First monsoon detection at 14:22. Barometric pressure dropped 12mb in forty minutes. The instruments began their season-long vigil. Humidity sensors reading 94%. Wind velocity: 23 knots, bearing south-southwest.
Continuous precipitation for 72 hours. Rain gauge overflow at station perimeter. The old analog recorder scratched its needle across the drum in a line so steady it resembled a horizon.
A brief reprieve. The sky opened to reveal stars we had forgotten existed. Temperature dropped seven degrees in an hour. The silence after weeks of rain was itself a kind of weather.
Peak monsoon intensity recorded. Wind speed exceeded measurement capacity at 03:17. The anemometer cup assembly detached during a gust we estimated at 85 knots. Rain fell horizontally.
Final transmission. The season withdraws like a tide that took months to turn. Residual drizzle. The instruments still hum but have nothing left to say.
The rain remembers what we forget.
The station was decommissioned in autumn 1978. Its instruments were never recovered. Somewhere in a valley between mountains that have since been renamed, the barometer still hangs on a wall in a room where rain drummed for six months each year.
The data survived on magnetic tape reels that were digitized in 2003, then lost again when the server hosting them went offline in 2019. What remains is this: a partial reconstruction from handwritten field notebooks, and the fading memory of a season that refused to end.
mosoon — a misspelling preserved in the original logbooks, adopted as the station’s unofficial name by a meteorologist who believed that some things are more accurate when slightly wrong.