But, in true conundrum form, I love to be in noisy buildings (white noise or real noise like music) with big windows during storms, and I really, really like to drive into storms. Yes, I don't want to be inside or outside with storms, but the in between of being inside a moving vehicle apparently is somehow exactly the way I prefer to experience a storm.
I'm not dumb, though. If a storm has a tornado associated with it, I'm reasonably smart enough to seek shelter and cover my ass. We seem to be getting more and more of those. Do I trust the forecasters? No, not really. But I have amateur working knowledge of radar maps and also pay attention to things like the sounds outside. For example, if there's thunder in the distance but the birds are still chirping, don't bother coming in the house because the storm isn't coming this way. However, if the birds suddenly go silent (even if the thunder isn't audible yet), get your ass into the storm cellar (if you have one).
So in the early afternoon when I hear the constant, distant roar of thunder without any let-up, I take a quick look at the radar map and see absolute freaking mayhem coming my way. Tornado warnings are up, and the woman with whom I am on the phone chatting can hear the same thunder I'm hearing two towns away (and she is six towns away from where the real action is happening at that moment). I could hunker down in my house (with the microburst history, I'm thinking maybe not), I could drive into the storm (and become Dorothy on her way to Oz), or I could outrun the storm, sit on the edge of it, and watch it roll through, which is what I decide to do.
I drive about five miles south, where the radar claims the storms will not come, and I park my car in a strip mall parking lot. However, the radar lies. The storm is monstrous, and the lightning is so close that I don't even want my car in the open with all the other cars. We will be like a giant electricity-charged Whack-a-Mole game. I start driving further south about three miles and pull into another parking lot. I face the storm, raise the camera, and ....
I head south, keeping an eye to the wall of destruction heading by on its rampage toward the coast. In front of me the sky is gray and white; behind me the sky is black and blue, bruised by the madness. I drive slightly further than I probably need to, but I am searching for a decent vantage point with easy access back to the main road via a traffic light. I pull in, park, and watch all Hell break loose north of my position. The storm is easily thirty miles wide and racing with anger across the sky.
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| (Later radar = Dog storm?) |
I don't get a chance to photograph any lightning because in my attempt to get a better viewing position to the south, the storm has curled around and circled east only, making no further movement in my direction. What I do get to see, though, is the edge of the storm, the front line (the actual one) that separates the massive red radar splotch with the simpler, calmer green indicating mere rain. I briefly consider chasing the storm to the east, but it's time for the afternoon commute, and there's an accident backing up at least one way home.
As payback for my storm chasing hubris, a couple of more lines of thunderstorms roll through the rest of the night, keeping me from a deep sleep until about three o-clock in the morning. Another round rolls through the next afternoon, but it's not really noteworthy.
It's only a little past midsummer, though, and we still have hurricane season coming. I'm sure I'll get another shot at some photos. It's a reasonably easy process: I just have to watch the radar and have my car keys handy.
