A View from the Air

I initially posted the following humorous piece without any preamble. It subsequently dawned on me that a brief introduction could serve one important purpose: preventing anyone from taking me seriously. The following is strictly fictitious and by no means a true account. The real Bill is indeed a wildman, and I’ve got my own crazy streak, but neither of us is quite as nuts as our fictional alter-egos.

With that understanding established, I present …
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A View from the Air

Copyright ©2012 by Robert M. Hartig
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“Look at those clouds!” said Bill. “You just don’t see that kind of structure from the ground. Chasing storms this high up gives you a whole new perspective.”

“Hmmph,” I grunted. He was right, but I was in no mood to agree.

“See how tiny those farms down there look? What an incredible view!”

I had my own opinion of the view. I felt irritable, and the growing symptoms of airsickness weren’t helping. But Bill was enjoying himself, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

The use of airplanes has recently added a novel wrinkle to storm chasing. After viewing Skip Talbot and Caleb Elliott’s stunning videos of supercells shot from a private plane, Bill and I decided to try our own hand at aerial chasing. So now here we were east of Wichita, circling a storm. Thus does what begins as a half-formed thought escalate into a full-blown idiocy.

A sudden bout of turbulence jolted us. Our fragile craft rose and fell fifty feet in a single second, and my stomach lodged one more protest in an expanding series. The complaints were rapidly approaching the danger level. What would happen once that level got breached was not pleasant to contemplate. It would be great wisdom to avoid such an eventuality. But wisdom hadn’t gotten us up here to begin with, and it couldn’t be counted on to show up now.

The plane had been my idea, which is strange considering I’m normally more cautious than Bill. Our storm chasing partnership spans the better part of two decades, long enough to establish Bill as a maniac and me as a maiden aunt. The combination has worked well and sparked some memorable moments. Tactical conversations between Bill and me typically go like this:

Me: What a monster tornado! It’s going to pass within a quarter mile. That sucker could drop a satellite vortex right on top of us. We need to move.
Bill: Yeah, let’s get closer.

Bill: Wall cloud.
Me: Where?
Bill: Right above us, rotating like crazy.
Me: Oh.
Bill: [Pulls over and parks the car.]

Bill: We’ll just take this shortcut west straight toward the meso and beat it to the main road by at least thirty seconds.
Me: Are you serious? This is little more than a two-track of wet Kansas clay. We get stuck here and we’ll get eaten.
Bill: Trust me. I’ve got four-wheel-drive, I’m doing sixty miles an hour to maintain momentum, and I’m consulting the map as I drive to spare you the stress of discovering that this road doesn’t even show on Street Atlas. You’ve got—whoops, almost hit that gully—absolutely nothing to fear.
Me: Let me know when I can open my eyes.

Me: We were too close.
Bill: I agree.
Me: You do? You’re kidding. Let me feel your forehead. Hmmm … nope, you’re not running a fever.
Bill: Stuff the sarcasm. Now let’s get out of this ditch and see if we can find my car. It can’t have blown far.

You get the picture: just the normal banter between two chasers. Occasionally, though, circumstances get intense. Which brings me back to my story.

After talking it over, Bill and I hit upon a plan for an airborne chase. It was simple and elegant. We would watch the forecast models for a strong storm system to show up, one that displayed good potential for producing classic, well-structured supercells. Then, assuming that the system firmed up as the forecast hours narrowed down, we would locate a private pilot in our target area who was willing to fly us within proximity of a tornado, and we would book several hours with him or her. Our main concern would be to find someone capable of making cool, level-headed decisions in the face of extreme flying conditions, a requirement complicated by the fact that any pilot willing to assist us would necessarily be insane.

An adequate storm system presented itself in due course. More than adequate, in fact. A potent trough promised to dig down into the plains, and with it, the kind of conditions that storm chasers drool over. Three days out, the Storm Prediction Center had already outlooked a moderate risk for much of Kansas. It was time for Bill and me to hunt up our pilot.

