We stood in the summer sunshine on that thin ribbon of beach sand.

Behind us, the beautiful blue of the big lake was rolling, rising and falling as it gasped, rushing toward us, tumbling and crashing into a sputtering foam of white water.

The cold drink rushed over our feet giving us that first time shiver.

As the wave retreated, it exposed a wide field of beautiful glistening stones worn smooth by the water, dazzling our eyes with numerous shades of browns, oranges and reds, along with countless speckled granites and shiny quartz.

The sky was a clear true blue and the warmth was delicious.

It was a beach day being enjoyed by all of us here in this place at that time.

Miles away, along the squint of the horizon, the sky was black and blue with what looked like a spotlight beam of lighter blue reaching down to the lake.

Way out there, on that wide patch of open water, it was raining hard.

In less than an hour, the beach was deserted, and a cold rain was pouring down, puckering the beach sand as it fell.

We sat in the car with the windows rolled up, listening to the big drops of rain hitting the roof. Tremendously loud thunder seemed to shake the car as it groaned and rumbled above us.

With the rain smearing our view between slaps of the windshield wipers and the foggy condensation covering the rest of the car windows, we couldn’t see the flashing zigzags of yellow-orange lightning slicing through the afternoon sky.

Fifteen minutes later, small hailstones began bouncing off the hood and roof of the vehicle, as though someone above us had slit open a bag of dried split peas.

Ten minutes after that, the sound of our car doors slamming echoed across the parking lot and back into the woods.

The sun was shining again and in the wake of the storm, a rainbow stretched out over the lake, which was still sloshing, like the water in a big bathtub after somebody stands and gets out.

With our beach towels wrapped around our shoulders, we walked back to the shoreline sands through cooler air now, with stiffer winds puffed up and swirling around us.

The sun was still warm, and the sky was now blue again, but the passing storm had changed the scene, leaving the previously relaxing beachgoing summertime day dismantled, broken up and fallen apart.

It might regroup. But not today.

Such is the nature of storms.

In their passing they bring change, sometimes great and horrible, sometimes largely insignificant.

As humans, we seem to be affected greatly by the changing weather, whether there are storms or not.

We use the hourly, daily and weekly weather forecasts to help plan what to wear on a given day, whether to cancel or postpone our office picnics, decide if we can work outside building that she-shed, go fishing or even to predict if we’ll be happy or sad.

The anticipation or threat of storms only punctuates the immediacy of those decisions and actions, one way or another.

It seems that no matter how many times we have encountered storms throughout our lives, we still tend to pause to take notice of the storming activity going on around us when they occur.

I know I find myself heading to a window or out a door when a storm of any kind starts happening. Once I determine that “Oh, she ain’t doing much,” I can go back to whatever I was doing inside the house.

If the storm looks like it has the potential to bring horrific winds, torrential rains or blinding snowfall, I often like to get outside in some way to get closer to what’s happening, to experience it.

I don’t know how to explain it fully, but it’s like storms are a draw or a pull for me. I sense an affinity or fascination with them and want to see them at the height of their powers.

I have often thought about being a storm chaser.

I know I would be good at it, mainly because I do not really fear dying.

Secondly, I am pretty good with a camera.

Third, I would enjoy the search, the quest, the reward, willing to pay the cost.

I love summer thunderstorms probably the most of any storms.

In this part of the world, they usually pass quickly and do not include tornados.

As a kid, I used to hate them.

Because almost every waking moment of my young days was focused on being outside playing. When it was raining, we were not allowed to be out.

Even if a quick shower passed overhead, it might threaten our being allowed to get to ride bikes, play football in the yard or swing on the swing set.

We were instructed to play, but we were not really supposed to purposely get muddy or anything.

So, even if the sun was shining, if the grass was wet or the sandbox sand was muddy, we might be kept inside to play board or card games, listen to records, watch television or – in worst case scenarios – to help clean the house or do our homework.

I can hear what’s left of that kid inside me screaming, “Oh no!”

I can clearly remember pleading, “Can we go outside now, the puddles are dried up?”

And my mom answering, “The grass is still wet.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What a rip-off!”

These types of scenes are what led to my brother and I sneaking out of the house to play instead of asking permission. Of course, that would likely mean a hide tanning later, but we accepted that consequence.

At least I did.

My brother always seemed to think he could figure out some way to outsmart the executioner, padding his butt with several pairs of underwear, and on one storied occasion, even hard-covered books.

No dice.

I don’t mind fishing or walking in the rain or being outside in a snowstorm. I love the beauty there can be in the aftermath of an ice storm.

In the Rocky Mountains, residents have gotten so used to daily afternoon thunderstorms they scarcely notice them. In New Mexico, Arizona, California and other desert states, a rainstorm can still be an uncommon occurrence that is greatly appreciated.

For as sunny as it is, Florida always seems wet and soggy to me. In Washington, D.C., it doesn’t seem like the rain ever cools anything down.

Though I hate the destruction of tornados, hurricanes and floods, I am in awe of their power. I am also intrigued by their generation and occurrence and the way they move this way and that way, turning to spare one town or even house, damning another.

No wonder our ancestors decided these dangerous events were acts of the gods.

I know that a lot of people like to superimpose the concept of storms on events that brew, unfold and pass in our lives.

I like that idea, but I don’t think that it’s true.

There are some life “storms” that never move off over the ocean. I’m thinking here of people with terminal illnesses or severely broken hearts.

True, eventually “all things must pass,” but you might have to die first to make that happen.

I think the greatest comparison between life storms and storms outside our windows and doors is that some arrive and pass leaving new and sustained growth in place, while others result in death and destruction.

I prefer nature’s storms to storms of life.

The exquisite beauty of the woods after a summer shower is magical, with raindrops rolling off bright green leaves to hit the ground, feeding and making the grass stay green or the other plants grow tall, sprout or produce fruit.

Snowstorms do their part to bring eventually important snowmelt to broad, sweeping landscapes. Mother Nature’s storms can be tremendously beautiful, when she isn’t angry.

I guess I would liken myself to one of those plants or trees that turn their leaves upward toward the heavens when it’s going to rain.

I want to make sure I can catch as much life-giving force as I can, as it falls to me while I walk this otherwise arid and desolate scene.

I thirst for knowledge, wisdom, growth and learning in a never-ending greater search for meaning, truth, peace and resolve.

Everything will be cool, as long as I don’t come in the kitchen door tracking in dirt with muddy pants and shoes.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.