Chase Log: The Beginning
Beware March 11.
Of all the days each year when a tornado might touch down, this is one of the most dangerous.
On May 11, 1953 a tornado swept through Waco, Texas, killing 114 people. On that day in 1970, two fast-moving twisters hit Lubbock, Texas, killing 26 and destroying nearly a quarter of the town.
May 11 is not only one of the busiest and most treacherous days for me as a storm chaser, it is also the day in 1957, in Topeka, Kansas, that I was born. Nowadays, if I’m lucky, my birthday is toasted over a can of beer and a chocolate cupcake in Dumas, Texas, or Dodge City, Kansas. It is not a gala event.
Less than one year after my birth, in the heart of "Tornado Alley," my father, a civil service computer programmer, was transferred to Mobile, Alabama. This move was, in a way, my first escape from a tornado. In 1966, a massive tornado swept through Topeka, killing 17 people.
I recall my earliest fascination with storms while growing up in Mobile. Not only was Mobile home to tropical weather, but the passage of spring and fall frontal systems triggered severe storms and tornadoes. I remember huddling with my mother, sister, and baby brother in the hallway of our home after a storm warning. On at least one occasion, I tried to sneak out to take a look, only to be grabbed by my mom, who scolded me with a pointed finger. "You wanted to be picked up by a twister?" she asked.
No doubt, my interests in tornadoes were awakened by the film version of The Wizard of Oz. The film was broadcast once a year and, without fail, I was seated in front of the television, awaiting my favorite part, the tornado. As a child, I imagined a brave "storm chaser" had risked his life filming a real one. It was only years later that I realized the Oz vortex was a special effect created by the geniuses at MGM.
My first hands-on confrontation with severe weather occurred when I was nine during a boat outing on Mobile Bay. While my father and I were exploring an old harbor filled with dilapidated cargo ships, a squall, harmlessly poised in the distance, headed our way. My father raced the 6-horsepower engine of our 11-foot aluminum boat in an attempt to outrun the storm. I sat in the bow, holding on tightly, bouncing up and down over the white caps. "Are we going to make it?" I asked as the boat filled with water. My dad nodded an unsure "Yes." Just as the leading edge of the boiling black clouds reached our boat, we made it to shore and the shelter of a small concrete building. To this day, I vividly recall the dark clouds and even the thick, salty smell of the storm. Years later, my father confessed he thought we wouldn’t make it.
My curiosity got the best of me when a neighbor’s house was hit by lightning. I ran down the street following the fire engine, and when I reached the front yard, I saw a huge, shirtless man standing at the door, rubbing his beet-red potbelly. Sipping from a beer can, he told the people gathered around the house that he was watching the I Love Lucy show when a lightning bolt hit the roof antenna. The charge went into the house and blew up his television set. Lightning leaped from the television and hit him in the stomach, he said, singeing his skin. He quickly became the celebrity of our neighborhood. For days, kids knocked on his door and asked to see his belly and the charred television set in the back yard. He enjoyed the attention and conducted detailed tours, holding another beer can.
In October of 1966, my father was transferred to Tucson, Arizona. I had already lived in both the nation’s tornado and hurricane alleys. Now, I would reside in one of the world’s lightning hot spots. I became especially interested to see what everyone called "the monsoons." My wait wasn’t long.
My first monsoon encounter came in July 1967. I watched billowing white clouds rocket into the afternoon sky, pushed upward by surface temperatures of well over 110 degrees Fahrenheit and a supply of moist art from Mexico. The clouds eventually merged and the southern horizon as a single massive thunderhead, with a dark and foreboding base.
The thunderstorms developed daily in July and August. They blanketed the city with a dust cloud, then pounded it with wind, flooding rain and spectacular lightning. At night, I lay in my top bunk watching the lightning bolts dance outside the window and listened to the sound of thunder. The acrid smell of creosote bushes seeped in through the half-opened window.
By the age of 12, I was ready to experience the monsoon firsthand.
After the year’s first heavy monsoon rainstorm, the runoff filled a usually dry lake bed near our home. A roaring wall of muddy, earthy-smelling water would come sweeping down a narrow arroyo toward the lake. Once the first big storm hit and the water began to flow, a red alert—the type only kids can hear—was sounded. We raced our bikes along the wash and escorted the torrent as it approached the lake bed. It was an amusing, but hazardous, place to play.
While I was walking with a group along the sides of the freshly flooded lake, a portion of the bank collapsed, sending a girl and me tumbling into turbulent waters. I bobbed up and down in the water, holding my breath until my lungs were crying for air. I will never forget the feeling. As I went under the water, gasping what I thought would be my last breath and taking in a mouth full of muddy water, I literally saw my life flash before me. This was death, I was certain. But just as I felt I would pass out, we were carried by the current to a shallow patch where we could stand and lift our heads from the water. From then on I found drier, less deadly things to chase—at least for a while.
My next adventure involved dust devils, or just "devils" as we called them. Dust devices are vortices of swirling air caused by thermals rising from the hot desert floor. The rotating air takes on the classic funnel shape as dust and debris fill the vortex, mimicking the appearance of a small tornado. In the Southwest, it is not uncommon to see dust devils frequently when the temperatures climb to 100 degrees and more.
