Into The Storm: Part III
Part 3: Place
The storm comes up in the usual way- a popcorn tower on the western horizon, growing till it blots out the sun and releases the fury hidden in its folds.
Amidst the chaos, a young man pushes back a canvas flap and peers outside. He is tall and thin, dressed simply in a T-shirt and Carhartts. Booms of thunder cut through the roar of hailstones threatening to shred the field kitchen tent. Little rivers of rainwater course through the June grass.
The storm's terminus is more dramatic than its coming. Golden sunlight suddenly slashes through, illuminating the still-falling hailstones as they whizz out of the sky. A rumble of retreating thunder issues from a curtain of black as twin rainbows burn through the sky. The young man leaves his shelter, stepping out into the suddenly cold air.
Late June is a time of transition on the northern plains. Gentle spring rains give way to warm, dry days, broken by occasional bouts of afternoon thunderstorms. Seeming to arise from nothing, cloud ships launched by unseen forces to sail over the prairie.
Many years have passed since I stood in a kitchen tent watching that storm. I was half my current age, wrapped in the excitement and promise of summers at a field school camp. This year, June is a time of transition for me too. With midlife comes a desire for new purpose and direction.
So I plan to go back.
The Storm Prediction Center (SPC) is calling for severe weather. It isn't so much the storm in question which intrigues me. The forecast hodographs are more suggestive of giant hail than they are photogenic tornadoes. It is the chase target itself that calls to me.
At a park in Hot Springs, an artesian creek gushes just a few feet from where I sit on the grass, reviewing forecast data. There are three targets for the day: near the Nebraska/Colorado border, on the Pine Ridge Reservation downstream of the Black Hills, and near the northwest corner of Nebraska. The last target is the most conditional.
A layer of warm air up in the middle atmosphere has formed a lid over low level moisture. This cap is likely to erode at the northern and southern targets, but it's questionable in between. However, if surface heating does poke a hole through the cap, an isolated storm could go big.
I never really consider the other targets. I know exactly where I am going. Leaving Hot Springs, I roll south through ponderosas to the edge of the Black Hills. Before I can spill off onto the plains, I pull into a dusty parking, unchanged since I first visited it 25 years ago.
A path leads down to the edge of a creek. Everything is the same: a few native kids splash amongst the boulders while teenage lovers share cheap beer on the bank. I step out into the cool water. Thoughts flow through me. I know I am not the same man that stood in this stream over twenty years ago. Am I changed for the better or worse? Is my life what I hoped for? What is next?
I stand on a travertine ledge, looking downstream, past the Cheyenne River and onto the prairie beyond. I take a deep breath, and jump. The water envelops me. As I break the surface, my worries of the past and future wash away. I am immersed in the moment.
My attachment to this landscape was forged long ago. Over the summers of my youth I came to discover what the world is made of, and what I am made of. Transition from boy to man happened on these prairies. Psychologists call this place attachment: the bond between a person and a place. Everyone has unique place attachments which form in the same way we grow attached to people.
Still wet from the stream, I leave the hills behind and strike out across the prairie. Above, small cumulus are popping up over the Pine Ridge. They topple almost as soon as they form, lacking sufficient lift to break through the cap.
I pull off the road and park in the middle of a green plain stretching to the horizon like a blanket. The afternoon shadows are beginning to lengthen. The short grass is interrupted by alluvial cobble beds on gentle hilltops. I wander amongst them, looking for coveted Fairburn agates. I find only prairie agates and horned lizards, but they are just as beautiful.
Far to the south, I can see the top of a storm drifting down the North Platte valley. On radar, it is clearly the biggest supercell on the high plains. It has the attention of most of the famous chasers. They are reporting baseball sized hail as the storm pummels Bridgeport. I have no desire to be there.
To the northeast, several cells fight for dominance over the Pine Ridge Reservation. It's close enough, but I can't bring myself to leave this place. Ostensibly, I came here to see a big storm, but as I watch the boiling clouds drift away from me in the east, I realize that was just an excuse.
I am exactly where I want to be.
Before me, a white hump of bedrock sediment breaks the plain. I set off toward it, walking back in time. Reaching its cool shadow, I look up at the summit. Climbing mudstone is difficult. I know because I climbed to the top 25 years ago. I do so again, edging my running shoes into crumbling rivulets. I press my hands into the rough sediment, leaning into the face until I am one with the earth.
I reach the top and step into the breeze. I walk the knife edge down to its point. I can't believe it. There, in the same place I found an eagle feather long ago, are the stick remnants of a nest. I sit a long while looking over the land, feeling exactly the same as I did back then.
Self-conception requires continuity. We all seek out places to affirm the stories we tell about ourselves. In doing so, we become those stories.
When I was a young man, these grasslands became a symbol of who I wanted to be. Summers in field school filled a desire to push out and explore social connections beyond the safety of my nuclear family. More so, this place embodied my hunger for new experiences in new environments.
I make camp on the peaceful prairie. No rogue supercell will form here tonight. When the morning comes bright and clear, I set out on my bike, weaving amongst mudstone hoodoos. They have changed. Isolated sandstone blocks have all fallen, no longer bearing any resemblance to mushrooms. I wind my way up a muddy arroyo, dodging gumbo primrose opening in the shady depths. The arroyo continues to narrow till it births me out onto a grassy plateau.
An old trail is almost grown over, but I know my way. I follow it across several ravines filled with cottonwoods and buckbrush before arriving at my destination. The old research camp is still there, but deserted. The frame of the kitchen tent stands like a skeleton. To the south, the hills are covered with the black spines of burned trees, trees that were alive when I was last here.
Everything is the same. Everything has changed. I feel this paradox within me. In my youth, these boundless prairie horizons were a metaphor. They represented the opportunity to go in any direction, to challenge myself and explore the world around me. Those desires still lie deep in my being.
I have changed in 25 years, both for the better and worse. The core identity forged in this place remains. I still long for the opportunity to explore wherever life takes me. I still want to be comfortable in solitude, but see the beauty in others. I still want to find a higher path, a way of living that is open to new ideas and immersed in the moment.
The morning heat is coming on. I leave the old camp and retrace my path, but with the pull of gravity. The wind whips past as I flow. It strips away years of fears and regrets as my bike effortlessly edges from one rut to another. What's left is all that matters. Here, I know the land, and it knows me.
In this place, I am young again. Opportunity could take me anywhere. At this midlife turning point, I could go in any direction. The possibilities are almost frightening, but I relish them. My life is mine for the making.
Meadowlarks serenade me as I load my bike and point the car north. I am leaving this place, but it never leaves me. I don't know what direction life will take me or what storms I might encounter. I know that the symbol of this place will guide me toward my destiny.
