As my wife checked the weather app on her phone last Tuesday night, she was skeptical about whether we should bike from our house in American Fork to Vivian Park in Provo Canyon, a 36-mile round trip.
Jill was worried about the wind and rain chances in the forecast. I had seen a severe weather warning for Tooele County, miles away, but my phone showed mostly clear skies in our area all evening. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “We’ll be fine.”
We left the house in the warmth of the sun and made our way through the neighborhood for a few miles to get onto the Murdock Canal Trail, which runs through Utah Valley at the base of Mount Timpanogos. We headed south on the paved trail against a light headwind for about 10 miles before joining the Provo River Parkway Trail at the mouth of Provo Canyon and riding six miles to Vivian Park.
Jill and I have done this ride dozens of times over the years. The rushing river and trees, as well as Bridal Veil Falls, make it a scenic place to ride, especially in the fall when the leaves are changing.
We stopped in the park for a few minutes before heading back. As we drove, we saw the clouds in the west turn an ominous blackness. Even though it was just after 6 p.m., the trail through the forest canopy was nearly dark. We felt a few drops of rain and the air became noticeably cooler. About a mile into our return journey, we stopped on a bridge so Jill could put on her rain jacket.
We rode maybe another 100 meters before the wind became so strong that we could no longer pedal. Branches cracked in the trees around us. It was pouring with rain.
Luckily, we were in a small parking lot with a forestry office toilet. We sought refuge under the roof outside. It smelled disgusting, but it was safer than ducking under a tree.
Soon we were joined by a fly fisherman who had been standing knee deep in the river. Dakota was from Massachusetts and was working in Utah for a month. A few minutes later we saw another cyclist crouched under a tree. We waved him over. With Russell, the four of us were now at the outhouse. We chatted and watched as the deluge turned the parking lot into a muddy stream. Even in its wildness, the power of nature is a wonder to behold.
Jill called our daughter to come rescue us. She had to drive from her home in Lehi to pick up my car with the bike rack. Russell also called someone. Dakota’s car was nearby.
It’s hard to say how much time passed, maybe 20 or 30 minutes, before the wind and rain died down. Jill and I decided to drive down the canyon to meet our daughter. Several places along the way were covered in mud and rocks. An underpass was full of brown water. As we approached the mouth, we saw hailstones in the bushes. We stopped at a gas station convenience store to wait for our daughter. I saw a couple of restaurant workers coming out from across the street pointing their cell phone cameras at the sky. A rainbow formed a brilliant arch over the canyon.
I get depressed when I can’t finish a bike ride for any reason. Jill finally told me to go, so I set off in light wind and rain. She stayed to wait for our daughter. We had no idea what she was expecting when we called her for help – marble-sized hail, flooded roads, gridlocked traffic.
As I rode through a residential area and turned onto Murdock Trail, brilliant rays of sunlight streamed through the clouds. It was a spectacular sight. No – and I don’t use words like that often – it was glorious. A feeling of joy filled my soul like I’d never felt before on my bike. It was as if God had reached out his hand through the clouds.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints recently added “Come, Fountain of All Blessings” to its hymnbook. As I drove, a lyric came to mind: “Streams of grace call for the loudest hymns.”
I’m not the type to sing at the top of my lungs in public, even when no one is around, but my praise came in quiet awe of God’s creation.
For the next few miles, I had the glistening, leaf-covered asphalt and the bright sky all to myself. Some parts of the trail were lined with hail. As I approached home, a few more people were out and about. Some were working feverishly with shovels to divert water from houses. Children were paddling in plastic kayaks in boulder pools that the rain had turned into ponds.
I often stopped to capture the moments on my phone before they faded into the setting sun. But the real moment remains in my heart and soul.