Impressive dust devils appeared in the dusty vacant lots surrounding my neighborhood. While watching one of these vortices from the seat of my bicycle, I developed my first chase plan. It was not complicated. I decided to ride my bike into the center of the funnel and see what was inside. Racing back to the neighborhood, I gathered my usual band of explorers—save for a couple whose mothers worried about "that Faidley kid" and his wacky adventures.
We donned jackets and safety goggles and rose in formation to the lot, where we made several unsuccessful attempts at entering a dust devil. One unfortunate test pilot among us discovered that the opening of a mouth in a dust cloud was a poor maneuver. Another pal cut short his valiant attempt when a giant tumbleweed flew out of the dust cloud and hit him in the back, sending a load of spiny stickers into his shirt.
My opportunity came as a particularly large devil developed in the center of the lot. I gathered speed, summoned my courage, put on my goggles and took aim. I held my breath and pedaled straight toward the devil. As I broke through the swirling wall of the vortex, I fell off my bike, startled to discover there was no wind resistance inside the funnel. I was in a large, hollow cylinder. The interior of the devil was still and virtually dust-free, illuminated by a weird orange hue, caused, I suppose, by sun filtering through the spinning wall of fine desert grit. Tumble weeds, newspapers and other debris were imbedded in the circulation.
Above, I could see the upper regions of the vortex as it oscillated in a snake-like fashion, eventually expanding into a deep blue sky. A constant thrashing noise was all I could hear. The temperature outside the dust devil was about 100 degrees but it was much hotter inside, and difficult to breathe. For a minute, I was able to ride within the fifteen-yard circumference of the dust devil. But the show abruptly ended when one of the walls crashed into me. I was thrown clear of the funnel, which disintegrated into wispy strands of slowly falling dust. I was greeted by fellow chasers who, having lost sight of me, feared that I had been lifted away. I was elated. My chase had been a success.
Of all the days each year when a tornado might touch down, this is one of the most dangerous.
On May 11, 1953 a tornado swept through Waco, Texas, killing 114 people. On that day in 1970, two fast-moving twisters hit Lubbock, Texas, killing 26 and destroying nearly a quarter of the town.
May 11 is not only one of the busiest and most treacherous days for me as a storm chaser, it is also the day in 1957, in Topeka, Kansas, that I was born. Nowadays, if I’m lucky, my birthday is toasted over a can of beer and a chocolate cupcake in Dumas, Texas, or Dodge City, Kansas. It is not a gala event.
Less than one year after my birth, in the heart of "Tornado Alley," my father, a civil service computer programmer, was transferred to Mobile, Alabama. This move was, in a way, my first escape from a tornado. In 1966, a massive tornado swept through Topeka, killing 17 people.
I recall my earliest fascination with storms while growing up in Mobile. Not only was Mobile home to tropical weather, but the passage of spring and fall frontal systems triggered severe storms and tornadoes. I remember huddling with my mother, sister, and baby brother in the hallway of our home after a storm warning. On at least one occasion, I tried to sneak out to take a look, only to be grabbed by my mom, who scolded me with a pointed finger. "You wanted to be picked up by a twister?" she asked.
No doubt, my interests in tornadoes were awakened by the film version of The Wizard of Oz. The film was broadcast once a year and, without fail, I was seated in front of the television, awaiting my favorite part, the tornado. As a child, I imagined a brave "storm chaser" had risked his life filming a real one. It was only years later that I realized the Oz vortex was a special effect created by the geniuses at MGM.
My first hands-on confrontation with severe weather occurred when I was nine during a boat outing on Mobile Bay. While my father and I were exploring an old harbor filled with dilapidated cargo ships, a squall, harmlessly poised in the distance, headed our way. My father raced the 6-horsepower engine of our 11-foot aluminum boat in an attempt to outrun the storm. I sat in the bow, holding on tightly, bouncing up and down over the white caps. "Are we going to make it?" I asked as the boat filled with water. My dad nodded an unsure "Yes." Just as the leading edge of the boiling black clouds reached our boat, we made it to shore and the shelter of a small concrete building. To this day, I vividly recall the dark clouds and even the thick, salty smell of the storm. Years later, my father confessed he thought we wouldn’t make it.
My curiosity got the best of me when a neighbor’s house was hit by lightning. I ran down the street following the fire engine, and when I reached the front yard, I saw a huge, shirtless man standing at the door, rubbing his beet-red potbelly. Sipping from a beer can, he told the people gathered around the house that he was watching the I Love Lucy show when a lightning bolt hit the roof antenna. The charge went into the house and blew up his television set. Lightning leaped from the television and hit him in the stomach, he said, singeing his skin. He quickly became the celebrity of our neighborhood. For days, kids knocked on his door and asked to see his belly and the charred television set in the back yard. He enjoyed the attention and conducted detailed tours, holding another beer can.
In October of 1966, my father was transferred to Tucson, Arizona. I had already lived in both the nation’s tornado and hurricane alleys. Now, I would reside in one of the world’s lightning hot spots. I became especially interested to see what everyone called "the monsoons." My wait wasn’t long.
My first monsoon encounter came in July 1967. I watched billowing white clouds rocket into the afternoon sky, pushed upward by surface temperatures of well over 110 degrees Fahrenheit and a supply of moist art from Mexico. The clouds eventually merged and the southern horizon as a single massive thunderhead, with a dark and foreboding base.