You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone willing to do fly-bys of a tornadic supercell with hundred-mile-an-hour updrafts and downdrafts and baseball-size hail that can shred a small plane in seconds. We’d almost given up when Bill found a private charter service that would take us on.

“The name Lunatic Larry’s Aerial Antics makes me a bit nervous,” I said.

“I know. The company motto bothers me. ‘No One’s Died Yet’ just doesn’t inspire confidence. But we don’t have any choice.”

“I wonder if our boy is on drugs.”

“I asked him about that,” Bill replied. “He said, ‘Hell yes.’”

“That’s good,” I said. “At least he’s properly medicated.”

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Two days later we were in Bill’s Subaru, headed southeast down I-35 on the home stretch toward Lunatic Larry’s hangar just outside Wichita. We were to meet Larry promptly at 6:00. Just to our west, though, storms were already exploding.

“Look, there’s a wall cloud,” Bill said. “Hey—tornado!”

“Not very far away, either,” I said. “It’ll pass just a couple miles to our north.”

We looked at each other. It was only a few minutes after five o’clock. We had time. “Let’s get it,” I said.

By the time we drew within a mile of it, the tornado had grown into a good, solid stovepipe. I glanced upward. We were at the edge of the meso. It looked low, turbulent, and entirely untrustworthy. “Careful, Bill,” I said. “We could get a spin-up anywhere in there.”

“I know, buddy. I just want to get a little closer, get a good look at this thing.”

“Okay. Just don’t get too close.”

“Trust the old pro. I know what I’m doing.”

I rolled my eyes. Here it comes, I thought. Once the Old Pro surfaces, it’s useless to say more. “Fine. Bear in mind that Lunatic Larry keeps our deposit if you get us killed.”

We drew closer to the tornado, which was chewing through a forest and throwing trees hundreds of feet up into the air. By and by I said, “I think we’re too close.”

“Nah, we’re okay,” said Bill. “We can get closer.” A tree flew by in front of us. “Then again, this is probably close enough.”

“Good,” I said, striving to unclench my teeth. “I applaud your restraint.”

“Thank you,” Bill replied, smiling modestly.

“I would even advocate for backing up a smidge,” I added with a relaxed, cheerful grimace. “Better for viewing storm structure.”

A cow tumbled past the windshield with a startled look on its face, mooing above the wind roar. “Okay,” the Old Pro said. Shifting the Subaru into reverse, he backed up ten feet.

This was crazy. I had to think of something quickly or we’d both wind up in pine boxes with little anemometers attached to them, turning gently while an organ played in the background. “Great Scott!” I cried. “Look at the time! We’re supposed to meet Lunatic Larry in ten minutes. These storms are just getting started. There’ll be more tornadoes. We need to drop this one and get our butts to the airport.”

“Nuts, you’re right,” said Bill. “We have to go.” Turning the vehicle around, he headed back south toward the highway.

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Half an hour later, as we soared high above the landscape just below the cloud base, Bill said, “You have to admit, the view up here is spectacular. See down there, those other chasers on the roads way down below? Ha! I’ll bet they’d give their right arms to trade places with us right now!”

“You had to do it, didn’t you,” I replied, peevishly. “You had to make just one more pass at that stupid tornado before we headed to the airport.”

“Hey, how was I to know it was going to wedge out on us? Besides, look where we are now. Didn’t I tell you to trust the old pro?”

He had a point. Actually, the view from a Subaru at 900 feet is pretty decent, probably every bit as good as it would have been from Lunatic Larry’s airplane. Maybe even better. Even a lunatic wouldn’t have gotten us this close.

“It sure is a long-track tornado,” I said as we completed another circuit around the funnel. “You got the live-stream running?”

“You bet. Over ten thousand viewers, last I looked.”

“Good. That’ll help cover expenses. Maybe even hospital bills after we land. I guess we can kiss our deposit with Larry good-bye.”