Fig Bars and Weather Fronts

I got out of an afternoon meeting early and was riding around waiting for inspiration to strike and coax me out of the valley. Thus began a completely unplanned and unforgettable ride up Deer Creek. Following is excerpted from an email I sent to a cycler friend:

Two furious weather fronts were battling it out from east and west, locking horns in
Hellgate Canyon near town.  I was riding around town and had an extra wool sweater
and a couple of fig bars with me.  I decided to roll right into the canyon, pushing into
the oddest swirling winds. 

There's a neat little dirt road that leads north out of the canyon and up a
couple thousand feet along Deer Creek.  After a mile or two climbing, the wind
calmed suddenly, and completely.  Then a wave of warm, amber light slipped down
the ridge.  It was like someone slipping a yellow filter over a flood light.  I
stopped to watch what would happen.  Directly above, there was a narrow slit of
the bluest sky opening up.  To each side of the opening, the clouds were
peeling back, bending away from each other like two waves that had just crashed
together.

I could only guess that the two fronts had sized each other up and decided
neither had the advantage.  The yellow light lasted the rest of the way up the
mountain as the two fronts receded.  More and more, I enjoy just pointing my
bike somewhere and seeing what the world has to show me.