The thunderstorms developed daily in July and August. They blanketed the city with a dust cloud, then pounded it with wind, flooding rain and spectacular lightning. At night, I lay in my top bunk watching the lightning bolts dance outside the window and listened to the sound of thunder. The acrid smell of creosote bushes seeped in through the half-opened window.
By the age of 12, I was ready to experience the monsoon firsthand.
After the year’s first heavy monsoon rainstorm, the runoff filled a usually dry lake bed near our home. A roaring wall of muddy, earthy-smelling water would come sweeping down a narrow arroyo toward the lake. Once the first big storm hit and the water began to flow, a red alert—the type only kids can hear—was sounded. We raced our bikes along the wash and escorted the torrent as it approached the lake bed. It was an amusing, but hazardous, place to play.
While I was walking with a group along the sides of the freshly flooded lake, a portion of the bank collapsed, sending a girl and me tumbling into turbulent waters. I bobbed up and down in the water, holding my breath until my lungs were crying for air. I will never forget the feeling. As I went under the water, gasping what I thought would be my last breath and taking in a mouth full of muddy water, I literally saw my life flash before me. This was death, I was certain. But just as I felt I would pass out, we were carried by the current to a shallow patch where we could stand and lift our heads from the water. From then on I found drier, less deadly things to chase—at least for a while.
My next adventure involved dust devils, or just "devils" as we called them. Dust devices are vortices of swirling air caused by thermals rising from the hot desert floor. The rotating air takes on the classic funnel shape as dust and debris fill the vortex, mimicking the appearance of a small tornado. In the Southwest, it is not uncommon to see dust devils frequently when the temperatures climb to 100 degrees and more.
Impressive dust devils appeared in the dusty vacant lots surrounding my neighborhood. While watching one of these vortices from the seat of my bicycle, I developed my first chase plan. It was not complicated. I decided to ride my bike into the center of the funnel and see what was inside. Racing back to the neighborhood, I gathered my usual band of explorers—save for a couple whose mothers worried about "that Faidley kid" and his wacky adventures.
We donned jackets and safety goggles and rose in formation to the lot, where we made several unsuccessful attempts at entering a dust devil. One unfortunate test pilot among us discovered that the opening of a mouth in a dust cloud was a poor maneuver. Another pal cut short his valiant attempt when a giant tumbleweed flew out of the dust cloud and hit him in the back, sending a load of spiny stickers into his shirt.
My opportunity came as a particularly large devil developed in the center of the lot. I gathered speed, summoned my courage, put on my goggles and took aim. I held my breath and pedaled straight toward the devil. As I broke through the swirling wall of the vortex, I fell off my bike, startled to discover there was no wind resistance inside the funnel. I was in a large, hollow cylinder. The interior of the devil was still and virtually dust-free, illuminated by a weird orange hue, caused, I suppose, by sun filtering through the spinning wall of fine desert grit. Tumble weeds, newspapers and other debris were imbedded in the circulation.
Above, I could see the upper regions of the vortex as it oscillated in a snake-like fashion, eventually expanding into a deep blue sky. A constant thrashing noise was all I could hear. The temperature outside the dust devil was about 100 degrees but it was much hotter inside, and difficult to breathe. For a minute, I was able to ride within the fifteen-yard circumference of the dust devil. But the show abruptly ended when one of the walls crashed into me. I was thrown clear of the funnel, which disintegrated into wispy strands of slowly falling dust. I was greeted by fellow chasers who, having lost sight of me, feared that I had been lifted away. I was elated. My chase had been a success.
Out of the Blue
Thunder’s flapping wings and the flaming arrows shot by the Lightning People terrorize the Cloud People into
making rain for the thirsty earth. – Zia Indian folklore
Lightning is a storm chaser’s greatest natural
danger. It is unlike other storm phenomena such as tornadoes and hurricanes. Lightning will see out its target, attracted to even
the smallest piece of metal like a steel tripod or a metal zipper on a pair of pants.
Once, while shooting a thunderstorm near Willcox, Arizona, my aluminum tripod once became electrified, and the shock numbed my hands. I took a few steps away from the tripod, fell to the ground and covered my head, expecting a lightning charge to make its way through the tripod. Just as I lowered my body, a terrifying lightning bolt zipped overhead, leaping from cloud to cloud. A loud thunderclap followed. My hands ached for hours, but I was thankful the bolt didn’t make it to the ground.
The physics involved in lightning are amazing. The lightning channel, which we see as a large, bright white column, is in reality only about an inch in diameter. The energy from a lightning strike can reach upward of 100,000 amperes. By way of comparison, the average electrical house circuit carries 30 amps. The temperature of the channel can reach nearly 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit, which is about five times hotter than the surface of the sun. Lightning is also a common occurrence: the earth is hit about 100 times per second by lightning bolts. Lightning kills an average of 200 people annually.
When I started working near lightning in 1982, I had neither knowledge nor appreciation of the physics or dangers of lightning. My lack of understanding—and fear—made my earliest adventures with thunderstorms life-threatening. I nearly kissed the earth goodbye on several occasions in my initial challenges of the storm gods.
In one terrifying instance, captured on a video camera near Marana, Arizona, a renegade bolt struck the ground 10 feet from my tripod. The footage was eventually shown on a National Geographic Explorer special. "This small bolt could have killed Faidley," says the narrator.
