Note: This is the sixth of a nine-part series of personal vignettes that explore the challenges of the human journey from cradle to grave. Start at the beginning here.
My fascination with extreme weather predates the movie Twister by almost three decades. But it was that Hollywood film that brought storm chasers into the view of popular culture for the first time. How did the movie portray them? As scientists and nerds, eccentrics and thrill seekers. Who, other than an outlier or a madman, would want to aggressively pursue unpredictable forces of nature that can, within seconds, literally wipe an entire town off the face of the earth?
I had always wanted to experience a tornado firsthand, to see, hear, and feel a meteorological event that was as perilous as it was enthralling. As a child growing up in the Midwest, I'd witnessed the power of many severe thunderstorms, and I had to take shelter in our basement on numerous occasions in response to tornado warnings. I had terrifying nightmares about tornadoes pursuing me. Still, I was enthralled by them. When I was older, I grew more curious about how tornadoes formed and functioned; I wanted to try to understand the inner dynamics, not just observe the awe-inspiring, external effects, of these wild and inscrutable monsters of the sky.
When I had the opportunity to write a magazine piece on a professional storm chaser from Texas, I jumped at the chance. I met Stephen Levine at his residence just outside of Dallas. The walls in his apartment were filled with photographs of dramatic lightning, interesting cloud formations, and tornadoes; bags were half-packed and ready for a road trip; on his computer screen was a page from the Storm Prediction Center (in Norman, Oklahoma) showing a map of the United States and highlighting potential regions for severe weather over the next several days. We spent the evening loading up his van with supplies we needed for the trip, which would last about a week.
I followed Stephen in a rental car and we communicated with CBs. As we drove north past the town of Moore, Oklahoma, I slowed down and gazed out the windows of my vehicle. The area looked like a war zone. A month before, a devastating F-5 tornado (the most powerful and violent level of intensity on the Fujita scale) had crossed the highway at exactly this spot and then went on to tear through the Oklahoma City suburb. Scores of people were killed and entire neighborhoods were obliterated. The damage path was still visible. A former motel was now a mass of twisted steel and shattered concrete. I felt ambivalent about what we were doing. While we were actively seeking twisters, this community had just been destroyed by one. Was I just an amoral joyrider? Was there any goal other than a thrill behind our actions?