My guide client and I were crouched tight under my portable table – we dared not reach out for any of the food we'd left on top of it. The sound of a thousand drums assaulted our ears as hailstones the weight of big round ice cubes totally destroyed our lunch.
The hailstorm slowed to silence within less than a minute after what must have been a ten minute or longer onslaught. We crept out through the hail balls piled at our feet to find my client's fly rod leaned against the leeward side of a tree, perfectly dry. Stretched out on the boat seats it would have been smashed into a row of graphite...
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