On another occasion, also near Marana, a lightning bolt hit power lines above my car as I shot a dust storm. The strike sent arcing wires on top of my car. The blinding flash and ensuing thunderclap startled me so much that I lifted myself out of the seat and banged my head on the roof. Appropriately, "I Fall to Pieces" by Patsy Cline faded out for a moment on the radio as the lightning’s energy distorted the airwaves. It took a minute for my sight to be restored so I could drive safely away from burning wires that surrounded my car and a major brush fire ignited by the wires.
My escapades into the desolate regions of southern Arizona provided no shortage of spooky adventures and humor. Among my encounters: armed drug runners, scorpions, and flash floods.
Once, I was shooting a storm about midnight at a ranch near Sonoita, Arizona, when a magnificent lightning bolt flashed overhead and hit somewhere behind me. It was so close that my hair stood on end. I turned, half-bent in fright. After the last echo of rolling thunder faded from the nearby hills, there was silence again—except for a peculiar noise that became louder and louder. The noise was nothing I had heard before.
The mystery became unbearable. My pulse quickened with fear, by my curiosity won over. I grabbed a small flashlight and walked down a dirt road toward the sound. About 50 yards down the road, the noise rose to a higher pitch. For some damn reason, it seemed to be coming from the sky. I swear I saw something red flash high above for a split second. My flashlight beam dimmed to a weak, useless glow. The wind picked up and a light rain started to fall.
Normally, my imagination doesn’t interfere with my reasoning. However, earlier in the evening, I had turned in an AM radio talk show on UFO abductions. Most happen on nights in the middle of nowhere, the experts said. Well, Sonoita is pretty close to being the middle of nowhere, and the night was dark, and those lightning flashes were making the cacti look as though they were moving. I went back to the car.
Just as I turned and walked a few feet, there was a screech, then a loud metallic crash. I jumped to the side of the road, caught my foot on a rock and fell into the desert with my heart pounding in my ears. Fortunately, I fell right between two large, needle-sharp, cholla cacti. I paused, listened, stood and looked around me, expecting to glimpse the saucer people with their humongous dark eyes. Instead, there was dead silence. The eerie sound disappeared. I continued on, casting glances over my shoulder every few steps.
I packed the gear in the car and drove toward the highway. But curiosity was not only nagging me, it was hounding me. I turned the car around and went to solve the mystery. I wasn’t sure exactly where to go. The rain was now steady and I hunted for the two cacti, but there was so many that it was impossible to pinpoint where I’d been. I hunted for 15 minutes, then gave up and turned the car around. And my headlights solved the mystery.
Thirty feet off to the right side of the road stood a metal windmill tower, its circular vanes missing. I backed up and flicked on the brights to survey the ground below the tower. Sure enough, the vanes lay at the tower base. The tower had been hit by the lightning strike, and the damaged vanes had sparked, clanged and emitted a metallic groan.
Once, while shooting a thunderstorm near Willcox, Arizona, my aluminum tripod once became electrified, and the shock numbed my hands. I took a few steps away from the tripod, fell to the ground and covered my head, expecting a lightning charge to make its way through the tripod. Just as I lowered my body, a terrifying lightning bolt zipped overhead, leaping from cloud to cloud. A loud thunderclap followed. My hands ached for hours, but I was thankful the bolt didn’t make it to the ground.
The physics involved in lightning are amazing. The lightning channel, which we see as a large, bright white column, is in reality only about an inch in diameter. The energy from a lightning strike can reach upward of 100,000 amperes. By way of comparison, the average electrical house circuit carries 30 amps. The temperature of the channel can reach nearly 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit, which is about five times hotter than the surface of the sun. Lightning is also a common occurrence: the earth is hit about 100 times per second by lightning bolts. Lightning kills an average of 200 people annually.
When I started working near lightning in 1982, I had neither knowledge nor appreciation of the physics or dangers of lightning. My lack of understanding—and fear—made my earliest adventures with thunderstorms life-threatening. I nearly kissed the earth goodbye on several occasions in my initial challenges of the storm gods.
In one terrifying instance, captured on a video camera near Marana, Arizona, a renegade bolt struck the ground 10 feet from my tripod. The footage was eventually shown on a National Geographic Explorer special. "This small bolt could have killed Faidley," says the narrator.
On another occasion, also near Marana, a lightning bolt hit power lines above my car as I shot a dust storm. The strike sent arcing wires on top of my car. The blinding flash and ensuing thunderclap startled me so much that I lifted myself out of the seat and banged my head on the roof. Appropriately, "I Fall to Pieces" by Patsy Cline faded out for a moment on the radio as the lightning’s energy distorted the airwaves. It took a minute for my sight to be restored so I could drive safely away from burning wires that surrounded my car and a major brush fire ignited by the wires.
My escapades into the desolate regions of southern Arizona provided no shortage of spooky adventures and humor. Among my encounters: armed drug runners, scorpions, and flash floods.
Once, I was shooting a storm about midnight at a ranch near Sonoita, Arizona, when a magnificent lightning bolt flashed overhead and hit somewhere behind me. It was so close that my hair stood on end. I turned, half-bent in fright. After the last echo of rolling thunder faded from the nearby hills, there was silence again—except for a peculiar noise that became louder and louder. The noise was nothing I had heard before.
