No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

–John Donne

Yesterday, March 2, 2010, the bell tolled for Dr. Eric Flescher, and in tolling for him, it tolled for us all. We in the storm chasing community are diminished by the loss of a good, decent man whose passion for life was matched with a gentle, friendly spirit.

I never met Eric in person, but, like many on Stormtrack, I swapped plenty of messages with him, enough that I considered him a long-distance friend whom I looked forward to meeting. Last year he had let me know that his door was open if I needed a place to overnight while out chasing, and I was struck by his generosity and hospitality.

I never made it out to Kansas City in 2009, but I had hoped to finally connect with Eric face to face this spring. I regret that now I will not get the opportunity to sit down with him and talk about storm chasing, and about carnivorous plants, another passion of Eric’s that he and I shared. He was so proud of that Nepenthes ampullaria! And he was able to successfully grow a cobra lily–no small accomplishment.

To say that Eric was a storm chaser captures just one facet of him. He was a Renaissance man with a broad variety of interests ranging from severe weather, to astronomy, to carnivorous plants, to cooking, and more. Those who knew him better than I can no doubt add plenty of other items to the list. But in the storm chasing community, he was known foremost as a fellow chaser, and judging from the responses to ongoing news of his condition since early last December, and now of his death, he clearly was a very well-liked and respected chaser whom many counted as their friend.

In my five years on Stormtrack, I never once saw Eric enter into the sniping and flame wars that have lit up the forums, or demean another member, or utter a bad word about anyone. Not ever. And I never saw a bad word written about Eric. Those who wrote to him or of him expressed only appreciation and respect. In a community of diverse, colorful, and opinionated personalities, to be able to say such things about Eric is a tribute to his character and his stature.

Today I am saddened by Eric’s death. His wife, Sue Ellen, will deeply miss her beloved husband; many of us will miss our friend; and all of us will miss a gentle, decent, passionate man whose presence made both the chaser community and the world in general a better place.

Happy New Year, everyone! Welcome to a brand new decade.

With multiple possibilities for my first blog post in the year 2010, I find myself contemplating a recent thread on Stormtrack, and, in the light of it, reminiscing about my own development as a storm chaser.

The thread started with a newbie chaser asking forum members’ opinions about what constitutes a “veteran chaser.” The guy took a bit of a bashing initially, but to me his question seemed innocent, reflecting honest curiosity rather than a preoccupation with labels or a need to earn some sort of merit badge, and it made for an interesting discussion.

And, as I’ve said, it got me to reflecting on my personal path. One by one, the chase seasons have connected to each other like boxcars on a train. It seems incredible to think that 2010 will mark my fourteenth year chasing storms. If years alone were what it took to make a person a veteran chaser, then I might qualify.

But years alone do not a veteran make–at least, not in my opinion. A veteran road warrior, yes; a veteran storm chaser, no. There are plenty of people who have been chasing a shorter time than me, but who have acquired far more skill and experience. As for me, I’m just a slow but happy learner who’s too low-key to mess with light bars.

However, the span of time I’ve been chasing has allowed me some formative experiences I probably wouldn’t have had if I had started more recently. Today, it seems like the average neophyte steps into the field equipped, if not with knowledge, at least with a laptop, GR3, GPS, and an aircard. He or she has a technological edge that didn’t exist, or that barely existed, back when I was getting started.

I now realize that the simplicity and constraints of those first, low-tech years have left me with a gift of memories. I treasure those thousands of miles I traveled–sometimes by myself, sometimes with Bill and/or Tom Oosterbaan–equipped with nothing more than a weather radio, a portable black-and-white TV set, high hopes, and an eye on the sky.

Radar? I stopped at local libraries and airports and got my fix. I had no idea how long a radar image would be good for, how much difference four-and-a-half minutes and a single scan could make. Today I just shake my head and think, no wonder I never saw any tornadoes. It’s a wonder I managed to see a stinkin’ cloud.

As for forecasting, that consisted of looking at SPC outlooks and then steering for the middle of a moderate or high risk area. At some point, though, I discovered my first link to a site for forecasting models, and an interesting–and daunting–new window opened up. Suddenly, here was a bewildering suite of data–surface dewpoints, BRN shear, CAPE, lifted indices, helicity, 300 mb winds…alchemy, pure alchemy, and in a variety of flavors at that. GFS. ETA. RUC. Hoo boy, talk about dumping a load on my head!

Around that same time, I attended my first severe weather conference at College of DuPage. As I recall, Chuck Doswell conducted a workshop on hand analysis and Eric Rasmussen shared some findings from the first Project Vortex. By then, I knew just enough acronyms and concepts to make sense out of some of what was getting thrown at me. Much of the value lay simply in being exposed to the actual stuff of operational forecasting and severe weather research. There’s something to be said for sheer exposure; even if a body grasps just a fraction of the concepts he encounters, what matters is, it’s a start. I left that conference, and the one that followed it a year or two later, equipped with a little more awareness and a little less ignorance than I had coming in.

