy brim of his rain melted “hay” sombrero at the beautiful muddy water filling his stockponds

— while his mount gingerly tippy-toes across greasy-slick 'dobe flats. And at the end of his day the cowman dumps water from his boots and make such cheerful remarks as, “Yup, the back road's washed plumb to hellangone!” Cattle graze choosily now, belly deep in grasses of a half dozen varieties. The grey deer wander aimlessly, browsing new growth here and there and finding new watering places in little pools and channels. Bands of little pigs, the javelinas, wander and explore for miles beyond their home range and forget their quarreling and complaining in the lush pasturage. In the cottonwoods and tall mesquites the doves patiently build new flimsy haphazard nests and rear more hatchlings - maybe luckier than those others that the storms shook down and drowned.

It's the best time of year, and its rains will benefit and flavor the living of all things, far into the winter months. Yep, this “chico mundo,” “little world,” of ours is a nice place to be, and when the rains come it's pretty near perfect. When the rains come down here in the Border Country even the hop-toads sing.

"When the back road's washed to hellangone!' Bob Bradshaw (Left) In a solitary nook, the run-off water from a late summer storm becomes an afternoon visual delight. Richard Weston