The mystery became unbearable. My pulse quickened with fear, by my curiosity won over. I grabbed a small flashlight and walked down a dirt road toward the sound. About 50 yards down the road, the noise rose to a higher pitch. For some damn reason, it seemed to be coming from the sky. I swear I saw something red flash high above for a split second. My flashlight beam dimmed to a weak, useless glow. The wind picked up and a light rain started to fall.
Normally, my imagination doesn’t interfere with my reasoning. However, earlier in the evening, I had turned in an AM radio talk show on UFO abductions. Most happen on nights in the middle of nowhere, the experts said. Well, Sonoita is pretty close to being the middle of nowhere, and the night was dark, and those lightning flashes were making the cacti look as though they were moving. I went back to the car.
Just as I turned and walked a few feet, there was a screech, then a loud metallic crash. I jumped to the side of the road, caught my foot on a rock and fell into the desert with my heart pounding in my ears. Fortunately, I fell right between two large, needle-sharp, cholla cacti. I paused, listened, stood and looked around me, expecting to glimpse the saucer people with their humongous dark eyes. Instead, there was dead silence. The eerie sound disappeared. I continued on, casting glances over my shoulder every few steps.
I packed the gear in the car and drove toward the highway. But curiosity was not only nagging me, it was hounding me. I turned the car around and went to solve the mystery. I wasn’t sure exactly where to go. The rain was now steady and I hunted for the two cacti, but there was so many that it was impossible to pinpoint where I’d been. I hunted for 15 minutes, then gave up and turned the car around. And my headlights solved the mystery.
Thirty feet off to the right side of the road stood a metal windmill tower, its circular vanes missing. I backed up and flicked on the brights to survey the ground below the tower. Sure enough, the vanes lay at the tower base. The tower had been hit by the lightning strike, and the damaged vanes had sparked, clanged and emitted a metallic groan.
The Nature of the Beasts
Tornadoes had eluded me.
Three years of chasing and I had yet to see one. I had witnessed numerous funnels, even a few suspect tornadoes wrapped in rain or darkness, but I had no definitive tornado on film or video. Nor did I have any idea that finding one would be so demanding, in time and brain power. What started as a challenge now blossomed into an all-out obsession. Spring of 1990 approached, and my mission in life was to find the perfect tornado and capture it on film.
Unfortunately, tornadoes don’t announce themselves. Out of 100,000 thunderstorms that are reported each year in the U.S., approximately 1,000 tornadoes will be officially recorded, yet less than 50 percent are chaseable, and even fewer offer good photographic opportunities. The majority of twisters occur in the cloak of darkness, hide within the shadows of rain and/or hail or form with little forewarning. In addition, they often drop over remote, inaccessible landscapes and can flee at speeds of 40 to 60 mph. Others exist for a fleeting moment, under the average life span of 10 minutes. Often, the shape and color of the tornado is lost on film to poor contrast, severely diffused by mist from high humidity, or obscured by dust.
Then the hard part: once I found a photographable twister, I would need to get close enough to get my shots without becoming one of the 80 or more Americans annually (on average) who are killed by them. Besides a blessing of luck, I would have to become a precise forecaster if I was going to capture a tornado and live to chase again. It was that simple.
To that end, I spent countless hours looking over every relevant textbook, technical report, historical record, film and magazine article that I could find. When I visited the National Weather Service offices, I deluged my hosts with questions. I paid detailed attention to my own forecasts, making notes of my mistakes. I learned to use a computer to gain access to weather data and plot out my own charts.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned during my observations was that the creation of a twister is an act of perfect timing. Environment and storm work together like a finely tuned machine. In order for substantial, chaseable storms to form, a number of atmospheric elements and events must merge at precisely the right time.
Fortunately, a few pieces of the chasing puzzle are no mystery. It is common knowledge that the most graphic tornadoes, and the highest frequency of tornadic events, occur from April to June, with the greatest concentration in the last two weeks of May and the first week of June. It is during this period that Gulf moisture works its way northward into the Plains, spring dynamics enter the region from the west, and jet stream winds race across the area. Thus, some severe weather "outbreak" events are apparent days in advance.
The domain of the most awesome twisters on this planet is certainly no enigma. It is a region where the elements come together most often with explosive force. It’s nicknamed "Tornado Alley," which has no official boundaries. Using governmental tornado occurrence statistics as geographic boundaries, it generally includes most of the central and east-central United States, bordered by western Kentucky to the east, and eastern Colorado to the west. This region has the world’s highest frequency of tornadoes, including "families" of violent tornadoes.
Even though Tornado Alley covers a vast area, the actual chaseable terrain encompasses around 250,000 square miles, which is less than 50 percent of the total area. What limits the chaser from covering the entire area is that a large portion of the Alley consists of densely foliated and hilly terrain. The lack of visibility and inability to spot severe storms in such regions is not only frustrating, it’s dangerous. This also partially accounts for the deadly history of this area.
Three years of chasing and I had yet to see one. I had witnessed numerous funnels, even a few suspect tornadoes wrapped in rain or darkness, but I had no definitive tornado on film or video. Nor did I have any idea that finding one would be so demanding, in time and brain power. What started as a challenge now blossomed into an all-out obsession. Spring of 1990 approached, and my mission in life was to find the perfect tornado and capture it on film.