My first successful tornado intercept occurred in my first season as a chaser, in 1996, in my home state of Michigan. A wall cloud formed directly south of my workplace, and I left work early to chase it sixty miles to where it put down a beautiful tube out in the open countryside near St. Johns. The storm was a classic supercell, as nice as anything I’ve seen out on the Great Plains, though at the time I had no ground for comparison and knew nothing about storm modes or morphology.

It would be another ten years before I witnessed my next tornado in 2006, as Bill and I tracked the historic Six State Supercell from west of Columbia, Missouri, all the way back to Michigan. Prior to that, I had roamed my state and neighboring Indiana, and pounded the flatlands of Illinois, with just a handful of wall clouds and a growing awareness of storm structure to show for it. The year 2005 was my first excursion across the Mississippi and my first experience watching storms explode along the dryline in central Kansas.

But 2006 was the year when things finally started coming together for me, and I think that Bill–my consistent chase partner for all these years–would say the same, since our personal learning curves have been closely tied together. By then we were using Bill’s business laptop and had access to NOAA radar. I had just discovered the significance of velocity couplets, although, not yet understanding the benefit of using storm relative velocity over base level velocity, I was using the latter. Again, it was a start, and the base level gave us enough data to keep us from very likely getting blown off the road by the Springfield, Illinois, tornado as Bill and I chased the Six State Supercell.

A month later, we intercepted tornadoes in Iowa, including another large, night-time tornado that did F2 damage in Iowa City.

That same year, I acquired my own laptop, and the following spring I added GR3, and from there on, my learning and experience curve began to snowball. Today, as I look at where I started and where I’m now at, I realize that I’ve learned a few things. I’ve gained another great chasing partner in my buddy Kurt Hulst. I’m making my own forecasts with increasing knowledge and accuracy. I haven’t seen a lot of tornadoes, but I’ve seen my share, and I trust that, by God’s grace, I’ll see more, as well as endure more busts and make more idiotic choices that cost me storms I could have had.

So, getting back to the question of what makes a veteran chaser, I’m firsthand proof that there’s more to it than just the number of years a person has been chasing storms. In my opinion, there are actually three components to being a veteran storm chaser:

1. Really, really knowing what the heck you’re doing,

2. Many years of doing it, and

3. Lots of successes and lots of failures to show for it.

I probably fulfill the second criterion. As for the other two, well…I’ve got a ways to go, but I’m working on them. Give me another ten years and maybe the hat will fit. It really doesn’t matter, though. As a general rule, chasers who are worth their salt don’t give a flip about labels. They’re driven by storms, not status. Certain names are indeed revered–icons such as Tim Marshal, David Hoadley, Roger Edwards, and Gene Moore. As for the rest of us mortals, I think that those who’ve been at it a for a while respect others who have paid their dues. We know the names, if not the actual faces, and recognize the shared passion and personal investment behind those names. The countless miles traveled. The commitment to learning and growth.

Above all, the love for the storms that keeps us dreaming all through the winter, and that, in the spring, calls us once again toward the open skies, the tumbled clouds, and the hope and promise of the Plains.

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It’s drawing closer, and I’m getting excited. I’m talking about the College of DuPage’s upcoming Severe Weather Symposium, which will be held November 5-7. With a lineup of presenters that features some of the foremost luminaries in severe thunderstorm research, the event promises to be stellar.

I’m surprised I haven’t seen more talk about it on Stormtrack, but maybe that’s because the symposium is being held in Chicago rather than out in the Great Plains. Or perhaps it’s because the midweek timing puts a crimp on people who have to work.

But while proximity may be an issue for some and scheduling for others, the content is compelling enough that if you’re anywhere within a couple hundred miles, it will truly be your loss if you don’t make time for this event. Looking over the agenda, here’s what I see:

* All of Thursday afternoon is devoted to various aspects of convective initiation. If you want to improve your targeting skills with the latest information, this day alone ought to be worth its weight in gold.

* Day two focuses largely on tornadogenesis, but includes other topics such as a photogrammetric analysis of the Elie, Manitoba, F5 tornado, and issues in severe weather warnings. The latter presentation will no doubt address the hotly contended use of the enhanced “tornado emergency” wording.

* Day three will…well, look, here’s the complete agenda. You can read it for yourself, and conclude, as I did, that this is going to be a standout event for storm chasers.

I’ve been waiting for a long time for another severe weather conference courtesy of Paul Sirvatka and the College of DuPage. I attended two of their symposiums some years ago, back when my storm chasing skills were still very formative, and each one was time well spent. This one looks to be the best yet. Poised between the end of a stormless autumn and the long, desperate, SDS-riddled winter months, it will provide a welcome immersion into the world of tornado research and operational forecasting that ought to bear dividends when the Gulf reopens for business again next spring.

