COLUMBUS _ The cloud burst and rain came down like machine-gun bullets, echoing off the metal roof. We were out in the pole barn, collecting our hunting gear, getting ready for the first day of the season.

``Looks like we’re trapped out here,’’ I almost shouted over the din, removing a camo-orange coat from a bag full of spruce limbs.

``Supposed to stop by Saturday,’’ Uncle Chet replied. ``But this is the wettest year ever around here, and it’s no coincidence. Welcome to the age of global warming, as we change the climate by polluting the air.’’

``Not everyone thinks it’s happening.’’

``It’s happening,’’ he said. ``Aren’t the glaciers melting? Isn’t the sea rising? Aren’t the hurricanes worse?’’

``And this rain is harder than it used to be when we were kids; isn’t it?’’ I asked, climbing a ladder to the upper deck, where we store the folding stools.

``Sure it is,’’ he said. ``Haven’t you seen Gore’s movie?’’

``No.’’

``Everyone’s weather is going crazy,’’ he half-shouted from his perch by the garage-door window, where he was watching pools form on the gravel driveway.

``Wind’s worse, too,’’ I said, ``I’m glad we built the house out of rough-cut.’’ [an error occurred while processing this directive]