Unfortunately, tornadoes don’t announce themselves. Out of 100,000 thunderstorms that are reported each year in the U.S., approximately 1,000 tornadoes will be officially recorded, yet less than 50 percent are chaseable, and even fewer offer good photographic opportunities. The majority of twisters occur in the cloak of darkness, hide within the shadows of rain and/or hail or form with little forewarning. In addition, they often drop over remote, inaccessible landscapes and can flee at speeds of 40 to 60 mph. Others exist for a fleeting moment, under the average life span of 10 minutes. Often, the shape and color of the tornado is lost on film to poor contrast, severely diffused by mist from high humidity, or obscured by dust.
Then the hard part: once I found a photographable twister, I would need to get close enough to get my shots without becoming one of the 80 or more Americans annually (on average) who are killed by them. Besides a blessing of luck, I would have to become a precise forecaster if I was going to capture a tornado and live to chase again. It was that simple.
To that end, I spent countless hours looking over every relevant textbook, technical report, historical record, film and magazine article that I could find. When I visited the National Weather Service offices, I deluged my hosts with questions. I paid detailed attention to my own forecasts, making notes of my mistakes. I learned to use a computer to gain access to weather data and plot out my own charts.
Perhaps the most important thing I learned during my observations was that the creation of a twister is an act of perfect timing. Environment and storm work together like a finely tuned machine. In order for substantial, chaseable storms to form, a number of atmospheric elements and events must merge at precisely the right time.
Fortunately, a few pieces of the chasing puzzle are no mystery. It is common knowledge that the most graphic tornadoes, and the highest frequency of tornadic events, occur from April to June, with the greatest concentration in the last two weeks of May and the first week of June. It is during this period that Gulf moisture works its way northward into the Plains, spring dynamics enter the region from the west, and jet stream winds race across the area. Thus, some severe weather "outbreak" events are apparent days in advance.
The domain of the most awesome twisters on this planet is certainly no enigma. It is a region where the elements come together most often with explosive force. It’s nicknamed "Tornado Alley," which has no official boundaries. Using governmental tornado occurrence statistics as geographic boundaries, it generally includes most of the central and east-central United States, bordered by western Kentucky to the east, and eastern Colorado to the west. This region has the world’s highest frequency of tornadoes, including "families" of violent tornadoes.
Even though Tornado Alley covers a vast area, the actual chaseable terrain encompasses around 250,000 square miles, which is less than 50 percent of the total area. What limits the chaser from covering the entire area is that a large portion of the Alley consists of densely foliated and hilly terrain. The lack of visibility and inability to spot severe storms in such regions is not only frustrating, it’s dangerous. This also partially accounts for the deadly history of this area.
High Risk
"I hear the voice of rage and ruin." The steering wheel was my drum, and I was singing along
to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s "Bad Moon Rising" on some distant AM station. I was on Highway 281, just outside Apache, Oklahoma,
happy to hear the chaser’s anthem. Today was a "high-risk" tornado day.
My fifth tornado chase season was underway, and the "big one" had still eluded me. I was anxious to get going. Instead of hitting the road in May, as planned, I gambled and started early. April storms can be difficult to chase, because jet stream winds often move them along at 40 mph or faster. As a result, interception would be a combination of perfect timing, positioning and fortune.
The NWS 48-hour forecast model and its satellite imagery showed an impressive cyclone approaching from the west. The spiraling, comma-shaped cloud pattern over the western U.S. was a hint of trouble. I sought out a senior forecaster who happened to be an experienced chaser. "This system is incredibly dynamic," he said. "If it holds together and taps into the gulf moisture, Friday will be a big-time chase day." A chaser in Oklahoma put it more succinctly: "People are going die on the 26th." That comment made my skin crawl. It was more than enough to keep me in the Alley for a couple of extra days, as well.
I was passing through Childress, Texas, on the morning of the 26th, en route to Wichita Falls, Texas, when I decided to stop at the NWS office and check on the latest forecast. The witch’s brew of low pressure, moisture, and a strong jet stream overhead were going to produce violent weather, forecasters believed. I examined the charts and data printouts posted on a bulletin board. A forecaster handed me a printout. "You’ll want to take a look at this," he said.
My fifth tornado chase season was underway, and the "big one" had still eluded me. I was anxious to get going. Instead of hitting the road in May, as planned, I gambled and started early. April storms can be difficult to chase, because jet stream winds often move them along at 40 mph or faster. As a result, interception would be a combination of perfect timing, positioning and fortune.
The NWS 48-hour forecast model and its satellite imagery showed an impressive cyclone approaching from the west. The spiraling, comma-shaped cloud pattern over the western U.S. was a hint of trouble. I sought out a senior forecaster who happened to be an experienced chaser. "This system is incredibly dynamic," he said. "If it holds together and taps into the gulf moisture, Friday will be a big-time chase day." A chaser in Oklahoma put it more succinctly: "People are going die on the 26th." That comment made my skin crawl. It was more than enough to keep me in the Alley for a couple of extra days, as well.
I was passing through Childress, Texas, on the morning of the 26th, en route to Wichita Falls, Texas, when I decided to stop at the NWS office and check on the latest forecast. The witch’s brew of low pressure, moisture, and a strong jet stream overhead were going to produce violent weather, forecasters believed. I examined the charts and data printouts posted on a bulletin board. A forecaster handed me a printout. "You’ll want to take a look at this," he said.