I just finished looking through a couple forum threads on Stormtrack.org, one of them about what makes a person a “true” storm chaser, and the other about storm chasing legends, about the forerunners who have risen to icon status. In reading the latter thread, I was struck by a similarity between jazz and storm chasing that I had never seen before: each is a distinctively American art form.

While today both jazz musicians and storm chasers hail from all over the world, yet we owe our respective crafts to a handful of American pioneers who, guided by passion and a quest to learn and excel, first set forth into uncharted territory and showed the rest of us the way.

Both pursuits are young. Jazz has been with us for only a century. Storm chasing has existed half that time, a little over fifty years. In the history of both, the progression of discoveries and advancements has been rapid, even dizzying. One obvious difference is that the patriarchs of jazz have passed on, whereas most of the veterans of storm chasing are still with us. Louis Armstrong is long gone, but David Hoadley remains a present inspiration, and while I’ve never met him, I assume from his occasional input on Stormtrack–the online descendant of Hoadley’s trade magazine for chasers–that he’s still fairly active.

I suspect that Hoadley wouldn’t see himself in the same light as Louis Armstrong. From all accounts of David, he’s a humble man who likely would feel surprised to be compared with the likes of Louis. Yet both men are innovators. Both followed their instincts to accomplish something that had never been done before. In Armstrong’s case, the result was the birth of a brand new musical language of feeling, inflection, and improvisation. With Hoadley, it was the acquisition of knowledge and insights that could only come from actively pursuing tornadic storms rather than passively waiting for the storms to come to him.

Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, John Coltrane.

David Hoadley, Tim Marshall, Jim Leonard, Chuck Doswell, Al Moller, Howard Bluestein.

The lists are only partial, and over time they will grow. Storm chasing probably has more potential for true innovators to rise within its ranks than does jazz, for similarities aside, jazz is driven primarily by creative explorations that have for the most part already been made, whereas storm chasing deals with a subject about which much still remains unknown, and is influenced to a much greater degree by advances in meteorology and technology. Regardless, the icons of each field occupy a special, venerable position that can never be duplicated. The rest of us–whether we’re small-town musicians or world-renowned artists, or whether we’re neophyte chasers or OKU grad students with plenty of chase seasons under our belts–can only do the best we know how to carry the torches lit by our predecessors.

From our ranks, too, new knowledge will come and new beauty will be birthed, and from time to time, someone truly remarkable will rise to the surface. Let’s hope that person’s generosity of spirit will be in keeping with his or her abilities.

As was Louis’ Armstrong’s. As is David Hoadley’s.

Reading a thread in Stormtrack, I came upon a comment in which the poster briefly griped about how the 2009 storm chasing season had been a lousy one for him. In the post that followed, another member mentioned that it wasn’t fair to blame the weather for one’s personal lack of scalps when the season itself had been pretty solid. The context was lighthearted, though I read enough pointedness to the second comment that it made me stop and think.

The first commenter never said there weren’t plenty of tornadoes; he just said that he’d had a lousy season. My own season hasn’t been that hot either. For the thousands of miles I’ve driven, I’ve only got one tornado to show for it–at least, one that I’m certain of. Sure, I’ve witnessed some beautiful structure and gotten beaned by some big hail in northwest Missouri, but this year has been nothing like 2008.

Am I blaming the weather? No. Those who were in a position to chase all the slight risk day in the Great Plains, from the southern plains to the Canadian border, had plenty of opportunities and did great. But me, I live in Michigan. Much as I’d like to be out there chasing slight risk days in Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, and the Dakotas, logistically it’s just not feasible for me to do so. I’ve got a livelihood to earn, and gas and lodging cost money.

Add to that the fact that I made at least one poor judgment call that took me and my buddy south when we should have gone north, and I’ve had what amounts to a mediocre to poor storm chasing season. If I lived in the heart of Tornado Alley, I think I’d have enjoyed a much better one. But where I live, I have things to factor into my chase/don’t chase decisions that wouldn’t be as much of a concern if I lived in, say, Oklahoma City or Topeka, Kansas.

That’s not the weather’s fault. It’s just a matter of geography and personal circumstances. If I were to blame the weather for anything, it would be for putting in a substandard performance so far in the central Great Lakes, an area that never fares as well as the plains states to begin with. But of course, it’s pointless to blame the weather for anything, period. Weather isn’t an ethical entity–it just does what it does, and those of us who chase after it have to make our judgment calls the best we know how.

Living in Michigan, I’d be a fool to go after synoptic setups that I’d be an equal fool to pass up if I lived in Kansas instead. That’s the reality, at least for me, though I think I’m by no means alone.