"IT IS EMPHASIZED THAT THIS IS A POTENTIALLY
DANGEROUS WEATHER SITUATION FOR MUCH OF
OKLAHOMA. EXTREME INSTABILITY AND THE
EXPECTED WINDS ALOFT INDICATE THE POTENTIAL
FOR A SIGNIFICANT SEVERE WEATHER OUTBREAK
LATER THIS AFTERNOON INCLUDING THE POSSIBILITY
OF VERY DESTRUCTIVE TORNADOES. RESIDENTS ARE
URGED TO TAKE THIS SITUATION SERIOUSLY."
DANGEROUS WEATHER SITUATION FOR MUCH OF
OKLAHOMA. EXTREME INSTABILITY AND THE
EXPECTED WINDS ALOFT INDICATE THE POTENTIAL
FOR A SIGNIFICANT SEVERE WEATHER OUTBREAK
LATER THIS AFTERNOON INCLUDING THE POSSIBILITY
OF VERY DESTRUCTIVE TORNADOES. RESIDENTS ARE
URGED TO TAKE THIS SITUATION SERIOUSLY."
I read the printout twice and studied my own data. I made
my way to the door and thanked the man. "Where are you heading?" he asked.
"Somewhere from west-central Oklahoma into Kansas. I’ll concentrate on the dryline," I said. The dryline is the boundary, often unstable, between moist and dry air masses.
It was hard to conceal my excitement. After four years of tornado chasing, it looked like my meteorological ship was coming in. Nothing like a terribly ominous forecast to boost the spirits.
I made my way north from Wichita Falls along Interstate 44 toward Oklahoma. I would continue north on Highway 281 towards Enid, Oklahoma, where I expected the first storms to develop near the dryline. The first growing storm clouds, or "towers," were visible in the distant west as I approached Fairview, Oklahoma. I followed them for several miles, hoping they would grow into my dream storm.
As impressive as they were, however, they abruptly collapsed into an overcast haze. Soon, other storms went up and suffered a similar fate. Something was seriously wrong with the atmosphere, I thought. In an hour or so, the sky above me was covered with a thick deck of gray, stratus clouds. I pulled to the side of the road and got out. I studied my road map and began to plan my southern route to Lubbock.
I was above to give up and go back, but a glance over my shoulder convinced me otherwise. It was about 3:30 p.m., and what I saw stunned me. Up through the ugly cloud bank towards the east, a mass of ivory-white storm clouds were shooting up through the sky in the typical A-bomb style.
The eastern sky soon revealed a tremendous storm with a rounded anvil-like head. From the base of the storm upward, the clouds were twisted, like a barber’s pole. The storm was rotating.
Just west of Enid, I picked up a radio station in the midst of transmitting a tornado warning: "Take shelter immediately. A tornado is reported on the ground just east of Enid," it said. I glanced at the gas gauge—empty. I made the mistake of not keeping my gas tank full. I cursed and pulled into the first gas station I saw. I ran inside, rudely passed two people standing in line, tossed the clerk a $10 bill. I raced back to the car, pumped, and tore off down the highway after my storm. I had wasted precious, precious time.
East of Enid, along Highway 64, the sides of the road were lined with cars. It seemed that everyone was pointing or staring at the storm. Moments later, I saw why.
Protruding from the clouds, hovering over green files some five miles away, was a long rope-like funnel snaking its way down from the dark base of the cloud. I pulled to the side of the highway. Simultaneously, the funnel completely vanished. I continued traveling east, guessing that the small twister was but a hint that bigger things were coming.
I tracked the storm bouncing between a maze of dusty dirt roads and the highway. I kept as close as possible to the updraft base, the area where a tornado usually drops. I pulled over, again, when I noticed the entire base of the storm was beginning to rapidly rotate and contract.
Suddenly, a large, white, cone-shaped funnel developed from a "wall cloud" in the center of the updraft. In a minute, the cone transformed into an enormous wedge-shaped tornado that spread out over the field and began ripping up dirt, plants, shrubs, and anything in its path, throwing the material up and way from the vortex.
After I came to my senses—after all, this was the first time I had seen such a sight—I jumped back into the car and tore after the wedge. I found that the storm was moving away at better than 40 mph. I drove as fast as I could down the dirt road, video camera in one hand, steering wheel in the other. My challenge was to keep the tornado framed in the center of the viewfinder. I was completely overwhelmed.
I was able to drive parallel with the tornado for several miles, keeping an eye on it to avoid becoming one more piece of the flying debris. I should have heard faint echoes of mothers telling their kids to "avoid that Faidley kid."
So massive and so fast was the tornado that I couldn’t tell for sure which was it was heading. Illusion was also a risk here. Since my mind had never encountered this type of image, it did not register as "the real thing." I wanted to get the best pictures ever taken of a tornado; I didn’t want to become this tornado’s playmate on a dirt road with no escape.
I reached Highway 15 and headed north, directly toward the tornado. It appeared to be five miles away. I kept the video camera focused on the vortex, which became ominously larger as I closed in. It looked more like a huge plume of smoke than a mile-wide tornado.
The landscape quickly dropped down into a river area, thickly lined with trees, which completely cut off my view of the twister. I approached a metal span bridge and noticed the tops of the trees beginning to bend in the direction of the tornado. I was unsure of the tornado’s location, and I locked up the brakes just before the bridge. The car spun around on the highway shoulder, and started back south until I could once again see the tornado over the trees. Then, a quarter mile from where I stood, the tornado crossed the road.