So no, this hasn’t been a bad season for chase weather, not at all. But if you’re me, it hasn’t been a very good season for getting to much of the action.

Maybe the secondary season this fall will create a few more opportunities. I hope so. Give me another setup like October 18, 2007, and I’ll be a happy man.

Morning. I’m still in bed, and from the next room, sounds of family are drifting through the door. I’m in Dallas with my sister Diane, visiting with my brother Brian, sister-in-law Cheryl, and little nephew Samuel. Since the last time I saw him, Sam has transitioned from babyhood to little-boyhood. He has acquired a vocabulary, a white baseball cap that it’s very important to wear (backwards or sideways, as is the custome), and a very cool train set that we played with last night.

My lady Lisa is holding down the fort back in Grand Rapids, where the weather is providing a much cooler contrast to the upper-90s heat that’s on the menu for this week here in north Texas. Chasing storms is of course out of the question. I’ve family to visit, a bit of work to do, and in any case, there are no storms. Summer has hit and the atmosphere is capped as tightly as an oil drum. On Stormtrack, chasers are bidding the 2009 chase season adieu. I note that the SPC has outlooked days 5-6, but they’re not using the kind of language that gets me very excited.

I’m keeping this short. I can hear the sound of forks clicking on breakfast plates. It’s time to shower up and get myself going.

Now that Sunday’s brouhaha in Tornado Alley is over and done, the big question seems to be, where were all the tornadoes? The turnout was there, the fans were waiting, but besides the rope and the wedge/multivortex/stovepipe that my buddies Bill and Tom witnessed near Crawford, Oklahoma, in company with a multitude of other chasers, there just wasn’t anything to make postcards out of. The big show never showed. Even the lone supercell that wandered north out of Texas into Oklahoma’s higher helicities never produced, despite its lack of competition. Oh, there were a couple of twisters in Kansas, and with a tally of four, Iowa had the most reports of all. Ironically,  it wasn’t even in the PDS high risk area.

This is by no means to criticize the crew at the SPC; those are some highly adept meteorological minds, the finest in the world. No, it’s just to muse at the vagaries of the weather. Rudimentary as my own forecasting skills are, I’ve nevertheless come to realize that no matter how good a forecaster one becomes, the weather is still the weather. Capricious. Subject to subtleties that no one gives weight to until after the fact. The butterfly beats its wings and a tornado fires up in Texas–or a seemingly volatile setup falls apart.

Judging from the YouTube videos and the photos posted on Stormtrack, a lot of people managed to be in the right place at the right time for the one storm in Oklahoma that did produce a couple very photogenic tornadoes. But the event was a far cry from high-risk mayhem.

Guess I can’t feel bad about that, since I was sitting at home nursing a chest cold while my mates were out there roaming the Plains. The cold now seems finally poised to start breaking up, and hopefully in another day or two I’ll feel halfway human again. It’s just as well that I get this nonsense out of the way now, so I’m up to snuff physically in a couple weeks when my buds and I head out to the Alley for an extended tour. I hope that by then, there won’t be any lack of the right ingredients in the atmospheric brew to make the trip worthwhile.

Here is a conversation you’re unlikely to overhear at a restaurant:

“I’m going to move.”

“Why? Vermont is such a beautiful state.”

“Not enough tornadoes. I’m thinking maybe Hays, Kansas.”

Nope, you just won’t hear most people talk that way. A generous supply of tornadoes simply isn’t a big selling point for the average homebuyer. On the other hand, if you’re a storm chaser, it could be a compelling reason to sell your chalet near Boise, Idaho, and move to Wakeeney.

I just finished perusing a thread on Stormtrack where chasers were considering this question. The earnestness of the discussion struck my funny bone. I mean, the concept of moving somewhere because it has lots of tornadoes is utterly foreign to most Americans, who are unmotivated by tornado accessibility. In fact, I’d venture to say that many people would consider the idea downright weird. (“You’re moving where because of what?“)

Chasers, however, seem to see nothing unusual about factoring in tornado statistics as a motivating factor in home buying.  It’s weird. And the reason I laugh is because I can relate. I’m not ready to pack up my bags and move from Michigan, because busted economy or not, I love this state. But if I ever do move, it won’t be to California because of the ocean, or Florida because of the warm weather, or Vermont because of its rural New England beauty. It’ll be to the Great Plains because of the dryline.

Realistically, I can’t see it happening anytime soon. I might be able to find a location with a decent brewpub, such as Wichita, but where would I go to hear some decent live jazz, let alone play it? That side of me is as important as the storm chaser in me. Maybe the two can be reconciled. To be honest, I’m not too worried about it. It’s just fun to think about, and certainly worth laughing about.

I do kinda wonder, though, what it would cost to build an underground bunker as a vacation home in the Texas panhandle.