I turned around again and headed back north. Debris was falling from the sky on the far side of the bridge. Not wanting to get whacked by a stray two-by-four, I pulled over and narrated the closing events as the twister churned onward and disappeared into the rain. I anxiously examined my road maps and tried to find an eastward route. It was useless. The nearest highway going east was too far. Several other people went zooming by, trying to catch the shadowy twister. It was long gone.
"Somewhere from west-central Oklahoma into Kansas. I’ll concentrate on the dryline," I said. The dryline is the boundary, often unstable, between moist and dry air masses.
It was hard to conceal my excitement. After four years of tornado chasing, it looked like my meteorological ship was coming in. Nothing like a terribly ominous forecast to boost the spirits.
I made my way north from Wichita Falls along Interstate 44 toward Oklahoma. I would continue north on Highway 281 towards Enid, Oklahoma, where I expected the first storms to develop near the dryline. The first growing storm clouds, or "towers," were visible in the distant west as I approached Fairview, Oklahoma. I followed them for several miles, hoping they would grow into my dream storm.
As impressive as they were, however, they abruptly collapsed into an overcast haze. Soon, other storms went up and suffered a similar fate. Something was seriously wrong with the atmosphere, I thought. In an hour or so, the sky above me was covered with a thick deck of gray, stratus clouds. I pulled to the side of the road and got out. I studied my road map and began to plan my southern route to Lubbock.
I was above to give up and go back, but a glance over my shoulder convinced me otherwise. It was about 3:30 p.m., and what I saw stunned me. Up through the ugly cloud bank towards the east, a mass of ivory-white storm clouds were shooting up through the sky in the typical A-bomb style.
The eastern sky soon revealed a tremendous storm with a rounded anvil-like head. From the base of the storm upward, the clouds were twisted, like a barber’s pole. The storm was rotating.
Just west of Enid, I picked up a radio station in the midst of transmitting a tornado warning: "Take shelter immediately. A tornado is reported on the ground just east of Enid," it said. I glanced at the gas gauge—empty. I made the mistake of not keeping my gas tank full. I cursed and pulled into the first gas station I saw. I ran inside, rudely passed two people standing in line, tossed the clerk a $10 bill. I raced back to the car, pumped, and tore off down the highway after my storm. I had wasted precious, precious time.
East of Enid, along Highway 64, the sides of the road were lined with cars. It seemed that everyone was pointing or staring at the storm. Moments later, I saw why.
Protruding from the clouds, hovering over green files some five miles away, was a long rope-like funnel snaking its way down from the dark base of the cloud. I pulled to the side of the highway. Simultaneously, the funnel completely vanished. I continued traveling east, guessing that the small twister was but a hint that bigger things were coming.
I tracked the storm bouncing between a maze of dusty dirt roads and the highway. I kept as close as possible to the updraft base, the area where a tornado usually drops. I pulled over, again, when I noticed the entire base of the storm was beginning to rapidly rotate and contract.
Suddenly, a large, white, cone-shaped funnel developed from a "wall cloud" in the center of the updraft. In a minute, the cone transformed into an enormous wedge-shaped tornado that spread out over the field and began ripping up dirt, plants, shrubs, and anything in its path, throwing the material up and way from the vortex.
After I came to my senses—after all, this was the first time I had seen such a sight—I jumped back into the car and tore after the wedge. I found that the storm was moving away at better than 40 mph. I drove as fast as I could down the dirt road, video camera in one hand, steering wheel in the other. My challenge was to keep the tornado framed in the center of the viewfinder. I was completely overwhelmed.
I was able to drive parallel with the tornado for several miles, keeping an eye on it to avoid becoming one more piece of the flying debris. I should have heard faint echoes of mothers telling their kids to "avoid that Faidley kid."
So massive and so fast was the tornado that I couldn’t tell for sure which was it was heading. Illusion was also a risk here. Since my mind had never encountered this type of image, it did not register as "the real thing." I wanted to get the best pictures ever taken of a tornado; I didn’t want to become this tornado’s playmate on a dirt road with no escape.
I reached Highway 15 and headed north, directly toward the tornado. It appeared to be five miles away. I kept the video camera focused on the vortex, which became ominously larger as I closed in. It looked more like a huge plume of smoke than a mile-wide tornado.
The landscape quickly dropped down into a river area, thickly lined with trees, which completely cut off my view of the twister. I approached a metal span bridge and noticed the tops of the trees beginning to bend in the direction of the tornado. I was unsure of the tornado’s location, and I locked up the brakes just before the bridge. The car spun around on the highway shoulder, and started back south until I could once again see the tornado over the trees. Then, a quarter mile from where I stood, the tornado crossed the road.
I turned around again and headed back north. Debris was falling from the sky on the far side of the bridge. Not wanting to get whacked by a stray two-by-four, I pulled over and narrated the closing events as the twister churned onward and disappeared into the rain. I anxiously examined my road maps and tried to find an eastward route. It was useless. The nearest highway going east was too far. Several other people went zooming by, trying to catch the shadowy twister. It was long gone.
Excerpts from "Storm Chaser: In Purusit
of Untamed Skies" (Weather Channel, 1996). Used with permission of author.
Published by Rain Farm Press and its literary journal Paradigm.
Copyright © 2007.
